Benjamin Hanson

A Charitable Sacrifice

Chapter One

The words and thoughts of a million doctors fettered the ethos of the solitary figure, seeming to come in short rises and falls in time with the dull thud of his cane against the sidewalk. His green eyes were narrowed, focused but unfocused, casually drifting between seeing the path his body instinctively knew by habit, and seeing the nothing hidden just behind it. As the man's body had degenerated and his happy devotion to faith followed in kind, unnoticed behind the curtain he held so proudly to mask his insecurities, reflections of his past became a focus. He remembered, at first, the more simple things. He remembered being able to walk independently, being able to shower and shave without it being a struggle for breath, but a natural thing that wasn't akin to combating your own extinction. He even remembered the subtle annoyance of an occasional check up at the doctors, craving that so much more than the now constant anticipation of worsening news.

Perhaps it was what he took for granted that made life so much easier before. To make the Sunday march toward the hallowed sanctuary was a simpler task then because he knew nothing of hardship. He knew guilt, and the pangs of being as pious as he could be. As a teenager it was self pleasure, something he allowed himself sparingly and felt immediately tainted for enjoying shortly afterward, and that had followed him even until now. As an adult it was sex, a carnal thing without the sanctity of marriage, and as he had found it difficult to navigate the ever-diminishing pool of options and the subtle nuances of dating culture, he had never enjoyed the feeling. Even his job which paid a reasonable sum was a source of guilt, his priorities focused on buying simple necessities and denying extravagances, writing his monthly tithe on antiquated checks, and donating a sum to worthwhile charities that promised to Christianize the heathens on the precipice of eternal damnation. What was left was saved for a rainy day, but he had always imagined that he would one day will it to those same charities in large sum payments instead of monthly contributions. The final payment toward his mercy.

But as the problems increased and the word cancer entered the conversation, the funds meant for that purpose instead became a supplement for additional years, which quickly turned to months. Promises of trials that had high success rates were empty, and stages mounted from one to two and three. When he watched the five figure sum convert into a four figure sum, he started to quietly wonder why he had put aside that final payment. Why hadn't he allowed himself an extravagance or two? A refund wasn't a concept in the medical billing world; results were never guaranteed in the way that products on infomercials were. Instead they had been bad investments, because time spent in agony wasn't time at all. It was a death march of torture, a slow reminder that an accrued day meant little if one couldn't enjoy it. A new car, however, would have been what it was meant to be. A vacation to a tropical paradise would have been what it was meant to be. The treatments were certainly not what they were meant to be.

He had reached the end of conventional science which now seemed rather rugged and antiquated in comparison to how he had once viewed it. The rough hair on his face seemed a perfect reflection of that, he thought. His youth had retreated to reveal lines, and razors had been abandoned for days and weeks in some instances. His once vibrant face was now something akin to a peddler or a pioneer who had seen the struggles of surviving simply for the sake of it. It was a reflection of his own antiquation, the perfect compliment.

Tonight had been the final epiphany, that good deeds had presented him with nothing in exchange. He had never drank or smoked, had made healthy eating choices and exercised, but despite all of that it wouldn't be old age that took him into the quiet gloaming. It was a disease meant for the unjust. He had recalled, earlier that day, the words he had heard. This was merely a trial, and even if it was at the price of his life, his existence on Earth meant nothing. Surely, one had said, Job had suffered greater than him and shone brightly through his faith, coming out the other end whole and blessed. The man now knew well what he would have done in Job's position. He would have taken the opportunity to curse his creator and die, rather than face the torment wrought upon him.

But that wasn't the epiphany, death that is. He had accepted death in what he assumed was his epiphany many months ago. He no longer feared the specter as it was an inevitable experience, and a path that all who took breath had to face eventually. While he still held that lack of fear, and imagined it would not move, his epiphany was one that instilled a greater, new found fear. A fear that a life having not been lived was much more frightening than death ever had been or could be. And along with that new fear was the realization that his was a life not lived. Following his path had been hard and with purpose, but it had denied him so much of the human experience. To truly live was an experience that he wanted now more than ever, and he lacked the means with which to attain it. To procure it, he said quietly to himself, was an end he'd apply any means to achieve. But these weren't the sort of thoughts he could openly express, and he felt that the end was, ultimately, a fallacy. His only perceived solace was in his mind's regret and contemplation. He had reached a stage of enlightenment, he believed. He wanted nothing more than to share it with the world, but he knew that the words of a dying man would fall on deaf ears.

When he found his eyes focused on the very real structure of the brick facade in front of him, large hands holding his frame against it, he almost felt relief. This life would end, and with it his empty final thoughts on the subject of it being a life unlived. He had to laugh, because protesting wouldn't be to his benefit. He'd never achieve his end, and whatever came next would be quick and simple. He was elated.

"Your face betrays your thoughts," the cold voice came from the form with equally cold hands. It was large and looming, and felt capable of stopping the sun from shining, not that it had in sometime. It didn't even feel human, but at the moment the man imagined that anything capable of murder could hardly be human to begin with.

"Does it? I usually try to wear a smile but it's slipped away from me now. You're doing me a favor, truthfully. So now I can be happy," the man replied.

"Is that truly your desire?" The cold voice chuckled, cold breath hitting the back of the man's neck. He felt his hairs stand on end. "Because I believe that, prior to this, you wanted to actually live your life. Although I suppose you never managed to formulate that into an actionable idea."

The man felt his smile fall, but what replaced it was neither fear nor sadness. It wasn't regret or even contemplation. It was sheer wonder. His face betraying that much was impossible, even under the best of circumstances. Some lone vagrant couldn't delve so deep into the mind assuredly, and couldn't speak to precision the very train of thoughts his epiphany had inspired.

"You're the means," the man responded, fighting to suppress a cough. It wasn't the dust on the brick facade, but the cancer that made breathing a chore, and coughing a reflex of life.

"I can be the means to many ends, but what end to you seek?" The inhuman voice asked, the sheer frigid nature of it seeming to permeate the man's bones now.

"To live my life. I want to live," he replied.

"Simply to stay alive?" the voice asked.

"No," he said simply, and he knew well that the voice was being literal. He also knew that whomever the voice belonged to deeply understood his desires. His were the lone ears to whom he knew he could speak in trust of understanding. "You know that I'm not afraid to die. It's not death that scares me, it's my past. It's the things I missed, the things I never got to do," he finally managed.

