Date: Sat, 20 Nov 2004 09:55:48 -0500
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 25

Aurora Tapestry is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events
or locales is entirely coincidental, and reflects the traditions, customs
and mores of the times (Canada, 1976).
	Copyright 2004. All rights reserved by the author. No part of this
work may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior,
written consent of the author.
	As this work contains scenes of homosexual sex between consenting
youths and/or adults, if possession, downloading, reading material of this
genre is forbidden by law in your locale (province, state, city, town,
village, crossroads) or if you are not of legal age (18/21), please move
on.
	Given the on-going increase in incidents of sexually transmitted
diseases, the author urges all readers to always practice safe sex.

******WARNING******

This chapter contains scenes of violence and sexual perversion that some
readers might find disturbing. Discretion is advised.

Aurora Tapestry

Chapter 25

"A wall! Topped with glass shards! A closed-circuit television network!
Locked gates!" Michael seethed with barely controlled rage. "A full
company, 100 men, on the outside, a half-company, 50 men on the inside, all
of them armed to the teeth with the finest weaponry available and still
intruders infiltrate and cause havoc!"
	Actually, Michael's last words were a bit of an over
statement. Aside from the smoke, there had been little damage except to the
nerves and tempers of the guards and Joel.  Joel had gone into a full-blown
drama queen mode, howling imprecations, curses and threats - castration
being the least of them - in English, Cantonese, Mandarin, Hakka and
panic. Nothing Michael, or Cousin Tommy Chan could say or do could calm
their irate cousin, who was now muttering and grumbling away in the bowels
of the mansion, running a diagnostic of his baby.
	"Well," demanded Michael with coolness.
	Lieutenant Peter Sheppard, who looked taller than his 5 feet six
inches, was staring straight ahead, his brown eyes clear and staring beyond
his employer's shoulder. His youthful, unlined face was flushed, and his
smooth-muscled chest under the starched white shirt he wore with black
uniform trousers seemed tighter.
	K'ang, every bit the professional soldier that Lieutenant Sheppard
was, stood as stiffly as his American counterpart. His eyes, however,
betrayed his tightly controlled rage at the stupidity and inefficiency of
his men. Michael's eyes flickered briefly over the Taiwanese officer and
returned to the American. "Well?" he asked again.
	"We fucked up," replied Pete slowly. He was a Marine, would die a
Marine and never offer an excuse for not doing his duty. He was the man in
charge and . . . "I take full responsibility for the failings of my men."
	"Mistakes were made," offered K'ang. "The men were derelict in
their duty." His voice turned cold. "Kuang Hsu will be disciplined." His
words contained a wealth of meaning and hidden promise of retribution.
	"Private Campbell will be disciplined," said Pete slowly. "After an
investigation and a court martial." His voice was warmer than K'ang's, and
not near as threatening.
	Michael noticed that K'ang had taken no responsibility for this
fiasco. The man was prepared to 'discipline' everyone in his command, and
lay the blame for the breach of security on his subordinates. Michael's
eyes narrowed.
	"Gentlemen, I have no desire to punish," Michael said softly. This,
both officers knew, was a very bad sign. Michael soft was Michael
angry. "Kuang was being returned to Hong Kong. This was not done." His eyes
bore into K'ang. "Why?"
	"We were short of men," explained K'ang logically. "Kuang would
have been returned as soon as a replacement had been sent out."
	Michael recognized the logic of K'ang's statement and nodded. "Then
we must establish a waiting list of young men. I realize that our standards
are high, and they will go higher but . . ." He raised one finger. "When
and if it is necessary to replace one of your men, you will have his
replacement in place in 24 hours or less!" He glowered at the Taiwanese and
said cuttingly, "You are provided with a budget for training. Your facility
in Taipei is supposedly the finest in the country and underused!"
	K'ang paled. Michael knew about the facility, and knew that the men
recruited in Hong Kong had been suborned by the Taiwanese CIA. "I . . . "
he started to say.
	"DO NOT LIE TO ME!" thundered Michael. "Do you take me for a fool?"
	Pete Sheppard had stared at K'ang, and then quickly looked away. He
had no idea what was going on. He had been hired as a supervisor of
security, nothing more. Hired for his expertise as an ex-Marine, his
experience and status as an ex-Marine. "Perhaps I should leave," he blurted
out quickly.
	"You will stay!" Michael's tone was slashing. He returned to
Captain K'ang. "My main requirement for any of my employees has been at
least the illusion of their loyalty!" Michael suddenly pulled open the
centre drawer of his desk and withdrew a file folder. He tossed it on the
bare surface of the desk, sending errant papers skittering across the
polished surface. "Your reports to your masters, I believe?" he asked
scathingly.
	K'ang reached down quickly, his fingers fumbling with the holster
slung at his waist. Pete Sheppard was quicker. He pressed the barrel of his
Browning automatic against the back of K'ang's neck. "I wouldn't do that if
I were you," he said menacingly.
	Michael had not flinched and his eyes remained steady. As he stared
at K'ang the office door opened and Cousin Tommy Chan entered. He quickly
relieved the Captain of his weapon. Tommy's face was impassive as he deftly
handcuffed the hapless officer.
	No words were exchanged as Cousin Tommy led K'ang away. Pete was
unafraid, but nervous. He had never expected . . . this!
	"I have many enemies, Lieutenant," said Michael as he gathered the
incriminating papers together. "It is a cost of doing my business." He
looked searchingly at Pete. "I allowed my enemies to send their spies
because it is better to know your enemy than to suspect." Sighing, Michael
returned the file folder. "Come, we will walk."

******

 	They crossed the smooth rolled lawns and stopped at the heretofore
hidden sally port. "Did you know that this was here?" Michael asked
quietly.
	"I knew it was there," Pete replied. "The lock was covered in rust
and it looked as if it hadn't been used in years." He squatted down and ran
his finger along the key slot. "Oil," he pointed out needlessly. He pulled
the small door open and stuck his head out. After looking up and down the
road, he nodded. "Clear."
	"Then let us take a walk down a country lane," said Michael with a
small smile. A small weight had fallen from his shoulders. He had often
expressed his doubts about the loyalty of his security forces to Major
Meinertzhagen, who had bristled. He had chosen every man on the outside
force and remonstrated that the inside force, commanded by K'ang, and
exclusively Chinese, had been forced on Michael by his business associates.
	In a way, Michael was delighted in having been proven wrong. He had
never trusted K'ang, a man who had been foisted on him and a man who had
come too highly recommended. If K'ang were such a paragon why had he
accepted employment here in a strange country? Michael had often thought
that K'ang would have been much better paid if he had entered the service
of one of the Tai Pans who ruled Hong Kong.
	It had not taken the Major, who trusted no one, black, white,
yellow, or any colour in between, to discover that K'ang made frequent
visits to a certain house in Chinatown, a house that was the residence of
the unofficial "representative" of the Republic of China. This knowledge
enabled both Michael and the Major to feed the mole quite useless titbits
of seemingly important information. That K'ang's misinformation to his
masters in Taipei would almost certainly lead to his eventual recall, and
"disciplining" was of no interest to either Michael or the Major. "Sic
semper insidiator!" as the Major had sniffed contemptuously.
	Any lingering doubts that Michael had about the mixed bag of
Americans and Englishmen who made up his outside security force had been
dispelled by K'ang's treachery. K'ang had shown his true colours in his
attempt to draw his weapon against his employer. And young Peter Sheppard
had raised his colours higher when he had, without hesitation and without
pausing to consider the consequences - or possible benefits - disarmed
K'ang before he could follow through with his desperate attempt at
assassination.  Having proved his loyalty to Michael, Peter Mark Sheppard,
would now be destined for better things. What intrigued Michael, however,
was why Peter had acted the way he had, and what was the true depth of his
loyalty.  As they walked Michael decided to probe deeper and was direct
with his comments, or as direct as he could ever be with the still unknown
quantity that was Lieutenant Peter Sheppard. "You are aware of my business
interests?"
	"Yes."
	"You know that K'ang will never see Taiwan again?"
	Pete did not react to the telling revelation. "He took your money,
then he betrayed your trust."
	"Which you did not. Nor did any of your men. Why?"
	Recognizing the seriousness of Michael's question, Pete answered
truthfully. "You gave me, and my men, a job, and restored some of the honor
we lost in Vietnam. With respect, you might not understand what that means,
not being a military man."
	"Ah, but I do," replied Michael warmly. "I understand the bond that
soldiers, sailors, airmen form each with the other, and the loyalty to each
other that their training and experiences generate. Your character was
formed in the cauldron of Vietnam. At the moment there is a group of young
men undergoing the same transformation. Even as we speak they are seeking
the truth about each other, learning to understand each other and learning
the true meaning of loyalty and brotherhood."
	"You place a great deal of emphasis on brotherhood," observed Pete.
	"As do you," Michael replied. "When you were in combat you very
quickly learned whom you could rely on, who would not cut and run, who
would stay at your side and never leave it. Later, when in camp, or on
guard, you kept your brothers close, did you not?"
	Pete thought of the dark nights in the rain-drenched jungles of
Vietnam, of the nights he and his buddies had huddled together, frightened
near to madness, holding each other close. "Yes," came Pete's whispered
reply.
	"Then I know that you would never betray them." He placed his hand
on Pete's shoulder. "K'ang was a paid mercenary. He had no loyalty except
to the man, or men, who paid the highest price. You, none of your men, not
even the unfortunate Mr. Campbell - who really should learn to control his
reproductive impulses, or at least finish the job - are mercenaries."
Michael's hand squeezed Peter's shoulder gently. "Oh, I know that I pay
you, but unlike the treacherous K'ang and his men I saw a, shall I call it
a coming together? Yes, I think that is what it was. K'ang has seen war,
but none of his men have. You and your colleagues have all seen war, and
been rejected by your countrymen."
	"So you do understand," said Pete, his voice a whisper. He was
genuinely surprised at his employer's perspicacity. Or was it Michael's
empathy? Pete didn't think it was sympathy - far from it. But Michael
understood, and that was all that mattered and what led Pete to do a most
un-Marine-like thing. He placed his hand over Michael's and returned the
squeeze. "Thank you for understanding who we are, what we were."
	Then, thinking of poor Frank Campbell, bent over with his pants
down around his ankles and his raging dick spewing spunk all over the place
- and, although Pete would not admit it, embarrassed at his familiarity
with Michael - Pete dropped his hand to clutch his stomach, trying to
control his laughter. Michael drew back but said nothing. "I'm sorry,"
began Pete as he regained control, "But you must admit that it was funny,
and to be fair, I doubt he expected a bomb to come sailing into the room to
interrupt him." He wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes.
	Michael smiled. "While I see the humour in the situation, I must
point out that Mr. Campbell was supposed to be guarding a very important
facility."
	Pete sobered. "Yes, he was. If you'll let me, I'll take care of
Frank."
	"You command the company," Michael pointed out. "You are
responsible for the discipline of your men."
	"Yes, I am," returned Pete firmly. He stopped walking and looked at
his employer. "My men are loyal. They signed a contract and they won't
betray your trust. You said you understood the bond that forms between
soldiers. What you don't know is that by hiring us you did something more
that just understand us. You gave us back our self-respect. You gave us
your trust. Back home we're baby killers and rapists." He waved an arm
expansively. "At least here we're men, men who fought in a war that was not
of their making, but men who answered the call to the Colors, and did their
best. We made mistakes, but we never betrayed our country. Frank Campbell
made a mistake. I don't intend to make an excuse for what he did. I helped
recruit him and I bear some of the responsibility for his actions. I also
owe him my loyalty and understanding. As his commanding officer it is my
duty to discipline Frank, which I will do, but in a proper military
manner. He'll be punished, yes, but I will do it, not Cousin Tommy!"
	Michael's calmness was alarming. He did not lash out at Pete's
unspoken warning. "You know, you remind me so much of a certain young man I
am hoping to meet soon. He is, like you, young. He lacks your
professionalism, and your training, but you are very alike. There is
another young man, whom I have yet to meet, who is also like you. He is
trained to a certain degree, but he understands loyalty and respect of
others."
	"Marines?" asked Pete, wondering who these two paragons were.
	"No," replied Michael, a smile playing at the corner of his
lips. "One is a Sea Cadet, the other a Naval officer."
	"Jesus! Squids!" growled Pete.
	Michael, who understood the ancient and honourable rivalry between
the services, laughed quietly. "I imagine they will say much the same thing
when they meet you. I can hear young Phantom now, 'Hell and sheeit, a
Bootneck!'"
	Pete rightly assumed that he would hear more of this "Phantom". He
chose, however to wait until that happened. "Speaking of Bootnecks, you do
know that it was Laurence and his whelp that did the number on us!"
	"I understand that being infiltrated by a Royal Marine and a barely
trained civilian might be galling to you, Lieutenant, but . . ."
	"You're right," agreed Pete quickly. "I shouldn't prejudge, but
dammit, sir, they waltzed in there and damn near blew the place apart! They
got through my cordon of trained professionals and K'ang's trained
professionals!"
	"And now you and I must see to it that such a thing never happens
again," replied Michael without regret or rancour. "Perhaps you, as a
leader, might reach out to Laurence? He has much to show you, I am sure,
and a good leader is always willing to learn, don't you think?"
	"Well, he is a Royal Marine," admitted Pete grudgingly, although he
knew of the long-standing bonds of respect, of fellowship and shared
hardships that existed between the Royal and United States
Marines. "They're good, I admit, and yes, I would like to talk to him." He
looked around the silent forests. "But where is he?"
	"Perhaps lurking around this bend in the road," said Michael,
indicating the curving roadway. "When I agreed to his taking young Logan
into the woods I never dreamed that he would use his expertise in such a
way!"
	"He damned near gave Joel a heart attack." Pete stopped and
grinned. "Me too."
	"I was much closer than you," replied Michael, "and I admit to a
certain, shall we say 'trepidation'." He gestured for Pete to walk on. "I
am grateful that Laurence has pointed out the inadequacies of our
security. I am thinking that you will learn by the experience."
	"I plan on an extensive retraining program," promised Pete.
	"Good. There is one other thing."
	"Sir?"
	"K'ang is, I think, the tip of the iceberg. He was sending reports
back to Taiwan; reports that I believe were forwarded on to Hong Kong. I
must now consider just what else he sent back."
	Pete Sheppard was not a stupid grunt. Far from it. He had learned
his trade from experts at Parris Island and honed his skills on patrol in
the jungles and paddies around Khe Sahn. His repeated displays of
initiative and leadership skills had been noticed by his superiors and led
to a commission in the Marine Corps.
	As a careful, cautious observer, Pete Sheppard knew of Michael
Chan's "business" interests. After he had been recruited by that pompous
ass of a Brit Major, Pete had barely stowed his skivvies before his
housemate, a grizzled ex-SAS Company Sergeant Major, warned him: What you
see here, what you do here, what is said here, stays here! No gossiping in
town, and if approached by an Oriental of any nationality, report it
immediately.
	It had not taken Pete long to connect the dots. Michael Chan had
deep ties with the Chinese underworld, and connections to the Vietnamese
gangs that infested Little Saigon. Michael also had intermittent dealings
with certain men of consequence who frequented a social club in what passed
for Vancouver's Little Italy, men who had connections to the LA Mob.
	Pete's employer had a finger in any number of illegal pies, but
never drugs. On more than one occasion Pete had heard a whisper that Cousin
Tommy Chan had visited a budding entrepreneur from Little Saigon or
Chinatown to "discuss" the burgeoning trade in illicit narcotics. Michael
Chan had his faults, but dealing in drugs was not one of them, and for this
reason alone Michael would have enemies.
	Then, too, there was Michael's increasing involvement in something