"Then what will we do? Eradicate this illness and allow you to turn over a new leaf? To continue the life you have lead with a new purpose of pursuing carnal 3; needs?" He whispered the last word as it lie dead in the air. It was a glistening diamond in a sea of zirconia. It was the motivation the man needed to piece together that a cure was insufficient, that the vessel he inhabited had placed certain demands and expectations that, even with this new epiphany, couldn't be easily escaped. A cure would have him back to his old life in due course, and he may stray for a season, but the life he craved would be incapable of coming to fruition. This body was already dead, had been dead for sometime. It was a reflection of a soul that once was something entirely different, but was now reborn of need.

"I want a new body," the man said with a tone of finality. That was the only way to truly live life.

"I enjoy your conclusions. They taste so sweet to me, and nothing has been so sweet in decades," the voice chuckled again, giving away that it was capable of producing the desired result as the man had correctly assumed.

"Then you're going to want payment, I guess. Something tells me you're not in this for the charity of it."

"Surely you understand now that charity is hardly a worthwhile cause, and that you are bound by the chains it created. You sanctified this pitiful flesh so much that it's incapable of being tarnished. No, not charity. Payment must be rendered for services, and as I am the means and that payment allows me to act, it's simply a start in your path toward living."

It became clear to the man at that moment exactly what the voice belonged to. It seemed appropriate at the moment for it to be a demon; the very antithesis of everything he had once stood for. His waiting absolution was teetering on the brink, and he could feel the years of denial and preparation slipping away. He was now Job, but with a much sweeter promise than death. He pondered in that moment whether Job had simply been afraid of death, and held to his faith because of that. He wasn't afraid of death, but he was afraid of the consequences of selling his soul. Would it be worth a life lived? Would it bring him the immeasurable joy that he imagined it would?

For the briefest of moments he felt his old self coming back, prepared to continue the march toward death with a fit reward at the end. Eternity was much shorter than any life, lived or not. But it was a passing thought earlier that appealed to both his old self and his present self. Something that appealed to his ethos, and his carnal desires. He wanted to share his revelations with the world, but he knew that no one would listen to the words of a dying man. They would, however, be more likely to listen to a living one's. His mind began to realize that by sacrificing his soul, he would have the opportunity to share his epiphany. He could reshape lives and give people, even if just one or a few, the opportunity to live a life they would have never lived in other circumstances. It was not a sacrifice for the sake of piety, but a sacrifice based on the concepts he had learned through it. His payment could potentially be to the aid of others, and in that he reconciled the act as his ultimate form of charity. It was something more valuable than numbers written on checks or monthly withdrawals could ever amount to. He knew the demon was wrong about charity hardly being a worthwhile cause.

"I'm more than happy to make the payment," he said defiantly, knowing full well the sacrifice he was making and to what ends. It was to ensure both the ability to live life, and to allow others the same. And he knew that the demon would know why, and that he had stood in direct defiance of his suggestion.

"Then it is done," came the reply, as the world spun into a dizzying haze. The man only briefly glimpsed the pale face beneath the red cowl, eyes seeming to match the color perfectly. It was enough to know as darkness overtook him, that it was done.

Chapter Two

His eyes lit on the early dawn's sky as his eye lids fluttered open. It was odd to see with new eyes, and it became immediately apparent that that was what they were. It wasn't the first indication really, that had come seconds before he actually used those new eyes to see, which consciousness was first regained. There was a decided absence of pain, something that he hadn't felt in a very long time. He supposed that he had gained a tolerance to some extent, because the present situation allowed him to reflect on how many parts of his prior anatomy had been affected. Surely it had been nearly the total of him, because now everything seemed to be set right.

A stretch gave him no troubles, and his heart thumped slowly and calmly in his chest. When he breathed in deeply, the air easily collected and escaped, not even the slightest threat of a cough or even a sneeze. Despite the wet earth beneath him, his back didn't ache and he felt full of so much vibrant life and energy that he wanted to jump up immediately and run around; he wanted to announce to the world that this amazing feeling was something he'd never let slip through his fingers.

He felt considerably lighter, and as his hands rose to be peered at through those new eyes, the ones that no longer required glasses to see clearly, and for miles it seemed, he saw that they were small. Not only were they small, but they were soft and unused. There wasn't hair on his knuckles anymore, nor hair on his arms for that matter, save a light collection of peach fuzz that was barely visible in the not so radiant early morning sky. He gasped at the realization, hearing the falsetto in his voice. For a brief moment he considered the possibility that the demon had made him a woman, but despite the small size and shape of his hands and limbs, he didn't think of them as being decidedly feminine. But as the foreign fingers brushed across his hairless, foreign face, admiring the plumpness of cheeks and a small button nose, he blushed.

The issue wasn't one of gender, but of age. He was no longer an adult at all. Perhaps that was why the energy inside, and his body's incredibly different stamina, even more powerful than he had remembered from his prior body before cancer became a part of his daily vocabulary, was so pronounced. He hadn't spent a considerable amount of time with children since he left that phase in his life, so memories of his own, or rather his first, childhood were foggy at best.

His mind was the same, containing identical memories and knowledge, but felt considerably younger. His attention was easily passed from one item of focus to the next seamlessly, and everything took on a decidedly exciting new sensation and perspective. His hands traveled across his flat, thin chest, and the slightly plump belly. The shirt that covered it was over sized and baggy, but was soft. It seemed to make his own hands travels all the more stimulating. He almost thought of comparing it to wearing his father's shirts as a boy, but he wasn't sure whether that was a legitimate memory or not.

He bunched the fabric up with fingers that seemed ready to obey as well as his old ones had, and looked down at the pale stomach separated from his hips with the fabric of a pair of shorts. They were, at least, seemingly an appropriate size. The tiny hand ran across the contours of his new stomach, remarking at the softness, the warmth. It was at once familiar and unfamiliar, and made him acutely aware that he was both hungry, and that the act felt good. Being touched, even by himself, was thrilling. Not in a sexual manner really, but in a way that inspired the mind to be both relaxed and excited simultaneously, to greet the unfamiliar as somehow newly familiar.

When his hand lowered further and casually grazed across the front of his shorts, he found himself blushing again and retracting his hand by instinct. Years of self-denial were still with him in some form, but the curious nature of the now much smaller length was awe inspiring. He had personally not thought of it as much of anything other than a means of evacuating liquid waste until his hormones started surging, and he was definitely too young for that to be the case just yet. He couldn't begin to approximate an age, but he knew that it'd be awhile before the specter of puberty reared its head.

But even just being mesmerized by the new cocklette was enough to inspire ideas in an adult mind, even if it fought valiantly to suppress them. It was a mind that realized, in that instant, that this body was now a space free from his previous ethical ideals. It no longer mattered what he did or whether he followed a code that he had followed for so long before, the end result when he one day died would be the same. That realization, he imagined, should have been accompanied by some form of regret or a need to find an out, but the freedom of definitively knowing his final destination instead transformed him into something different – assured. He was completely assured, even relieved that he was free to live life. For as long as he had it, as long as he inhabited this body, he could do exactly as he pleased.

And with that came the rising of the tiny appendage, and small hands rushing to free the shorts from tiny hips. There was even a pair of underwear beneath, and the fabric sent shivers through his entire body as it was pressed down his legs and to his ankles, a considerably shorter journey for pants to travel than it would have been hours before. He giggled in spite of himself, still unsure of exactly where he was and caring very little. He hadn't heard anyone, he was certain he was outside, but at that precise moment it didn't matter. What mattered most was finally experiencing pleasure without the pang of guilt that usually followed.

He looked down, because he had to. The curiosity was too much to abate. A slender two inch [5 cm] erection stood proudly from his body, as hard as any erection had ever been. The tiny head was pink, and there was now a decided lack of hair directly above the mound. His fingers softly traced the skin, the shape. The baby fat was even here, and the softness of the skin was so different. Even the tiny undescended testes, which he explored next, were soft and warm, lacking even the slightest trace of hair. It took a moment to steady his nerves enough for the next act, and as he closed his eyes and felt his warm breath flow easily from his nostrils. He went for it with haste.

It was an act of discovery at first, quickly learning that despite his hand's small size, it was much too large to wrap around the appendage. The hardened length merely hid between the delicate fingers, but despite it being pleasurable this was hardly going to aid in the process of relieving years of pent up aggression. He tried various angles and ideas, before settling on pinching the still loose skin of the shaft between his thumb and index finger. It gave him ample leverage with which to make the skin traverse toward the sky and toward the Earth, and even with the first stroke he shuddered quietly.

The quick speed that he had been in the practice of using for his occasional moments of carnal weakness was now too much, his body keenly aware that it had not been touched in this manner before. The feeling of pleasure was quick to rise and rather overwhelming, washing over the ridges of the head and across each facet of the pencil-like shaft. He slowed his pace as the small frame squirmed, entirely of its own accord, breathing becoming a quickly labored act. It was truly amazing, the difference between his adult body and the new prepubescent one. He would wonder later if perhaps nerve endings were more clustered together on a smaller frame, or if perhaps the delicate nature of his skin just allowed him to feel that much more. Regardless of the reason, the intensity of the pleasure couldn't be denied. There was no escaping the truth that this was superior, in every imaginable way.

His mind was focused heavily on the task as sweat began to form on his brow, matching the dew on the grass beneath him. By now his bottom had warmed the grass beneath it, but he felt the muscles of each of the round globes tighten and flinch with each delicate dance of the lose skin across the exposed, unpracticed head. His rather large front teeth bit into his thin pink lower lip, and he moaned quietly with his now much higher voice.

It felt very much like it had been hours, when it had only been a matter of minutes. His arm was becoming exhausted from the unfamiliar repetitive motion, and the length almost too sensitive to touch. He wouldn't relent, because his mind was too focused. It didn't matter how intense the feelings were, all that mattered was that the chorus of pleasure was allowed to reach the zenith of its final chorus before cascading and bubbling over into applause. The tingling sensation began to build, not from where he was accustomed but from within his lower abdomen. His stomach still rife with baby fat drew in, as he felt he was becoming increasingly incapable of controlling his body.

For an instant, he was certain that he was going to pee, that feeling before the first droplets flow and the nerve endings fire dramatically, but instead it took a decidedly different course.

"N-now," he squeaked between a moan, hearing his voice formulate a word for the first time. It was an adorable voice, and he was glad to claim it as his own. But what he was even more proud to claim was the falling of the tingling through the mound and up his shaft, overtaking the tiny length that was ill prepared. Even his adult mind wasn't anticipating what was happening.

His moans and breath were erratic as spasm after spasm of pleasure pressed across the tiny pink head and down through the shaft. He felt the length quiver and shake, violently contracting as it grasped for something to press out and give an appropriate end. Finding nothing the feeling flowed without recourse, and his eyes shut tightly to try to make sense of it. But there was no sense to have, no ideas to formulate. He was at the mercy of pleasure and pleasure alone, a pleasure that didn't want to end. His hand was moving in a desultory fashion, trying desperately to keep up a consistent pace but failing miserably, not that he had noticed. He couldn't even feel the exhaustion in his arm anymore, as the tingling was much too pressing to notice anything else. And when it felt as if he may explode, when his heart was pumping so fast that his head was spinning almost as much as it had the night before, the feeling began to fade much later than he had expected.

As his arms fell weakly to his sides, and he fought valiantly to catch his breath, he could only think that what he had experienced hadn't been self pleasure at all. It had been something so much greater than the word pleasure implied. It had been self glorification; self glorification and torture. To prolong something so intense and so powerful for that long seemed impossible to comprehend, and he regretted deeply having not discovered the act sooner in his prior body. He knew that there wasn't anyway to make self pleasure as an adult feel half as good, and he was equally certain that it was unlikely that sex could even compare. But he laughed, hard and long, when he knew that this would have killed him before. This feeling would have been by far too intense, but this young body was able to handle it with just a tiny bit of exhaustion as the only side effect.

Caught halfway between hysterical giggles and the rapidly returning vigor of his new body, he managed to pull his underwear and shorts back into place. He sat up, attempting to steady his almost independent moods, adjusting to the slight dizziness that remained. It wasn't the sort of dizzy you gained from being on a large list of medications, but the kind that told you that you had taxed yourself. In an adult this would be the end, but the end was now the endless energy pool that he had to draw from. He knew instantly that he'd be completely ready to travel or anything else he desired in a minute's time.

His eyes gazed around at the meadow, and the line of trees that surrounded it in the easily cleared distance. He still wasn't entirely sure where he was, but he knew that he could figure it out in due course. He'd have to get somewhere, living outside was hardly a viable option. It would be as easy as finding a road and hitchhiking to the nearest store. From there he could determine where he was, or perhaps even find a new job. As he stood, the idea firmly planted in his mind, his face fell in an instant. He felt an intense fear cover him that was unlike any he had felt in years. It was fresh fear, raw, visceral. It was an emotion entirely of this body, and not of the mind that inhabited it.

"B-but 3;" He began. "I'm a kid!"