called the Order. Once again rumour and innuendo had drifted down from the
big house to the small villages that housed the Outside Security Force,
buttressed by the reports made by the small force of Security Guards that
had been sent to the Four Seasons Hotel not so long before, and stories
about a coup of some sorts in the ranks of the "Knights", of a "conclave"
and Michael being elected as Grand Master of the Order, whatever it
was. Here again Pete had connected some of the dots.
	The men who had provided security at the Conclave had returned to
the village and, a little under the weather with a bad case of Jim Beam,
one of the men had let slip that they had heard snippets of conversations,
and observed that the fey young men at least three of the "knights" had
brought with them as "secretaries" slept in the same rooms as their
so-called employers.
	His mates had quickly silenced the indiscreet young man but
speculation about the true nature of the Order was rife. Were the knights
queers? There had been no outward sign at all that Pete had seen. And was
not Major Meinertzhagen off in Hong Kong finalizing Michael's wedding
arrangements? Granted, there was always speculation about the Household
Staff - all young, all extremely fit, and most of them very good
looking. But until today, when Frank Campbell had dipped his wick in the
wrong hole at the wrong time, the jerk, there had never been even a hint of
impropriety. If the footmen were getting off with each other they knew how
to keep their mouths shut and their activities close to home.
	And, so far as Pete was concerned, Michael had struck very close to
home when he spoke of the special bonds that sometimes formed between
combat solders. Pete was no innocent, not after the Embassy Christmas Party
in 1974 when he had . . .
	Peter had no interest in what the footmen did, or K'ang's
Chinamen. Or, for that matter, what the men of his command did, in their
free time. He believed in live and let live. Unfortunately, others did not
and if the Order was composed of gay men, then another set of enemies was
forming on the horizon because if Michael was gay, or protected his gay
employees, his business associates, who were as homophobic and biased as
most of society, would not tolerate it. Such things, Pete knew, were not
tolerated in Chinese society.
	There was something else. Something about lost monies, and
treachery, something about young boys. Nothing substantial, nothing one
could put one's finger on, a wisp of a rumour, a chance overhearing of a
remark between Michael's cousin, Joel Chiang, and Joe Hobbes or Gabe
Izard. All in all Pete reasoned that Michael Chan was involved, and
threatened, in more ways than one, by men whose ruthlessness could only be
imagined.
	And now there was K'ang! The Taiwanese CIA had a reputation that
sent chills up and down Pete's spine. How many of the Inside Security Force
had a greater loyalty than that which they rendered to Michael Chan? So far
as Pete was concerned where there was smoke, there was fire and Michael
would be well served if he dispensed with their doubtful services.
	Pete remembered the abuse, the disdain, the hatred, the shame,
heaped upon him when he returned to the United States. He also remembered
the polite, quiet words of Michael Chan and quickly made a decision. Ethel
Louise Sheppard did not raise Peter Mark Sheppard to spurn a friend or a
man whose salt he had taken.
	"My men are loyal, and they don't have any contact with people they
should not have contact with," Pete said stiffly. "They are not angels, but
none of them is in cahoots with anybody." Pete's voice continued firm as he
said, "They know what you did for them, and they never forget a
kindness. Still, I will, shall we say, make inquiries."
	"You've been with the Major too long," responded Michael, pleased
that he did not have to explain in detail his fears. "If you require
assistance, please do not hesitate. And I would expect to be fully informed
at all times."
	"Of course." Then Pete had a thought. "There's still the inside
force."
	Michael smiled inwardly. He had picked up on Pete's inflection and
veiled suggestion. Once again Michael knew that the Major had chosen
well. "I think it is time to have a Changing of the Guard," he replied,
"K'ang's treachery has given me the excuse I needed to rid myself of
unwanted baggage."
	Pete knew of at least ten of his former Marines who were down on
their luck. "I can make a few calls and have at least a dozen guys up here
in say, forty-eight hours?"
	"I was thinking more of replacing the entire Chinese contingent,"
said Michael. "I trust you, Lieutenant and I trust you will choose the
replacements well. Remember, no drunks, no paedophiles and certainly no one
who uses controlled substances. I am prepared to be generous but . . . Dear
God!"
	Just ahead of the two men was a tall, Douglas fir. Tied to the fir,
backs to the scratchy bark of the towering trunk, were three men. Three
white men, three members of Lieutenant Sheppard's company, three naked men
of Lieutenant Sheppard's company.
	"They jumped us, Loo!" the largest of the three men said
phlegmatically. He was tall, well muscled and came from Brooklyn.
	"Never even heard 'em," bitched the second man. "Sumbitches moved
lak ghosts!" His dark blond hair was matted, and he was shaking from
anger. He was as well built as his companions, hairier, and his words
dripped the sorghum and hominy that came from spending his formative years
in a small, nondescript, and all but nameless hamlet somewhere in the
mountains of West Virginia.
	"They jumped us fair and square, Ned," said the third man. He was
also tall, had a square-jawed face and crisp, firm muscles on his
chest. "They could teach lessons to Charley." He was from Boston and loudly
averred that he hated baked beans, scrod and that a yellow-back Democrat
wouldn't get into the house unless he came to fix the toilet.
	Michael tried not to look at the three men. His eyes darted toward
the forest, wondering if Laurence and Logan were still slithering about in
the underbrush. When his eyes returned to the three embarrassed guards he
noticed that as soon as Pete had cut their bonds they had dropped their
hands down to cover their privates. He smiled inwardly at this all too
natural male reaction. Not that any of the three had anything to be ashamed
of, although Ned, the West Virginian, would be out for two weeks on medical
leave if ever he chose to become a member of the Order.
	Turning his back as the men bent down to pick up their uniforms and
underwear that had been neatly piled a few feet away from the base of the
tree Michael said, "You might want to enlist Laurence's assistance in that
new training program you were speaking of." He paused and added, "If you
can find him!"
	Pete glared into the silent, dark woods. His initial reaction was
to swear vengeance. Then he heard the men swearing and expressing frank,
open admiration for the English Marine. They were not angry, not any
more. Superior forces had bested them fairly, squarely, and they knew. Like
true soldiers, they admired professionalism, even in an enemy. Which
professionalism his men had lost, Pete reasoned. They had become
comfortable in their jobs, never suspecting that anyone in their right mind
would attempt to sneak into the cantonment. Being comfortable, his men had
become complacent.
	Seeing the three men had dressed, he looked at them sternly. "And
you call yourselves Marines!" he growled sternly.
	"Uh, come on, Loo," began the Bostonian. "It could have happened to
anybody. Those men were damned good!"
	Lieutenant Sheppard wanted to lash out a reminder that the three
men had been bushwhacked by a reserve Royal Marine Commando and a waif! He
did not, however, as he saw no point in adding insult to humiliation. "And
you are supposed to be better!" he snapped instead.
	Michael stepped back. Lieutenant Sheppard knew what he was doing
and Michael had no intention of interfering. "Perhaps I should return,"
Michael said quietly. "I am sure that Joel has calmed down now and that he
has found his contraption working perfectly."
	Nodding, Pete looked at Ned. "Corporal Hadfield, you will escort
Mr. Chan back," he said with authority. "And where is your sidearm?"
	The Corporal, who had moments before been a Sergeant, hung his head
and grinned weakly. "Um, they took it, Loo?" he muttered.
	Staring icily, Pete asked, "Lance Corporal Peabody, Lance Corporal
Stein?"
	Michael, who had been silently observing the exchange between the
officer and his men, saw that he was observing true
professionalism. Peabody and Stein had been Corporals. All three men had
screwed up, knew it, and accepted what was, to them, justified demotion in
rank, without cavilling, whining or moaning. Not for the first time Michael
felt the pang of regret that he had never been allowed to join the ranks of
such men.
	Both Peabody and Stein scuffed the earth with the toes of their
boots. An embarrassed Corporal Stein confirmed that Peabody's and his
holsters were empty. "Uh, yeah, Loo."
	Shaking his head in disgust he addressed Corporal Peabody. "All of
you clowns return to the cantonment. Tell the Duty Gunnery Sergeant I want
everybody, and I mean everybody but a Corporal's Guard back here in sixty
mikes. They are do be dressed in sports gear and carrying saws, axes,
nails, hammers . . ."
	"Uh, sports gear?" asked Peabody.
	"Hammers?" asked Hadfield.
	"Whaddawe need them for?" asked Stein.
	Pete settled himself against the base of the fir tree that the
three ex-Marines had been tied to. He saw the knowing smile on Michael's
face and winked ever so slightly. "It's time we returned to basics,
gentlemen," he said with a malevolent grin. "You three, and your buddies,
are going to build an obstacle course." He waved airily. "There's plenty of
sites, but I think this will do nicely."
	All three men looked stunned. "But Loo, that will take a month!"
exclaimed Peabody. "Hell, there's no cleared area. And look at those
trees!"
	"And the undergrowth is thicker'n the bush on a Saigon hooker!"
whined Hadfield.
	Stein wisely scratched his crotch, hitched up his pants, and
remained silent.
	Lieutenant Sheppard looked languidly at his watch. "You now have
fifty-seven mikes."
	Realizing that their Lieutenant was serious, Peabody and Hadfield
turned and began leading the way back to the main house, Stein on point. As
they walked, and after what they thought was a safe distance, Stein mumbled
to no one in particular. "I hope the Loo has clean drawers on."
	Lieutenant Sheppard's laughing voice came drifting down the
path. "I have, Private Stein, I have." Then he added, "And tell the men the
first run at the new obstacle course is scheduled for midnight tonight."
	Now Private Stein glanced quickly back at the Lieutenant, who was
settling himself beside the damned fir tree. "Do you think he means it?" he
asked Peabody.
	"He means it," replied Peabody glumly.
	"Stein, y'all never did know when to keep that yap of yours
closed!" declared Ned Hadfield without rancour.
	"Yeah?" returned Stein contemptuously. "At least I saw a Saigon
hooker's bush 'cause the only time you skinned back that little thing you
call a pecker was in the shower and the Gunny caught you and put you on KP
for seven days!"
	"Oh, yeah?" snarled Ned. "Well I heard that the only time you saw a
hooker's bush that little nub you call a pecker took one look and hid in
the bushes!"
	"Oh yeah, you red-necked peckerwood?"
	"Yeah, you hairy assed son of a bi . . ."
	Ten or so paces ahead of the three ex-Marines, Michael listened to
the good-natured bickering and thought sadly, "Uncle Henry, you might have
known business, but you should have let me join the Seaforths when I asked
you." His shoulders sagged slightly. "And I should never have allowed you
to talk me out of joining the Militia!"