Chapter Three

"Listen to me!" He screamed shrilly into the sky for the seventh time, his young legs pacing back and forth. He half expected that he'd end up making a divot at this rate. He could care less how ridiculous he looked, and even if someone happened upon him he could play it off as some game. He felt the need to renegotiate the terms of the contract was more important than being sensible, although there was a portion of his rationale that told him that the body's variable moods were likely to blame for that opinion. Regardless he wouldn't be silenced, and as long as he had a voice to call with he would use it.

"I know you can hear me! You heard my thoughts just fine, so my voice should be even easier! This isn't what I asked for!" His voice echoed across the expanse of open field, diminishing as it quickly traveled toward hues of zaffre and vermilion.

When the voice responded it certainly wasn't from any body, nor from anything external. It was inside of him, but it didn't carry the same cold quality that it did before. It almost sounded like, well, his new voice. In the eternal battle of id versus superego, the demon had seemed to fill the ego's shoes.

"How is this not what you asked for? This is certainly a different body."

The man turned boy had to pause his pacing to think. He had been very liberal with the request, he realized. Although he assumed that there had at least been some fleeting idea as to what his new body should be.

"You know what I meant!" He protested audibly, causing the demon to chuckle inside of him.

"You never thought to be specific, because it was a realization born from the moment. You said a new body, and that is what you have. Were it any newer you'd be in diapers."

"That's 3; true. But how am I supposed to survive like this!? I can't exactly go and get a job when I'm 3; um 3;"

"Seven," the inner-voice replied coolly.

"That," he proclaimed, blushing as soon as he did. He realized how immature the response was.

"You never requested a domicile or a job. Your only concern was living your life as carnally as was possible," the voice added.

The boy started to accept the statements as truth, but then clearly remembered that wasn't his only desire. He knew the demon had to have known about it, that he had decided to sell his soul to spread his epiphany as well. Although he wasn't afforded the opportunity to speak those thoughts aloud.

"The fact you want to cover this deal in some facade of charity isn't going to change the fact that it wasn't specific. Do what you want with your life, spread your message of hedonism to the masses."

"And how is that going to work? Who's going to listen to some dumb kid?" He retorted.

"You certainly won't be a child forever, and you're hardly a dumb kid. You have the fully functional mind of an adult. Be creative, it is the best way to find the pathway to pleasure, after all."

The boy blinked. That much was true. He would eventually age and be able to more effectively impart his message. But he felt that a lot of creativity would be involved in the process of growing up without starving first. The thoughts of turning himself into the police or a hospital as a lost child weren't exactly appealing though; he didn't relish the idea of being in the foster care system.

"Is this someone else's body? Does it have parents?"

"No," the voice said simply, leading the boy to wonder to which question he was responding. He had to assume it was to both.

He sighed, squatting down and pressing his tiny hands together. He stared at them, as though they were the most significant objects on the face of the Earth. There wasn't a typical childhood ahead of him, although a typical childhood may complicate his aims a fair bit. In a way it was fitting.

"Where am I then?" He finally asked, but nothing came in response. He started to grumble to himself as he felt anger bubbling up again, but that was enough to catch the demon's attention one last time.

"Listen, I am hardly some cricket. I am a businessman, plain and simple. We made a mutually beneficial trade and the deed is done. I'll see you when it's time to collect my payment."

And with that, the boy felt the presence leave him. He was truly, and for the first time even though he hadn't realized it before, completely alone. To be alone as an adult isn't always comfortable but it's manageable, but to be alone as a seven-year-old inspired the most ancient of fears and insecurities. As the boy stared at his hands, trembling in front of him, he knew at once that he'd have to devise a plan. But before anything could happen, he'd have to figure out exactly where he was.

He swallowed deeply and stood, glancing around again. He tried hard to steel his nerves against the present situation. Purpose would be his mantra, and the pursuit of knowledge would bring him closer to seeing that purpose come to fruition. He vowed that he would find a way to survive, and that he wouldn't be alone. He vowed that it wouldn't be at the hands of the state, even if it meant manipulating someone to meet his ends. It wasn't quite enough to envision a result without a way to get there, but it did at least allow him the strength to walk. And walking is precisely what he did, up the hill, forward through the clearing. He wouldn't stop until he knew definitively where he was; the first piece of a rather large puzzle.

He knew that he wasn't tired, but he was becoming increasingly aware that his attention span wasn't what it used to be. Walking aimlessly held no actual appeal when it came to fun. It was a required task, nothing more. His feet skipped on occasion, darting around rocks or ant hills as a way to try and make the trip bearable. He had no real way of knowing if he was walking toward something or away from it, but he imagined that even if he had taken the longer path, it would have to lead to something eventually.

The meadow ended in a line of trees, but seeing as trees had surrounded the outer edges for so long, he couldn't see a way to avoid them. Much to his chagrin, there was no discernible trail, natural or man made, to be seen. He could only hope that by continuing in a straight path, something would become visible. As he walked carefully and purposefully through the woods, the now azure sky obscured by the canopy above, his mind marveled at his body's ability to walk barefoot without pain. His emotions translated the far off sound of running water as being a place of fun, and wanted very much to run toward it. He knew that eventually he'd have to make sense of balancing the two, but for now the adult mind's needs were more pressing.

His tummy grumbled, and he held it, but thankfully his legs weren't much affected by the uphill climb that he was now making. If nothing else, the soil and dead leaves beneath them tickled a bit, and only made them want to repeat the process of stepping, foot by foot, over and over. When he had slowly slipped into the thought of that feeling being more delightful, and it overtook his mind, the sound of a car in the distance brought him back to reality. His eyes opened wide, and he knew that he was close to civilization now.

"Maybe there's a sign," he yelled, running now up the hill and toward what he could only assume was a road. The discovery was exciting and he'd give credence to that excitement, but he also had to make sure that he wasn't seen.

When he finally reached the clearing, asphalt lying before him, he stopped. He was a little out of breath from the exertion, but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle. He kept a few feet behind the treeline, hands resting on his knees as his eyes peered around branches and trunks, torso and neck contorting to give him a wider scope to view from. He saw a mile marker, but that was hardly helpful. He knew what they were used for but he hardly had taken the time to memorize which one he had lived near. He did know that, at least from this angle, the road seemed unfamiliar. Without much else to go on, he made a decision to travel east, keeping just behind the treeline as he had done before. Eventually there would be a sign, and as soon as he saw it he could formulate a better plan.

"I'm hungry," his stomach called out despite his hurried pace.

"You can wait," his mind thought, more desperate to see the next part of the plan develop.

"But I'm hungry," it protested again, refusing to listen to reason.

"We'll eat when we can eat. There's nothing I can do about it right now," his mind protested.

"Still hungry," his stomach replied, causing him to audibly sigh.

Maybe he would starve to death. It was starting to feel like a more realistic possibility than it had before. It made those feeling of fear try to rush back, so his mind did its best to deal with them.

"It's like the army."

"What?" His id asked.

"We're on a mission! So we have to be tough. It doesn't matter if we didn't eat yet."

"Oh," his id said, seeming to get the idea. Games were fun, and they were certainly more pleasant than dwelling on his mortality.

"And when we finish the mission, we get to have a feast!" His mind added for good measure.

"Okay!" His id was finally on board with the idea entirely. He grinned, from a position of body and mind becoming at peace. It was pleasant to know that he could reasonably manage his emotions, particularly at a time like this. It would just take a good bit of practice to get a handle on it permanently.

He was now darting between trees, making slight pauses as he hid behind some and skipped others. His feet ignored the scraping of acorn shells and sticks, and instead focused on not being seen by the enemy. He held an invisible rifle firmly with both hands, ready to ambush the opposing forces at a moment's notice. He was on high alert, senses firing off like mortar shells. He ducked and rolled, landing unceremoniously on his bottom with a giggle. He looked up as he covered his mouth, afraid that he'd be discovered, when his eyes fell on it.

"Concord," he said the word to himself, repeating it several times other. His mind had to struggle to figure out where that was. He wasn't near his hometown anymore, not that that was a bad thing, but he knew that he had been here before. Or that, at the very least, he knew someone from here. But what was the essential connection? Why did that name stick out so much? He hadn't lived here before and he certainly didn't have any family members here. He hadn't dated anyone from here that he could remember, not that there was much of those dates to recall. Had it been a concert? No, he had never gone to one. Not a legitimate concert at any rate.

"College," he said out of nowhere, trying to remember it. It had been so long ago, or in this body's case hadn't happened at all. College was a blur, spent studying and socializing as little as possible. Sure, he had made a couple meaningful friends, but other than that it had been a means to procure a degree. With that degree he had attained a career, and that career had kept him going through much of his adult life.

"Sam," he said, jumping to his feet. That was why it was so familiar. Sam had been one of those friends from college, and even if the last couple of years had seen their communication dwindle to annual Christmas card exchanges, it was enough. He knew someone, more specifically he knew someone that lived in Concord. But how was that going to matter if he wasn't in the same body anymore?

He couldn't recall much about meeting Sam. He knew that they had been in the same dorm during freshman year, and roommates the year afterward. He wasn't as serious about grades as he had been, but he managed to squeak by with a respectable GPA. He didn't have high ideals to go to graduate school, so why did it matter? Sam was more concerned with sex.

That was it. Sam had met his now wife when they were in college, but Sam was hardly ready to calm down just yet. Even when they had become serious, he sneaked behind her back a few times. The first was 3; Stacy. He was certain. Or was it Tracy? The second was definitely Abigail. He remembered catching them accidentally and being sworn to secrecy. He vowed to never tell even if it filled him with a heavy amount of guilt. He hadn't attended the wedding because of it. He hastily made plans to attend a church retreat to have an excuse.

"I bet she still doesn't know," he grinned mischievously. He'd try to be kind and cordial, find a more decent in, but if it came to that he was no longer above blackmail. And why shouldn't he be? He had to survive somehow. Even if Sam thought his guesses were just lucky, or that he wouldn't follow through with the threat, he was certain enough that he could get in touch with the alumni director. He could play it off rather coolly, pretend to be the son of someone else in his graduating class. There were a lot of flaws, but it was a plan. And a plan was much better than not having a plan at all.

"We march on Concord!" He yelled, raising his fist toward the sky.

"And how exactly are we going to make it all the way there on foot?" His adult mind asked.

"We 3; hitchhike?" he asked, doubting it was a viable option.

"I guess there are worse ideas, but we've seen the news. Or at least I have. What if we get picked up by some crazy child predator?"

"We call Chris Hanson?"

"That's 3; whatever. I cede the floor to the lost child. Don't blame me if we die."

"Great!" he said, out loud this time, before exiting the woods and presenting himself to the clearing. His feet padded along the sparse grass as his arm held itself up, thumb clearly presented to the air. He had never actually hitchhiked before, but he had seen enough movies to know that this was how it was done.

He was no longer a soldier, but a wanderer. He wondered why he was such a stupid wanderer. He imagined himself as a bard, singing the tales of his journeys instead of just telling them – tiny fingers softly strumming a lute. He became rather upset that he didn't have a silly hat with a feather coming from the top. He thought momentarily of finding such a feather, just in case he was able to procure a hat, but an older red Jeep pulled onto the shoulder in front of him breaking his train of thought. He knew now that he'd be going somewhere, for better or worse, and it certainly wasn't on a horse as he had temporarily imagined.

Chapter Four

There are some people who believe that the universe, spirits, fate, or even God sometimes cause things to come together in such a way that it is beyond the explanation of coincidence. The boy, as a man, had once believed in that concept very strongly. He was very certain that these were prime examples of God's existence, and that they validated his faith to those who required reasoning behind it. Now that the boy was sitting next to Sam in his red Jeep, he was fairly certain that this wasn't caused by God. After all, he had recently sold his soul for a new body, and what good would God accomplish by assisting a hell bound person who was beyond redemption? No, this had to be coincidence. If it wasn't coincidence it was a rather cruel joke, but he was realizing several important things now.

For one, the idea of bullying an adult into submission was entirely implausible; he didn't have the guts for it. For another, he could barely manage to formulate a coherent sentence, much less follow through with gentle pleads for temporary or even permanent housing. His eyes were fixed on the trees that were quickly passing by, and Sam's large fingers were drumming on the steering wheel in time with a song playing on the radio. He couldn't exactly place which song it was.

"Is there someone in town you know?" Sam asked, keeping his eyes on the road in front of him. Thankfully there wasn't much traffic, so the journey was much quicker than it would have been otherwise.

"Y-yeah," the boy said, eyes remaining just as glued to the fluid treeline as Sam's were to the yellow line.

"Do you want me to take you to them?" came Sam in response. The boy immediately thought of screaming no, but he knew that it wouldn't do him any good. He was already with whom he was supposed to be with. Or maybe not supposed, perhaps it's better to say whom he wanted to be with.

"Sure," he said reluctantly, biting his lower lip. Eventually Sam would ask where this person was, or what their name was. It was the obvious path for the conversation to follow. Would Sam be angry when he found out it was him? Would he be forced to explain his situation? He wasn't sure, but he knew that it had to be said. All he could imagine was being sent into foster care with some large woman who blew smoke in his face and demanded he clean the floor on hands and knees, like some male Cinderella without a fairy Godmother (or Godfather) waiting to save the day.