******

 	Lieutenant Sheppard heaved a sigh of relief as the men walked down
the curving lane and disappeared from his view. They had taken their
punishment well, which spoke volumes for their training and outlook. They
were good Marines.
	Pete then whispered a "Thank God," as he considered the damage that
could have been wreaked had the intruders been real enemies. In a way Pete
thought that Laurence had done them all a favour. He had showed them kinks
in their armour, true, but more importantly he had allowed the men of the
Outside Force to prove their loyalty and their worth. And even more
importantly, Laurence had taught Pete a lesson. He had allowed himself to
become complacent. Pete now knew that he had a lot to learn, and that he
would never again be caught with his pants down around his ankles. He would
have to have a long talk with the Royal Marine and hoped that Laurence was
finished with his game and would soon come in from the cold.
	Smiling lewdly at his comparison with poor Frank Campbell, the both
of them caught with their pants down, one literally and the other
metaphorically, Pete had barely settled comfortably before he heard a
rustle, a soft slither, in the undergrowth. "Jesus," he thought, as his
eyes darted left, then right, "It couldn't be . . . Hell, even Charley was
never this stealthy in Vietnam!" Then he thought that it could be a snake,
maybe a critter of some kind. Still, his hand slowly reached down for his
holstered pistol. His fingers had barely touched the grip of the pistol
when a thin piece of wire seemed to wrap itself around his neck. "Now, I
wouldn't do that, if I were you," came the calm, crisp, somewhat clipped
voice of a Royal Marine Commando.
	Feeling a fumbling at his waist as an unseen hand deftly removed
his gun belt, Lieutenant Sheppard swallowed hard and nodded. He looked and
saw two camouflaged figures emerge from around the giant fir tree to either
side of him.
	"Shall we talk?" asked Laurence as he held out his hand.