"What's their name? Maybe I know them." Sam's voice was calm and collected. The boy envied that a great deal. He'd give anything for that confidence at this point. Although he began to doubt that Sam would remain that collected for much longer. He wondered exactly why it was that he was this calm and collected. Was he really this used to children? He tried desperately to work out if Sam and his wife had had a baby, but he couldn't recall.

"Sam," he said simply after a moment's pause. His stomach no longer felt hungry, but rather sick. He just knew the Jeep's dashboard would be covered in vomit fairly soon.

"Sam what?" Sam asked, not even considering for a moment that it was him that he was looking for. Why would he?

"I'm seven, okay!? These are too many questions!" he squeaked, slamming his head into the seat behind him. Yep, he had lost something, but it was hardly the contents of his stomach. It was his mind.

Sam merely laughed, a genuine and deep laugh. "I have a son who's six, don't worry about it. Although eventually we're going to have to figure out what to do with you. Where are your parents? Aren't you scared?"

He had a son, that explained it. How exactly had he missed that event? It seemed like an extremely important one now. Although he knew that, in his previous life at least, he had never given much thought to children. Figure out what to do with him 3; yep, that was definitely true. He was beginning to worry that he wasn't even certain what should be done with him. His parents were dead and gone, or at least his old parents were. This body had no parents to claim. He wondered for a moment if he even had a belly button, but pushed the thought aside. It would be ridiculous if he didn't. Was he scared? That was an understatement. He was well past scared.

"I know what you did in college?" he said rather quietly. It really wasn't a question, but his voice rose at the end to make it sound like one, even if that wasn't intentional. He had to at least try to make his plan work, but he was now one hundred percent certain that it wouldn't.

"Oh? Whose son are you?" Sam asked, switching the station as soon as a song that didn't agree with him started blasting. It was asked with that same calm tone, a tone that was starting to annoy the boy a great deal.

"Stacy's! Or 3; was it Tracy? I 3; I mean Abigail!" he shouted excitedly, causing his lithe body to bounce a bit. He could have sworn that he saw a trace of concern cross Sam's face, but if it had it was too fleeting to be meaningful.

"Do you have a concussion?" Sam asked, trying to reach over and feel the boy's head. The boy retracted, leaning as close to the window as possible, before Sam got the hint and let his arm fall back onto his arm rest. His fingers danced across the knob of the stick shift with mild concern. At least it was a change. Anything was better right now than calm.

"I'm s'pposed to live with you, that's all I can say," the boy finally managed, crossing his arms defiantly. His eyes shifted to look out at the road, but he had to tilt his head a little to accomplish the feat.

Sam chuckled nervously, returning both hands to the steering wheel. "Well I have to say that you do have quite the imagination. But I'm sorry to say, further, that you can't come live with me; we don't even know each other. I think it would be best if I took you to a police station. How does that sound?"

The boy's eyes grew large as his adult mind was cold-cocked, no amount of reasoning was going to stop his emotions from going into hyper drive now.

"You're Sam Carson and you live on 3; um 3; Second Street! You're married to a woman named Katherine and you met in college! You majored in engineering! You cheated on your wife with Stacy 3; Tracy 3; whatever! And also with Abigail! And you have bad taste in Christmas cards!"

The Jeep veered onto the shoulder so quickly that the boy let out a shout, the all too quick breaking causing it to swerve a little in the loose dirt. When it finally came to an unceremonious halt, the now larger than life man turned to face the boy with furrowed brows and a pointed finger.

"My wife picks those cards!"

The boy blinked, staring with mouth agape. He had gone from terror to disbelief in less than five seconds. "That's the part you're worried about?"

"It's 3; not like it matters." Sam grumbled, slamming his hands against the steering wheel and pressing his head firmly into the headrest. His vision rested placidly above him. "Keep your mouth shut and I won't ask any questions 3; deal?"

The boy grinned, adult mind finally able to come back to the front. It had been a dizzying blow, but it had appeared to be to his benefit. He couldn't deny he was tickled pink about it. "Deal."

Sam sighed as he put the Jeep back in gear, collecting himself and looking over his shoulder before he managed to make tires hit asphalt again. "So 3; what's your name?"

"St-" He stopped short of saying his actual name, deciding it was best if some secrets just stayed that way. "Asher," he decided on. It wasn't a terrible name as far as the more newly popular ones were concerned.

"Well Asher, all I can tell you is that you're my sister's kid and that you're going to stay with us for awhile. I have no idea how I'm going to explain this to my wife."

"She'll understand," the newly christened Asher stated, reaching out and patting Sam's shoulder. Sam was now tense, but he didn't rebuke the contact.

"Just keep your nose clean," he said, turning off the road as the Jeep started to head into town.

Asher's hand rose momentarily to wipe it, before he realized that it was just a saying. He wasn't sure how that had escaped him in the moment, but it was of little concern. He had accomplished his mission, and that was the most important thing. He'd have shelter, even if he didn't know for how long. He knew that Sam was a smooth talker, and that if anyone could secure him sanctuary inside his home, it was him. Plus there would be a kid around his age that he could learn from. All in all, it seemed like these were much better than expected results. He grinned widely, rather proud of himself, before his stomach decided to take control of his mouth.

"I'm hungry," Asher complained.

"We'll eat when we get home!" Sam stated in a very fatherly tone that caused Asher to shrink back.

"Y-yes sir 3;"

Chapter Five

Asher stared down at the sandwich on his plate, teeth chewing the texture of peanut butter and bread. His mouth was dry, and he wondered what exactly had happened to his tastes between yesterday and today. He had always been a fan of peanut butter, but now it seemed bland, lacking in something. It also appeared to be an eternal sponge, removing every ounce of saliva that he had, and possibly any that he would ever produce in the future.

His eyes had settled on this particular place after an uneventful, but sight charged journey back. Apparently Katherine was at work, and the house he had visited once before, long ago, had experienced a couple transformations. The first was that it looked decidedly larger, but Asher was certain that couldn't actually be the case. He assumed it was merely something attributable to his size. The second encompassed many other changes, albeit subtle ones. The yard wasn't as kept as it once was, tiny weeds rearing their ugly heads at the corners of what was once an immaculate flower bed. Portions of the house that had been freshly painted were now chipping and showing their age, despite the full renovation that had taken place shortly after they bought the property. Even the porch's stairs had a decided squeak to them beneath his light weight, a sound that hadn't emanated from the lumber one hundred pounds ago.

This was the cost of having a child, and from the collected dust in the family room that he only briefly got to see, and the toys that lie haphazardly on various surfaces, inspiring several excited emotional responses that Asher quickly repressed, the inside was very much a reflection of the exterior. The once perfect couple, though a dark secret followed in Sam's shadow, had been summarily served a notice that perfection was no longer attainable. The house wasn't a complete disaster, and that in and of itself was a miracle of time management. It had a very lived in feel, something that brought back long dormant memories of Asher's, or rather Asher's former body's, family home.

"Do you need something to drink?" Sam asked, breaking the silence between them. Asher glanced up momentarily before replanting his gaze on the sandwich, only allowing enough time to see that his tone was considerably lighter and his expression, while concerned, not anywhere close to what it had been.

"W-why do you ask?" Asher wondered aloud, wanting to press his palm to his face immediately afterward. It was the perfect opportunity to get a glass of something. A glass of milk, he decided. A glass of milk was a wonderful idea. Why did it matter why the question was asked?

"Well you've been chewing that bit of sandwich for about five minutes now." Sam chuckled, turning on his heel and opening the fridge. Asher couldn't see the options from his place on the bar stool at the kitchen island, but he didn't have to ask. Sam was, quite apparently, a rather practiced father.

"We have apple juice, grape juice, milk 3;"

"Milk please," Asher responded, deciding that he would be kind to Sam the remainder of his stay at that moment. The decision wasn't based in the authoritative tone from before, although it still seemed to hold a bit of sway over his emotional decisions, but over the fact that he was truly sorry. He hadn't known what to do to procure a place in Sam's home, and there had to have been a million better ways to do it. But when one's heart realizes that it is so small and at the mercy of an often unforgiving world, it can find strength and cruelty that it never intended to have.

He watched the tiny plastic cup being filled, and the carton of milk returning behind the black refrigerator door. As soon as the cup was transferred to the island, he grabbed it with both hands and swallowed as much of the white liquid as he could. He relished in both the relief it provided from the dryness, and the cooling effect it had as it traveled down to his stomach. When he had taken enough in and placed the cup back down on the counter, his fingers were slow to reach out and retrieve the sandwich again. His stomach clearly lacked the space it did before, even if its voracity was notably higher. Age, apparently, was the only cure to the strong voice of the id.

"I'm sorry," he said simply, tearing off a bit of crust and turning it around in his fingers. He liked crust now, even if that was an odd concept for a child.

"Look, I told you we didn't have to talk about it." Sam said, placing his elbows on the island and leaning over a bit. "Besides, you're a kid. Someone has to look out for you, don't they?"

Asher blushed, taking the now ball shaped tidbit of crust and pressing it between his lips. It was only a simple chew and swallow away from disappearing now that he was properly hydrated.

"But it wasn't nice," Asher said, glancing sideways. The stove was a lot more appealing to look at than the sandwich had been.

"Well, do you think you deserve to be punished?"

Asher shook his head quickly. It was a response born from his gut, he didn't even have to think about it.

"Do you think you learned a lesson?"

The question was strange as Asher had a moment to contemplate it. His adult mind wanted to be sickened by it, he was an adult after all, but that same mind had to take other facts into account. For one, he wasn't an adult. His mind may be, to some degree, but the emotions and immaturity of this body were quickly winning it over. For another, he had said that he was sorry out of true guilt. He innately knew that he shouldn't have done what he had done, even if one of the primary points of making his charitable sacrifice was to live a more hedonistic life, but hedonism didn't have to hurt others. In fact, in a truly philosophical sense, that was one of its laws. Seek pleasure as far as it does not cause harm to others. His conscience could deal with that.

"You shouldn't hurt people just to get what you want, even if you need it a whole lot," Asher managed. It was the truth of the lesson, after all. It had just come out in much simpler terms than he had thought about it in.

"I think that's a very good lesson, nephew." He grinned, clearly sinking back into the quiet confidence he had worn when Asher first entered his Jeep.

"So 3; I'm s'pposed to call you Uncle Sam?" Asher started giggling as soon as he said it, having not made the connection between the title and the titular American mascot beforehand.

Sam laughed as well, shrugging. "Well I guess that would be appropriate. Although Uncle Samuel works, too."

"I think I like that better," Asher thought aloud, sending him into a blush again. Where exactly had his internal filter gone?

"Done with your sandwich?" he asked, fingers crawling across the counter in a perfect spider imitation.

"Yep. May I use the bathroom, please?" Asher asked.

"Sure, second door on your left down the hallway. And don't forget to lower the lid and flush when you're done."

Asher nodded as he made his way to the ground and toward the bathroom, Sam attending to the plate and leftovers in his wake. When you give a seven-year-old a sandwich, he's going to want a glass of milk. When a seven-year-old has a glass of milk, he's going to want to use the bathroom. With that particular sequence of events checked off and behind him, that's precisely where Asher found himself. And while using the toilet was hardly eventful, despite the need to use both arms in the process of raising and lowering the lid again, the sink gave Asher access to something much more important – a mirror.

At first he had glanced at the mirror, and his body didn't think much of it. The face that was looking back at him was his face, and that was pretty much all there was to it. His mind, however, didn't make the connection that it was a face his mind was processing for the first time; a face, and a head; a stature, a build, hair, eyes, and everything else that completes a person's appearance. With the water still running and his hands drenched, he truly looked at himself for the first time.

On his head was a mess of hair, a shade of brown so dark that it was nearly black. It stuck out in odd angles, and was in apparent need of a good trim. His eyes were large in the way that a child's usually were, almond in shape and light green in color. His eyebrows were thin and visible, but the right one seemed to have a permanent arched appearance that made him look more mischievous. His skin was fairly tan, tan enough that it made the thin pink line of his lips not as noticeable as they would be on a paler child. He even had dimples, whether he smiled or not, and when his lips spread into a grin his front two teeth were obviously much larger than the rest.

He had felt at first that his body was small because he was young, and that the shirt was giving the illusion of him being tinier than he actually was, but as he rolled his shoulders the fact that his bone structure was very compact became apparent. His build was, in fact, very compressed and fragile. He felt it wouldn't take much to break a bone or even get a serious injury. It was a far cry from the tall frame he had before, and even at seven his skeletal structure was broader and more intact than this. He was, he finally decided, cute. He rather liked it. All of the individual parts that he observed meeting into the whole that he gazed at and that gazed back at him. The new body was his, and it was definitely unique. How he had ever thought that it had belonged to anyone else before was a strange concept to his thoughts now.