******

	"Now Aubrey, there's no use carrying on," said Noel as he zipped
closed his suitcase. "I'm awa' and that's all that can be said."
	Behind Noel, Aubrey, who was wearing a caftan that made him look
like a Polynesian princess on the uppers, fluttered and wept. Noel turned
and gave the overweight, balding man a kiss. "Now I'll be back, so what's
the worry?"
	Noel's confirmation that he was actually leaving sent Aubrey
howling into the nearby bathroom. Glaring at the closed door, Noel muttered
a swart oath and hefted his suitcase. "I have to go!" he shouted at the
closed door. "I told you that."
	Noel's words evoked another howl.
	"Stupid twat!" muttered Noel as he left the bedroom and walked into
the spacious and over furnished living room. He saw the small bag that he
would carry onto the plane and sat down to examine it, making certain that
the papers he had stolen were still safe.
	Smiling to himself, Noel then called for a taxi to take him to the
airport. He was just as pissed off as Aubrey, but Stennes had been
insistent. Noel was to come to Toronto on the first flight he could get.
	As he waited, Noel thought about his relationship with the
German. Stennes had connections all over the country in the form of men who
used his services. One would tell another, who would tell another and soon
one customer became twenty and more. Noel never knew the total. He had no
need to know. His job had been to spy on the late Grand Master, something
he had done with great expertise. Noel considered that the money Stennes
had paid him had been well spent.
	A honk outside told Noel that his cab was here. He did not bother
to say goodbye to Aubrey, who was still blubbering in the bathroom. He left
the house and got into the cab without a backward glance.
	On the long trip to the airport, Noel felt no trepidation. He was
right put out that he had to haul ass to Toronto. He should have expected
something. Stennes was not at all pleased that Noel's employment in Michael
Chan's house had been abruptly terminated. Noel cursed himself for calling
the telephone number that Stennes had given him, a number to be used only
in an emergency. Stennes had ranted and raged, and called him names, but in
the end had calmed down when Noel assured the German that he had some very
interesting papers for him to see.
	"Still, I should have waited," Noel muttered to himself. Aubrey
might be a pain in the ass, but at least he could keep his mouth shut and
Stennes didn't know about the house. Noel had taken great pains to never
mention Aubrey in his reports. Better safe than sorry, he opined silently.
	Not that Noel feared Stennes. Just being careful, is all. He and
the German went back a long way, back to the days when Noel had been a
dirty-faced urchin lurking in the shadows of The Gorbals, Glasgow's most
notorious slum.  The heavy weight of poverty, drunkenness and depravity
that lay darkly over the dank warrens of tumbledown workers cottages and
decrepit blocks of flats had drawn Stennes like a wolf to the fold. The
German - Noel had never known the man's true origins - seemed to know
instinctively where the poor, the desperate, the forgotten, huddled
together in misery. He also knew that ignorance and want made for rich
hunting grounds. Stennes preyed on the misfortunes of men, and took
advantage of those misfortunes.
	In later years Noel never flattered himself that he had become a
part of Stennes' organization because of his stunning personality, which he
didn't have, or his looks, which he also didn't have. When Noel had first
made Stennes' acquaintance, if that was the right way of putting it, he had
been 12 years old, a skanky little whelp with grubby knees and a runny
nose. Noel was the rough-hewn brat of an even rougher-hewn, perennially out
of work, alcoholic dockyard matey and an alcoholic, slatternly mother who
looked on her daughters as a source of income and her sons as worthless
pests, always underfoot and always demanding to be clothed and fed, of no
use to man or beast, useless leeches that brought no tears when they ran
away or were called up for the National Service.  Given the run of the
litter-strewn streets, Noel lived by his wits, and petty theft, with
occasional forays into breaking and entering. As a child of the streets he
also knew that it was only a matter of time before he found a new source of
income, when he was older, and all he had to do was loiter on a certain
corner down by the docks. Noel might not have looks, or a personality, but
he had something hanging between his legs that guaranteed five quid in
hand. According to popular gossip, a lad didn't even have to take down his
trews.
	Noel had never considered that there were men who were willing to
pay premium prices for young lads. That such men existed was common
knowledge, true, but the older lads, and the coppers, made short work of
any who came looking for anything other than aged, prime Scottish beef!
	Resigned to petty thievery, at least until he was 15 or so, Noel
had been surprised when his father had roused him from his odorous bed,
which he shared with two of his older brothers, in the middle of the night
and taken him to a grotty doss house down in the docklands. The old man had
met someone in a pub, someone who wanted a little companionship. No fool,
Noel demanded a cut of the money, and while he received only a cuff on the
ear, he did learn that if he gave Stennes what he wanted, when he wanted
it, rewards would follow.
	Noel's venality, greed, and lack of anything approaching morals,
had led him into a relationship with the German. Noel haunted the cluttered
alleys and lanes that passed for streets in the Gorbals and knew which
family was on the uppers, which father of a vast brood spent too much time
in the corner pub or whose wife, sick of childbirth and toil, had run off
to the South. He had a large circle of acquaintances, street boys and such,
who despaired of ever finding real work, and who more and more were
descending into the hellish world of drugs and who would do just about
anything to get away from their life of poverty.
	That Stennes, and by definition, Noel, were playing a dangerous
game, both knew. Stennes was a pimp who travelled from city to city in
Europe and Britain to find boys. These he would then "introduce" to
gentlemen of means, almost always in England, sometimes on the Continent,
and always for a fee, a very high fee. Both Noel and Stennes knew that just
being homosexual in Britain could lead to a four or five year stay in
Reading Gaol. Having felonious carnal knowledge of a minor child could lead
to an even longer stretch in Wormwood Scrubs, which was why all of Stennes'
English clients paid in guineas, and not pounds.  As for the Scottish lads,
few complained. They were leaving the grit and filth behind for soft beds,
good food and decent clothes in posh houses. Everybody knew what he was
getting into, and everybody got his cut.
	Noel, who was never on the game, and reserved for Stennes only,
eventually grew tired of crumbs. He wanted more, but by the time Stennes
would agree to his leaving, Noel was much too old for the punters. Youth,
boys, pretty little boys, were the moneymakers. Or so he thought.
	Like generations before him, Noel went down to the Recruiting
Office and signed up with the Royal Marines. He could have had his choice
of services but he did like the uniform. He quickly discovered that in the
right places what he had to offer was accepted with alacrity.
 	Royal Marine Noel Aubrey, aged 18, slim, and looking dashingly
handsome in his newly issued dress uniform, had barely stepped down from
the train that had carried him from Lympstone, Devon, up to London, after
his recruit training, had discovered that there were certain men who could
not resist a man in uniform, certain men who salivated at the sight of a
Royal Marine in uniform. Noel also discovered that these men also carried
wallets stuffed with ten and twenty pound notes, notes that found their way
into Noel's bank account after he accepted an invitation to join one of the
men for a quiet drink, and perhaps something else later on?
	Noel, whenever he could get leave, would go up to London and visit
one of the many small, discreet, private clubs of Soho. It had not taken
long for word to spread that the young Marine possessed a most impressive
weapon (it sent poor old Aubrey into orgasmic rapture every time Noel took
it out of his trousers, didn't it?). It took even a shorter time for word
to spread that this weapon was for hire, for a price, to discreet
gentlemen.
	Being selective made Noel all that much more desirable. He had many
offers of a more permanent arrangement, which he refused. He enjoyed the
variety and did not want to be pinned down with one man.
	Noel banked the money he earned from his clients, and from the
payments he received from Stennes for services rendered. Noel had kept in
contact with the German and from time to time he passed on to Stennes the
names of men who might be interested in younger companionship. Then there
were the bonuses that Stennes paid whenever he called upon Noel to help him
"break in" a new boy. The sex was not all that great, but as Noel thought
it, what the hell, a hole was a hole and the money was not to be sneezed
at.
	While he could have lived a very comfortable existence, Noel did
not. He knew full well what would happen to him if his secret lifestyle
became known. He lived in barracks, and by day was a picture postcard Royal
Marine. When he wasn't on weekend exercises, he would slip up to
London. Life was good.
	Whenever he thought of what happened next, Noel grimaced and
swore. He'd had a good thing going and then that damned fool of a Colour
Sergeant, Chard, had gone and got himself caught shagging some Malay
peasant! Noel personally didn't care if Chard fucked a Malay or the RSM's
pet goat. He did care about the discovery of Chard living off base with
another male. It had queered the pitch for everyone!
	Led by the Fleet Street gutter press, the hue and cry over Chard's
court martial had led every male who had ever experimented with another to
scuttling into the shadows. Voices suddenly became deeper, moustaches
sprouted on almost every upper lip, and the ladies who haunted the saloon
bars of the local pubs suddenly found business very brisk. As details of
Chard's domestic arrangements became known Peelers from the MOD Police, CID
detectives, suddenly became very interested in the sex lives of Her
Majesty's Royal Marines.
	Noel didn't give a flying fuck about the detectives. He had never
plied his wares on base, and it was doubtful that the coppers would reach
as far afield as London. Still, Noel thought it prudent to remain close to
barracks. Prudent, and very boring. Anyway, he was biding his time. His
enlistment was up and he had already signed the papers. His main concern
was what he would do when he was demobbed.
	Being a prudent man, Noel knew that while he could have spent a few
years in London, his money-earning days were limited. The punters paid for
youth, exuberance and virility. The old John Henry might remain forever a
thing of wonder but it was only a matter of time before Noel would find
himself looking about for a quiet detached house in a quiet street, alone
and growing ungraciously old, tending his cats, and paying for what he once
sold.
	In the end it was Major Meinertzhagen who had solved, at least
temporarily, the question of Noel's future. How the Major had come to know
- if he knew at all - that Noel was gay, Noel never questioned. The Major,
as always taciturn and discreet, never asked or let on what he knew. There
were, after all, certain things a gentleman did not discuss.
	The Major, who had resigned his commission in protest of the
railroading of Sergeant Major Chard, and hearing the veiled hints from
Whitehall that he would never add a pip to his crown, began to pack his
bags. He also approached Noel, and 2nd Lieutenant Laurence Howard, a young
officer with a sterling reputation. Noel did not know the officer, who was
in a different Commando.
	Noel could not quite understand why the Major had selected him. 2nd
Lieutenant Howard, yes. Laurence was smart, respected, and filled out a
dress uniform a treat, to the extent that Noel would have paid the officer,
and no danger!
	The Major had spoken with the two men and then offered them
employment. He had a contact prepared to offer suitable young men positions
in domestic service. The pay was more than adequate; there was room for
advancement, and the work not at all onerous. The only minor problem was
that it was in the colonies, the Dominion of Canada to be precise.
	Laurence, disillusioned and struggling with his own homosexuality,
saw no reason to remain in the Royals. Canada, North America, would be a
welcome change. Noel did not object. While London was tempting, his only
alternative would have been the Gorbals and that was one bitter patch of
earth he would never return to.
	Both men accepted the Major's offer and boarded a BOAC flight to
Montreal. During the flight Noel had intimated that he was sexually
attracted to the young officer. Laurence, much to Noel's surprise, had
reciprocated.  Once in Canada, they boarded the CNR's "Super Continental"
for the train trip across the Dominion. In their first class compartment
Laurence had his first experience with another man, and their affair began.
	In Vancouver both men were set to work. Laurence was assigned as a
footman in the household of Michael Chan, the Chancellor of some all but
defunct order of knights. Noel, to his mind, was given a much more
prestigious position as footman to the Grand Master of the Order.
	Regrettably Noel's affair with Laurence came to an abrupt end. The
Chancellor lived in Vancouver, while the Grand Master haunted a crumbling
old wreck of a house on the outskirts of Coquitlam, a most provincial town,
and for almost a year and a half they rarely saw each other.
	Noel had quickly discovered that his duties were more than met the
eye. He might parade around the halls in fancy livery but he was in reality
at first a guard, and later, when he learned the truth about the old Grand
Master, a procurer.
	"Now there was a man who liked his chicken!" remembered Noel
evilly. The old fool could not get enough. Nor could the Grand Master's
friends, all high-ranking knights in that moribund order. Noel had lost no
time in making a transatlantic telephone call to his friend, Stennes.
	Stennes had listened and, as both he and Noel saw it, an Order of
queers and poofters would need a steady supply of boys, which Stennes would
supply on demand. Stennes had a new source of fresh young boys, from
Eastern Europe and Russia, a source that proved very popular. Stennes had
branched out, made contacts and acquired some very murky partners who
supplied the necessary travel documents. Noel could never quite get up the
courage to ask who Stennes' partners were. What he didn't know couldn't be
used against him.
	Still, Noel was careful. He kept his past carefully hidden and took
great pains to never reveal to Laurence, the Major, the Grand Master, or
anyone else, his involvement with Stennes. As he also knew a good potential
for blackmail when he saw it, Noel kept notes.
	Not only did Noel report everything he saw or heard, he had it all
documented. He considered the small pile of notebooks listing names, dates,
and preferences, an insurance policy. He also had negatives, horrid things,
Noel thought privately. Snaps of grown men cavorting with boys! Noel could
tell stories about the orgies, the parties, held almost nightly in the old
house on the outskirts of the small British Columbia town. And if a boy was
. . . difficult . . . well a quick call to Stennes and the problem went
away. What happened to the problem Noel did not care to speculate. He did
care to make a note of the date, and whenever possible, the boy's name,
ethnic origin, and a short description.
	Everything had come a cropper, however, when the old Grand Master
fell ill. Noel had been detailed to care for the old bastard. He had toyed
with the idea of helping the old man start his final journey sooner that
expected, but rejected it. With Michael Chan assuming all duties, and
authority, it had been much too dangerous. The Chinaman, and his acolyte,
Major Meinertzhagen, watched everything, heard everything and both were as
ruthless as Stennes. About the only good thing that had come out of the old
bastard's pegging out was that the house in Coquitlam was sold and Noel was
brought to Vancouver, where he quickly resumed his affair with Laurence.
	Shuddering at the thought of Michael Chan and the Major, Noel saw
that the cab had stopped in front of the Departures entry. He paid off the
taxi, checked in at the airline counter, and sat down to wait for his
flight to be called. His thoughts returned to the cantonment, where he had
the run of the place. Michael, foolish man, had placed great faith in trust
in his servants, and for some reason thought that the ex-servicemen were
endowed with some sort of special honour.
	Snorting, Noel knew that he had no honour. He worked for one man,
Noel Aubery, a man who believed in taking care of himself and a man who
never put all of his eggs in one basket.
	As he watched a Pacific Western airliner glide effortlessly to a
landing, Noel wondered just what Stennes wanted of him. Noel had no
interest at all in selling boys. He had little interest in boys in any
case. Noel's only interest was, and would be, money. He watched as the
landing stairs were pushed out to the newly arrived aircraft and saw the
door opening. Presently a long line of servicemen and women began
deplaning. He had no interest in the women and some of the young men were
quite something to look at. He hoped that some of them might be on the same
plane as he was to Toronto. Nothing like a fresh-faced young soldier or
sailor to help make the flying hours pass quickly.
	As the line of servicemen disappeared into the terminal Noel's mind
returned to more mundane matters. In his pocket was a key to safety deposit
box in which rested the negatives, lists, and notebooks. Nobody but Noel
knew which bank held this potential - to Noel - treasure. There were also
the contents of the leather carryon.
	Noel had purchased the innocuous piece of luggage in Kowloon when
stationed in the Crown Colony of Hong Kong. A masterpiece of Chinese
ingenuity, the plain bag had cost Noel 100 pounds, and worth every penny of
it. Sold as a piece of whimsy, a novelty, the bag had proven popular with
tourists, especially after a visit to the jewellers and goldsmiths in the
Street of Gold in the old city. It had a sturdy lock, which could be opened
with a key, or a screwdriver. What was not known was that it also had a
false bottom that could only be opened if one knew which of the decorative
brass Chinese ideographs and studs that strengthened the corners to
press. When he was rotated back to England the bag had contained some
exquisite gold chains. Today it contained some very interesting - or so
Noel thought - documents.
	While none of the documents had anything to do with Michael Chan's
business dealings - the Chinaman was much too careful to put anything in
paper - there were some very interesting lists of names, membership lists
of knights, and all men who would rather not have their particular
interests made public. That some of the documents were written in Latin was
Stennes' problem. What mattered was that the men whose names were listed
could be approached. This would not be a problem. In Noel's opinion
Stennes, who had no scruples, would have to reach up to blackmail.
	Noel was feeling confident as he walked up the stairs leading to
his flight with a spring in his step. What caused Noel to smile broadly as
he settled into his Business Class seat was that thought that if he and
Stennes played their cards right, not only would they fatten their bank
accounts, they would also bring down a jumped-up, self-righteous,
pretentious Bluejacket who thought that just because he had crossed cannons
and a hook on his jumper he was something special, somehow better.
	"I'd like to see his face when the Redcaps present him with the
list showing his name," thought Noel viciously as the aircraft moved slowly
down the taxiway. "Oh, would I love to see that!"

******

	The Gunner studied the carefully typed list of addresses and shook
his head. The men who owned the houses and flats were men of wealth,
consequence and power. They all seemed to live in upscale neighbourhoods,
which was not surprising. If a man could afford to purchase a boy, he could
afford to live in Forest Hill. The Gunner also noticed that some of the
names had a number beside them, and in some cases, names.
	The Rangers had done well. In a short time they had managed to
identify over a dozen men and determine if they had a boy, or boys, living
with them. Michael Chan's agents had also begun drifting by. Most were
exactly what they purported to be: deliverymen, contractors, florists, and
what not. They were the faceless, anonymous, unnoticed army of the unwashed
that delivered the laundry and fried rice, or mowed the lawn. Anonymous and
faceless they might be, but they had eyes, and ears, and those who had
taken Michael Chan's salt would lose face - honour - if they in any way
failed in the task their benefactor had set them to. Their muttered
reports, either in person or over the telephone, were precise, and in some
cases, very detailed.
	A strained smile creased The Gunner's face. Three of Michael's
operatives had reported that Percy Simpson had three boys in his house. Two
were not very highly thought of, according to one of the men. They were
shameless and one of them had propositioned the operative! The third boy,
however, was well mannered and did not seem to be the type to live in such
a house.
	"Eugen," The Gunner muttered to himself. "It has to be."
	The soft shuffling of bare feet across the hardwood floor
interrupted the Gunner's musing. He turned in his chair and saw Lester
coming from the direction of the bathroom. "You're up early," he said as
Lester walked into the small kitchenette and poured a cup of coffee from
the pot that never seemed to empty.
	"Too much to do," replied Lester as he settled himself at the
table. He indicated the papers that The Gunner had been studying. "I never
dreamed there were so many," he continued with a sad shake of his head.
	"Men, or boys?" asked The Gunner.
	"Boys," replied Lester with a sigh. "Oh, I knew that there would be
many men." He looked even sadder. "Steve, I've been living in the gay world
since I was fourteen." He heard The Gunner gasp in surprise and
continued. "I told you about my brothers."
	Nodding, The Gunner motioned for Lester to continue.
	"The rule in my house was that if one of them showed hard, I took
care of it." He shrugged. "I eventually figured out that if I was going to
suck dick I might as well get paid for it. I went downtown, to Breadalbane
Street, which is called 'Boys Town'. It didn't take me long to notice that
many of the men who wanted what I offered wore wedding rings." He chuckled
caustically. "I should have charged more!"
	"I'm sorry, Lester, that you had to go through that. Perhaps what
we do today will mean better times in the future."
	Lester shook his head. "Steve, I might have been fourteen, hell,
some of the other boys were barely into their teens, but we all knew
exactly what we were doing. I did what I did because I needed to eat. Some
of the kids did it because they were hooked on something. Others did for
the money. They would wiggle their asses, take the dough and then the Yonge
Night Bus home to their white bread suburbs." Lester tapped the papers
sitting in front if The Gunner. "But the point I am making is that for
whatever reason we had a choice. We could have stayed home, and taken
whatever came along, or flipped burgers. We could have said no. These kids
don't have that choice and that pisses me off!"
	The Gunner could not help laughing. "A very dear young man of my
acquaintance once told me that the most dangerous thing in the world was a
pissed off queer."
	"Obviously a very astute young man," rejoined Lester. "And like
many 'young men', he probably sees life a hell of a lot clearer than men of
forty. I was fourteen and I knew what was going on. Adults never seem to
understand that young people, boys and girls, are perfectly capable of
seeing a con job, of recognizing when something is wrong. And capable of
seeing a solution." He snickered diffidently. "Of course, it helps if
you're a street kid. They have smarts like you wouldn't believe."
	"As strange as this might sound, I do know what you are talking
about, Lester," replied The Gunner. "I happen to know a group of young men
whose insight and understanding at times astounds me and at times makes me
fearful."
	"Young isn't necessarily dumb!" retorted Lester. "Kids see things
that adults don't. They also haven't had their minds too polluted by
so-called adult thinking. They're inquisitive, and adventuresome and at
times impetuous, yes, but they are quite capable of understanding. As an
adult you consider the neighbours, the side effects. As a kid you see
clearly, you see the forests, but you also see the trees. Don't sell your
young men short, Steve."
	The Gunner smiled. "You know, if you're not careful, you just might
make one hell of a mentor. I think that you and Ace will make one hell of a
team."
	A look of surprise came across Lester's face. "What team?"
	"The team that is going to look after the hospital that will house
the boys we save." He paused and added, "Those who want to be saved."
	"There will be some who won't want to leave the game, Steve,"
replied Lester. "Remember, I was there. I knew boys who loved every minute
of what they were doing. I saw it in the streets and I saw it in the
baths. Some guys just can't get enough dick, if you'll pardon my French."
	The Gunner waved away Lester's crudity. "I understand, Lester. I
hope we will be able to help those who want that life. We can't force them
to attend school, to try to adapt to a normal life if they don't want
it. As for the others, I hope we can provide an environment where the boys
can feel safe, where they can heal." A far away look came into The Gunner's
eyes. "I want a school where the boys can learn, but also be boys. A place
where they aren't judged, or forced to be something they don't particularly
want be. A place where they are not pre-judged. A place where they don't
have to worry about being gay, or straight, or whatever. A place where they
are accepted and not just tolerated."
	"It sounds idyllic," said Lester.
	"No, hardly that. I want them to have something, Lester. I want
them to have an opportunity to learn, to have fun. They need to be taught
ethics and morality and so many things that so-called normal boys take for
granted. We can't replace their parents, probably because their parents
abandoned them or sold them. We can point them in the right direction, and
that is what I, and I hope you and Ace, will do."
	"Why me?" asked Lester. "I am a queer! I swish around."
	Much to Lester's surprise, The Gunner reached out and took his
hand. "Lester, you've been dealt a rum hand, true. But you know what the
game is, you know what hell is like. You have the experience, and the
scars, to help these boys get through the horrible struggle they are going
to have coming to terms with who they are. It won't be easy, and we will
all make mistakes. I'm prepared to make those mistakes and learn by
them. Just as you learned by your mistakes."
	"Well, some," admitted Lester with a grin. "But Steve, that poky
little place down in Kensington - by the way, Aaron Edgar needs a cheque
for the lease. He called earlier - the place is all right for the number of
boys we know about. But what about later? What about the boys who are on
the streets now? Have you considered them?"
	The Gunner had to admit that he had not looked beyond the boys held
in bondage. "Are you saying that we'll have some sort of Orphan's Brigade
calling at the castle gate?"
	Lester ignored The Gunner's levity. "The problem goes much further
than you know, Steve. Remember, I'm out there on the streets. I see the
kids. I talk to the kids and I'm here to tell you that the word will get
around and sooner or later there will be a knock on the door and there will
be a hurt boy, or a hungry boy, and neither you nor I will turn him away
because there are no hostels, no Covenant Houses for queers."
	"It's that bad?" asked The Gunner. He shook his head. "I had no
idea."
	"Steve, if you're down and out and straight, you can get help. The
churches have programs, the Salvation Army has a program, everybody has a
program." Lester held up one finger. "But, if you're down and out and queer
you're on your own! You either pretend to be straight, and watch your ass
every waking moment, or you find a nice alcove under a bridge."
	"Maybe I should have leased the Royal York," replied The Gunner
with a laugh.
	"You'd fill it," returned Lester seriously.
	"So, we have to look to the future." The Gunner stood up and walked
to the balcony. He stared into the early morning half-light and then said,
"I have a piece of land, six hundred plus acres. It's up near Arnprior
. . ."
	"Arnprior! That's almost to Ottawa!" returned Lester, sounding
horrified, as if the small Ontario town was somewhere on the outer limits
of civilization.
	"But it's a place where we can make a school." The Gunner turned,
his voice filled with enthusiasm. "Think about it, Lester. Can you see a
school where gay boys can go and not have to worry about their peers? A
haven, if you will. We can expand and . . ."
	"Dream!" responded Lester. "It would cost more money than you have,
or I can ever see us having!"
	"Then we'll go out one afternoon and scout alcoves under bridges,
shall we?" retorted The Gunner sarcastically. He stared evenly at Lester
and smiled. "We can do it. We start small, yes, but we will grow. Michael
will help, I'm sure. Sophie has more money than she knows what to do with
and has neither chick nor child to leave it to. I have the money coming
from my aunt's jewels. We can do it, Lester."
	"It's a dream, Steve," said Lester, leaving the table and refilling
his coffee cup. "I wish I could be with you."
	"There is no reason you can't, Lester. Why, the place wouldn't be
the same without you and . . ." The Gunner stopped speaking abruptly. Then
he said carefully, "You won't leave Brent, though."
	Lester began sniffling quietly. "It's not that Steve, not at all. I
know that Brent will never leave his wife, his kids. He's built himself a
bombproof little nest, a perfect cover. He doesn't have to worry about
losing his job, his pension. At the station house he's straight as an
arrow, and everybody thinks he's a man's man." He sighed and shook his
head. "Brent cares for me, but all I really am to him is a fling, a queer
byway he's walking down at the moment. Eventually he'll realize his other
life is the one that matters most to him. And then he'll leave." Lester
laughed sourly. "I can live with that, Steve, and I'll live with it for as
long as Brent lets me."
	"Then what's the problem?"
	"Look at me!" yelled Lester. "I'm a femme. I swish around, I camp!
Dear God, would you really want me to be a role model for teenage boys?"
	"Actually, I do," replied The Gunner calmly.
	"I beg your pardon?"
	"Lester, you've lived the life, you've been on the game. What of
all those boys who are like you, femmes, swish? You can change, and so can
they. You can even act butch just as well as a straight man. I've seen you
do it! You know how to tone down the stereotypical moves, the camping. If
you can control those moves you can damned well teach others how to do it!"
	"Well, yes, I suppose I could," said Lester, still reluctant. "I
had to survive." He snickered. "I once memorized every baseball stat I
could find. I was working in bar on Bay Street frequented by stockbrokers
and there was this one absolutely gorgeous bond broker who lived and
breathed baseball! He also drank beer so I acquired a taste for Labbatt's
Blue - it gave me gas - but it was worth it!"
	"Lester!"
	The warning note in The Gunner's voice gave Lester pause. "Sorry,
force of habit," he said weakly.
	"You're forgiven," growled The Gunner. He pointed a finger at
Lester. "You changed when you had to because you needed to survive. You can
teach others! You can help them deal with the way they are and teach them
how to get along in the world, how to survive! I can't do it, Ace can't do
it! We have never had to live the life! Aaron Edgar is a little precious,
but he's learned to control his impulses and draw back. Did someone help
him, or did he have to learn it through trial and error, and the occasional
beating? Not every boy wants to play hockey, or football. What about the
boys who want to dance ballet, or paint, or write hopelessly romantic
novels? Who is going to mentor them, listen to them, let them cry on his
shoulder?"
	"Come on, Steve, talk about wishful thinking!" responded Lester
flippantly.
	The Gunner approached Lester and smiled evilly. "You want me to
grab your balls again?" he asked.
	"Only if you mean it!" returned Lester. His smile was calm, and
cool. "Steve, you mean well, I know that. But I know what I am and I am
honest enough to admit it to myself!"
	The Gunner's strong hand reached out and took Lester's
shoulder. "Lester, not so very long ago a young man whom I adore, but whom
I shall never live with, was in what I call his Full Bore, Jug-Eared,
Green-Eyed Monster Mode. He was angry, but he knew what he was saying when
he told his friends to never be ashamed of who they were, to never be
ashamed of what they were, and to never, ever be afraid to be who they
were." He squeezed Lester's shoulder. "Never stop being who you are
Lester. You have a lot to offer. Be who you are, Lester, and let the rest
of the world make of you what it will."
	"I'll try," whispered Lester presently. "God knows how I'll do it,
but I will try."
	"And Ace or I, or Brent will be right there to catch you if you
stumble."
	"Brent? Come on, Steve, he's just a horny flatfoot who knows a good
lay when he sees one!" scoffed Lester.
	"Perhaps," conceded The Gunner reluctantly. "But then, perhaps I
see something in his eyes when he looks at you that you don't want to see."
He pulled away and began scanning the papers on the table. "Now, where in
the hell are the Rangers? They should be up and doing! And where the hell
is Ace?"
	"In bed, where you left him," retorted Lester. "As for the Rangers,
for all I know they found a couple of Mormons to molest!"

******

	Percy Simpson trembled with indignation and fear. He shrank back as
once again Stennes waved a hard, thick finger in his face. "I warned you!"
Stennes shouted. "You were not to touch the boy!"
	"I . . . did not . . ." whined Simpson as he sank slowly into a
chair. "I gave him a bath! A bath!"
	Behind Stennes, Paul Greene stood impassively. He had no role in
this argument, although he realized that watching the scene unfolding would
give him an insight into the true character of his newfound protector.
	Behind Paul, Sepp and Gottfried, both naked, simpered and posed
seductively. They hated Percy, despised him, in fact. Stennes, whom both
young men had met before, intrigued them and while the boys feared him,
they were smart enough to know that the German was the real power in the
room. They also knew that Stennes enjoyed what they could offer him. They
were also interested in the blond, skinny young man that Stennes had
brought with him. They wondered if Herr Greene, as he had been introduced
to them, kept Stennes happy.
	Both Sepp and Gottfried had few scruples and no morals. They slept
with Percy, they would sleep with Stennes, and they would sleep with Herr
Greene. It didn't matter to them. Pleasing Herr Stennes and whomever he
ordered them to please brought warm beds, nice clothes and wonderful
food. Besides, they both liked what they did.
	Standing to one side, Eugen, who was fully clothed in a suit and
tie, stared at the screaming German. Eugen's face was flushed and he tried
to shut out the scene before him by closing his eyes and praying silently
that Troubridge would keep his word.
	Percy's denial brought a deceptive calm. "I will examine the
boy. If there is any evidence, any sign, that you have damaged him, I will
kill you!" he hissed menacingly. He turned on Sepp, Gottfried and
Eugen. "Go to your room. Prepare yourselves. I come to you shortly."
	With Paul following, Stennes hurried from the lounge and up the
stairs of the house to the second floor. He stopped before a blank door and
quickly inserted the key that Simpson had given him and entered a small,
spare bedroom.
	The child was sitting on the bed, wearing only a pair of
underpants. He looked up and shrank back at the sight of the man who had
taken him from the orphanage.
	Paul watched as Stennes, who spoke Russian, for the child had no
other language than his mother tongue, ordered the boy to leave the bed.
	Fearfully, the child did as he was told. He feared what was to
come, had expected it for the Direktor had told him back in the orphanage
that he must never displease this man. As he loved life, the Direktor had
said, he must do everything the man demanded.
	As Paul watched, Stennes soothed the weeping little boy, asking
questions that Paul could not understand. The boy shook his head in reply
and made no protest when Stennes slowly pushed down his underpants. Stennes
examined the slim, handsome body, had the boy bend over and spread his
cheeks. After examining the child's rectum he had the boy stand and began
to fondle him. When the child's miniscule penis was hard, Stennes slowly
pulled back his foreskin and nodded.
	"The fat pig told the truth," said Stennes when he finished his
examination. He patted the child on his bare behind and muttered something
in Russian. The he turned to Paul. "This child has never been touched. Had
he been, I would have known."
	Paul raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
	Stennes saw the gesture and chuckled. "Bruising around the rectum,
the fraenum, which joins the prepuce to the penis, torn, damaged," he
explained. "I will teach you how to judge what is prime and what is not."
	"I am to become a part of your . . . organization?" asked Paul
impassively. He looked directly at the little boy. "I am not interested in
him," he added.
	"He is not for you if you were interested in him!" returned
Stennes. He motioned for Paul to leave with him. "That child is worth half
a million U.S.," said Stennes as they walked back toward the stairs. "An
American pop star enjoys boys of that age." Stennes might have decided that
Paul was to be his heir. He did not yet trust him enough to reveal all his
secrets. "Remember, junge, that the higher they are, the more they
want. The more money they have, the more they are able to indulge their
passions and the more they are willing to pay."
	Other than rumour and whatever he read in the newspapers, Paul had
no idea of the scope of what Stennes was alluding to. What excited Paul was
the thought of power! The sight of Percy Simpson, a man of wealth, as
evidenced by this house, a man of obvious power in other circles, cavilling
and whining like a whipped cur at Stennes' wrath, was exciting and
stimulating.
	As the pair turned the corner that led to the bedroom wing, Stennes
continued. "I saw something in you, young Paul. You have ambition, and you
have arrogance. I like that in a young man."
	"And what else do you like" thought Paul. He hoped that Stennes was
not about to proposition him.
	While Paul's face had remained passive, Stennes seemed to know
instinctively what the boy was thinking. He stopped and slowly ran his hand
down Paul's slim body. "You need not fear me, junge. While you are
desirable, you are much more valuable and useful to me as a colleague."
	Paul breathed a sigh of relief. He did not trust Stennes, and he
had no desire to find himself in the man's bed. That having been said, Paul
was smart enough to understand that if he aligned himself with the German,
if he obeyed the German in every way, great things would follow, not the
least of which would be money.
	With a shrug, Paul dismissed the thought of money, which while it
was a useful commodity, held no great appeal to him. Money could be used,
yes, to pay for the Movement, but what he now came to realize was that
secrets were much more valuable. If a man were willing to pay a
half-million dollars for a boy, he would pay even more to ensure that the
purchase remained out of the public domain. He smiled slyly at Stennes, but
did not say anything.
	Laughing quietly, Stennes said, "So, you understand, then?"
	Paul nodded. "The fat man is terrified that what he is, what he
does, might become public. The man who has bought the Russian boy is also
terrified, although I doubt he would admit it, that what he is should
become public. He would be ruined, of course, if word that he diddles
little boys came out."
	"Now you know why I chose you!" exclaimed Stennes. "You understand
the mechanics of power!"
	"And the economics," returned Paul with an even slyer grin. "You
supply a demand, yes?"
	"Yes."
	Paul gestured back toward the Russian boy's room. "The man who
bought him will, eventually tire of him, yes?"
	"Of course," replied Stennes. "Usually when they reach puberty. The
man will then be in the market for a new boy, which we will supply. We will
also broker the sale of the Russian to someone whose tastes demand
something a little older."
	Paul picked up on Stennes' categorizing of the boys he sold. The
boys were a commodity, a "something" to be bought and sold. The German had
no feelings whatsoever toward his "somethings".
	"And when the boy becomes too old?" asked Paul.
	Another chuckle escaped Stennes' lips. "They never become too old!"
the German said with a laugh. Then he sobered. "Of course, you are
right. When that happens, well, alternative arrangements are made."
	Paul's left eyebrow rose perceptively. "Outdated and of no use to
anyone?" he asked. "Disposed of to a jobber or . . .?"
	Staring at Paul, Stennes now realized that the boy was much more
perceptive than he let on. "Would it bother you if some of our product is,
shall we say, consigned to the rag bin?"
	"A subtle way of putting it," said Paul with a shrug. "Defective or
outdated goods have no place in the inventory," he finished, continuing the
analogy. "But then, I have a feeling that you use the commodity until it is
threadbare." He grinned. "No?"
	Laughing, Stennes sat on one of the chairs that flanked a long,
marble topped table that stood against the corridor wall. "Of course! What
we sell always has a use, a value. The Russian will be used by the pop star
who will, when he tires of the lad, will in turn sell him to someone who
enjoys the favours of older boys. When the boy is of no further interest to
his protector, he will be sold to a house, or to another man who enjoys
older boys, boys in their late teens."
	"A house?"
	"Of course, a house," said Stennes easily. "I own several discreet
residences where those who cannot, or will not, pay for undamaged goods
may, for a small fee, enjoy the delights of 'damaged goods'." He looked at
Paul. "Of course, the fee does vary, according to the 'damage' of the
goods. Later I shall take you to a house that is filled with what I call
'courtesans'. You will experience delights that you have never known."
	Paul thought a moment. He understood completely the economics of
money. He had once endured what was at the time a long, and very boring
class on the subject. He mentally thanked the dry old stick of a high
school teacher who had droned on and on, declaiming about the power of
money. Paul understood that some things never lost value, in fact gained in
value. The merchandise that Stennes offered was a case in point. Little
boys became big boys who became teenagers. There was a market for all of
them, somewhere. Paul also remember that the old instructor had been a bit
of a Bolshie, and railed about money generating power. Paul was not so
interested in the money as the power it would bring. He could, with money,
gain power, gain rank, gain domination over lesser breeds. With money, with
power, he could control and manipulate. Stennes had been right. To satisfy
the lustful cravings that coursed through him Paul would use a commodity
until it was threadbare. And when the commodity was of no use to anyone, he
would consign it to an anonymous rubbish tip.
	Paul's sly smile changed abruptly and he frowned. It had been
explained in economics class that many times money was generated through a
consortium, a partnership where business each put up seed money, invested
in a project, and shared in the profits. Stennes had partners in all his
enterprises. Some were behind the Iron Curtain, and some were not. Some
could be trusted, and some could not. His steel grey eyes darkened. "A
visit to this house you spoke of would be a change from rough trade. But
first you must take care of a problem," he said quietly and emotionlessly.
	"A problem?"
	Nodding, Paul continued. "The fat man is a danger. He knows too
much and is in trouble with his banking friends."
	"Ah, you heard the General?" asked Stennes. He lightly clapped his
hands in congratulation at Paul's snooping.
	"I heard," confirmed Paul. "The fat man will sell you out in a
minute." He then looked directly at Stennes. "Then there is the boy."
	A look of surprise crossed Stennes' face. He had underestimated
young Paul Greene. "Which boy?" he asked.
	"Eugen," replied Paul sternly. "Sepp and Gottfried are rough
trade. They know that if they open their mouths they'll lose this life they
have." Paul waved his hand to indicate the expensive furniture and fine
paintings of the corridor. "They know that for a long time, so long as they
bend over or open their mouths, someone will be there to stick a prick in
them, and pay the bills."
	"Eugen?" prompted Stennes.
	"He wants out. He's tired of being at the beck and call of a
pervert, tired of being on the game. He wants out."
	"And how do you know that?" asked Stennes, choosing to ignore
Paul's calling his clients "perverts".
	Paul snorted. "Sepp and Gottfried were naked. Everything they own
was on display. They're whores and not afraid to show the world that
they're whores. They made it plain that whatever it took they would do to
please you, and I suppose, me. Eugen was fully clothed and stood apart from
them. He stood there, like a statue. There was nothing in his eyes." Once
again Paul repeated, "He wants out."
	"So, what then, my young friend, is to be done with him?" asked
Stennes slyly.
	Paul was just as sly. A feral grin coursed his smooth, pink,
vulpine face. "Eugen is still a valuable commodity. He is quite good
looking and has value. Still, he needs what we called when I was in the
Cadets an 'attitude adjustment session'." Paul's grey eyes seemed to turn
to cold, uncompromising stone. "He needs to be shown who is in charge."
	Stennes saw the look in Paul's eyes and smiled inwardly. The boy
enjoyed inflicting pain, enjoyed the overwhelming feeling of power that
came from subjugating others. Good. He stood up and gestured toward the
closed door that opened into Sepp and Gottfried's room. "And perhaps have
some fun doing it?" he asked.
	Paul grinned malevolently but said nothing. He quickly adjusted the
erection that had risen in his briefs at the thought of teaching Eugen who
his betters were, and nodded.

******

	Paul's nose wrinkled at the stench of the large room. It smelled of
sex, half-eaten food and dirty underpants. On the large bureau sat a tray
overflowing with bits and pieces of what had been a meal. On the floor
beside the huge, unkempt bed lay piles of soiled towels and what looked
like underpants. On the bed Sepp and Gottfried, who had been waiting
patiently for the inevitable visit by their master, postured seductively.
	Neither of the two German boys was aroused. They knew better than
to fool around with each other. Herr Stennes enjoyed his boys fully loaded,
so to speak, and despite having pleasured fat old Percy at their usual
hour, both Sepp and Gottfried had recharged and their loins were
aching. When they saw Stennes in the doorway, with his newest companion
behind him, both Sepp and Gottfried flashed a grin. The blond Kanadien was
skinny, but fresh, and anything new and fresh was a bonus. Even Stennes
would be a welcome change from Percy!
	Looking about the room, Stennes demanded harshly, "Wo ist das
andere?"
	Sepp looked at Gottfried, who replied, "In seinem zimmer, Herr
Stennes." Then, realizing that the blond boy had little German, Gottfried
translated. "He is in his room. He does not sleep mit uns. He thinks he is
better than us!"
	"Ya," added Sepp. "He dreams that he is the son of a Prussian
Junker! Always he avoids us."
	Stennes snorted disdainfully. "Er ist . . ." He decided to keep
things simple and switched to English. "He is the son of a whore whose
father was some nameless trick." He glared at Sepp. "Erhalten sie ihn!"
	Nodding rapidly, Sepp skittered from the bed. "Jahwol, Herr
Stennes."
	While they waited for Sepp to bring Eugen, Stennes asked Gottfried,
"You are happy?"
	"Ya, Herr Stennes." Gottfried frowned. "The old man, he is
generous."
	"He is a pig!" retorted Stennes. "What of the other one, the
butler?"
	Gottfried shrugged. "He does not bother us. He sees nothing and
says nothing. He is only interested in the money the fat one pays him to
see nothing and say nothing."
	Smiling, Stennes turned to Paul. "The butler is a smart man. He has
been with Simpson for years and has gained much wealth."
	"And so long as he is paid he is no danger," returned Paul sourly,
although he could not keep the doubtful tone from his voice.
	"Perhaps we should, as you called it, have an attitude adjustment
session with him as well?"
	Before Paul could reply Sepp pushed a frightened but defiant Eugen
into the room. "Here he is," said Sepp, sidestepping Paul and Stennes and
returning to the bed.
	Stennes regarded Eugen for a moment. The boy was unafraid, and
there was a stubborn set to his face. Stennes had seen the look in Eugen's
eyes before. It was a look of defiance, which could not be tolerated. The
boy needed to be taught a lesson. Stennes pointed to Paul. "My friend is in
need of your services. You will remove your clothing and please my friend
in every way."
	Without looking at Paul, Eugen drew in a breath, looked directly at
Stennes and shook his head. "Nein!"
	Stunned momentarily at Eugen's refusal, Stennes' face turned red
with anger. "What . . . what did you say?" he snarled low.
	"Nein . . . no!" returned Eugen. He was determined. He would no
longer give his body to a man unless he wanted to! He would take no more
orders from this piece of . . . exkrement . . . this scheisse! "No, I will
not do it!"
	Stennes clenched fist smashed against Eugen's square jaw, sending
the boy's glasses flying against the far wall. "You will do as you are
told!" Stennes hissed dangerously. As Eugen lurched back from the force of
the blow, Stennes' looked at Paul, who remained impassive. "You want him to
suck you?"
	While surprised at the suddenness of the assault on Eugen, Paul
found the demonstration of raw power sexually exciting. Privately he
thought that it would take more than a punch in the jaw to bring Eugen to
heel. But, what the hell . . .
	With deliberate slowness Paul removed his jacket, unbuckled his
belt and lowered his trousers and briefs. He watched Eugen to see if there
was any reaction in Eugen's eyes as he reached down to fondle his
erection. Seeing none, Paul smiled knowingly. His penis throbbed as he said
to Eugen, "Suck it!"
	Eugen saw the evil smirk on the blond boy's face, saw the
malevolence emanating from the thin, fox-like face, saw the smooth, thin
penis the blond presented to him throbbing, saw a small drop of liquid ooze
from the conical, circumcised head of the blond's penis, and shook his
head. "Nein . . . no . . . I will not!"
	Stennes all but exploded with rage. He began to pummel the
unresisting Eugen with his fist. "Nehmen Sie ihn, nehmen Sie ihn in threm
Mund!" he shrieked as his fist smashed against Eugen's face, his stomach
his sides. "You will suck him! You will suck him!" screamed Stennes.
	Eugen collapsed onto the floor and curled his body into a
protective ball. He coiled his arms around his head, and his muffled,
defiant voice filled the room. "Nein!"
	Shrieking incoherently, Stennes began to kick the coiled body,
landing telling blows on Eugen's body. Spittle flew from Stennes' lips has
he continue to rain vicious kicks on the helpless youth. Finally, his
tumescence plain, he drew back. He turned to Sepp and Gottfried who lay on
their bed, speechless and horrified at the beating, and ordered, "Strip
him!"
	Both boys knew better than to antagonize the enraged man
further. They forced Eugen's body to uncoil and quickly stripped him to his
boxer underpants. Eugen's face was a mass of bruises. Blood seeped from
between his lips and oozed from one ear. Already massive welts were rising
on his sides and back. Neither Sepp nor Gottfried dared to protest or
hesitate. They quickly ripped Eugen's boxers away and stood back, waiting
for what they both knew was inevitable.
	"Bend him over the bed," ordered Stennes icily. He watched as the
boys lifted the all but unconscious Eugen from the floor and draped him
over the end of the bed on his stomach. Stennes lowered his trousers and
soiled briefs, exposing a huge, vein-scattered penis. He deliberately
pulled back his foreskin to reveal a slick, slimy, purple coloured
head. "Pull his cheeks apart," he ordered Sepp and Gottfried.
	As the two German boys hurried to obey Stennes, he looked at Paul
who had a vacant look on his face while he studiously masturbated.
	"No!" growled Stennes. "You will do more!" He then savagely rammed
his erection into Eugen's body. The boy screamed in pain as Stennes pushed
as much of his penis as he could into the spread cheeks and grunted.
	"You will never again disobey me, you whore! Remember I own you,
whore!" Stennes growled as he savagely thrust into Eugen. "Do you
understand me, schweine?" He thrust relentlessly into and out of Eugen's
rectum, overcome with anger.
	As Paul, Sepp and Gottfried watched, Stennes continued his
unrelenting rape of Eugen. His breathing became laboured and his pendulous
testicles began to draw upward. As a low growl began to grow in his throat,
signalling that he was very near to orgasm, much to the surprise of the
others, Stennes pulled out and fisted his organ rapidly. A loud grunt left
Stennes' throat and his penis seemed to explode, sending a long stream of
semen across Eugen's back and then down his buttocks. Stennes continued to
stroke himself until only a small dribble oozed from the small slit on the
head his penis.
	Finished, Stennes drew back and looked at Paul. "Fuck him!" he
ordered. "Fuck him and teach him some manners!" Then he added, "Do not cum
in him! Squirt on him, show him that he is a whore, a pig!"
	As Paul deftly inserted himself, Sepp and Gottfried's hands drifted
down to their hard penises. Their eyes glistened as they watched the blond
stranger thrust and pummel the moaning boy stretched on the bed and Sepp's
tongue flicked out as he licked his lips. Beside him, Gottfried's eyes took
on a fevered look and a triumphant smile furled his lips.