He had to shake himself out of his trance-like state, turning off the water and heading toward the towel rack to remove the excess. He smiled to himself, more assured now that his deal had been the right one. He wasn't particularly angry about being a child anymore. Not only had the orgasm been vastly improved, something that he felt he'd need to experience as much as possible before puberty stole it away, but he was more capable of formulating a new and unique personality, and to boot he was more physically appealing in one form or another. Cute kids were able to be pardoned a great many sins, and he did silently wonder if Sam was so gentle with him because of it, at least in part.

He had been certain that he could have wore that smile the remainder of the day, staying head and heels above any perceived hardships that would come his way. And while it wasn't a hardship that broke the stream of happiness that made his body even lighter than usual, replacing it with a cautious nervousness and wonder, he did imagine that a hardship could spring from what did. It was a number of sounds that came in a very precise order; the jingle of keys, the opening of a door, the running and squeaking of sneakers across the floor, and a voice that challenged his for supreme soprano status with a boisterous tone that seemed capable of shattering much more than Asher's calm demeanor.

"Dad! I'm home!"

Chapter Six

The six-year-old started with a crown of red hair that, while straight from the scalp, ended in wild curls all around; from bangs, to sides, and to the back. Each seemed to have a mind of its own, twisting and traveling in such a way that it was hard to determine where one curl began and the next ended. His skin was pale, an incredibly interesting dichotomy between the tan skin that now belonged to Asher, with a sprinkling of freckles across each cheek and the bridge of his nose. His lips were more red than pink, and when he smiled it was apparent that he didn't share the same large front teeth as Asher. While there was a tooth missing, the rest were white and lined up perfectly.

"Blake, this is your cousin Asher," Sam had offered, although Asher's eyes were glued to the cartoon skateboarder on Blake's shirt; his mind far and away from the introductory conversation.

"I have a cousin?" Blake asked, staring up at his father was questioning eyes. It had caused the shirt to shift, and Asher's mind to be brought back.

"Sure," Sam coolly lied, scratching the back of his neck. "He's going to be staying with us for awhile. Plus he's only a year older than you so I thought it might be nice to have someone to play with."

Play – it seemed like a strange word now. Asher clearly remembered looking at the toys and becoming excited, hearing the water running as he headed toward the road that lead him to this very house and wanting desperately to play in it, but to play with a child? And not just any child, but Sam's child? A child that until less than an hour ago he had no idea existed? He tried to remember what he had thought in the Jeep, that having a six-year-old to emulate would go a long way toward helping make his life easier, but was that really the case? Asher felt as fragile as his bone structure, and as though he was being judged. What if Blake didn't want to play? What if Blake could see through him and know that he was not, in fact, an actual child?

"Cool!" Blake yelled, the same piercing voice passing through his mouth with a slight whistle as the air passed over the missing tooth's former home. He was grinning, and there didn't seem to be any judgment to be made. Was being a kid, physically, enough? Was that all Asher needed to gain Blake's trust and attention?

"Yeah it's um, nice to meet you Blake?" Asher asked aloud, not really sure what to follow up the question with, or even why it was a question to begin with. It was as though he had just been accepted into a lost tribe that hadn't had contact with the outside world in generations, or possibly ever.

Blake giggled, reaching out as his cold hand grabbed Asher by the wrist. "You're funny, let's go to my room!"

Asher didn't have a moment to think, much less protest, before he found his body being drug away from the kitchen and toward the stairs. The same fatherly tone from the ride earlier ringed out, although it didn't seem to be quite as penetrating.

"No leaving any messes for daddy to clean up later! Both of you clean up after yourselves!"

"Kay!" Blake responded simply, Asher nearly losing his footing as Blake's more experienced feet made their way over the carpeted stairs with practiced precision and purpose. He knew exactly where his room was, had been climbing these stairs, well, ever since he was able. Asher lacked that particular advantage.

When they rounded the landing, a room with a plaque reading Blake's name, he slammed the door open and tumbled inside. Asher grabbed his wrist, rubbing it, glad for the release.

"This is my room!" Blake proudly announced, and Asher bit his lip in reply. For one, the room was already fairly messy; it made the family room seem normal by comparison. For another, who else could lay claim to this room? Not only was there the tell tale sign of the name plaque, but it was full of toys, a hodgepodge of colors, and a tiny race car bed that would hardly accommodate an adult couple. Asher wanted to say something to that affect, but he didn't. He wondered if, just maybe, he was managing to get a better feel on the filter now.

"Cool," Asher finally replied, letting his arms fall to his sides. He was looking at a train in the corner that looked particularly interesting, when the sound of clothes being removed called his attention away. He glanced over at Blake, a blush covering his cheeks, as the boy removed and tossed his shirt away without a care.

He certainly was superior to Asher in the bone structure department, although still about an inch shorter. He had the same baby pudge to his stomach that Asher did, and two perfectly pink nipples positioned on either side of his chest. His chest, for that matter, featured a constellation of freckles to call its own, but the bare pale stomach had no discerning features except for a simple, but rather adorable, belly button; a tiny innie that Asher immediately decided was adorable. He also realized at that moment that it wasn't just the belly button, but the stomach, the chest, the shoulders, the neck, the face, and those fantastical curls. He looked so much like Katherine, but all of those features seemed to fit the child much better. Asher knew now, for reasons he couldn't understand, that he was attracted to Blake. He didn't know if he liked that or not.

With his now discarded shirt covering the train that had once kept Asher's eyes, he was forced to look at the boy instead. His bubbly nature was apparent as he quickly moved to his knees, bouncing on the mattress briskly with a giggle that seemed to tinkle out like wind chimes in a stiff breeze.

"What kinda games do you like to play? I've got a lot of toys! And, uh, sometimes dad lets me use his Game Station when I'm gooder or it's a special time! I bet today's a special time!"

Asher chuckled, still blushing a bit as he tried to press his current thoughts to the back of his mind. He'd have to deal with the sudden discovery later. Right now he had to heed the emotions inside him that desperately sought to keep the approval that Blake so freely provided.

"Um, I dunno! It's been kinda a long time since I played somethin' 3;" He started the conversation rather pathetically as his feet shifted. "But I like swimming a lot. That's fun."

"You haven't played in a long time!?" Blake asked with the most surprised and animated face that Asher had ever seen. "Like in a million years!?"

"Maybe not that long," Asher offered, "but I bet you know lots of neat games. You seem really cool."

Blake grinned so widely at the statement that Asher was certain he could see his tonsils. He was also fairly certain that, however little meaning he had put behind saying it, Blake took the pronouncement of his being cool as a compliment well above any other. These were the kind of times where musical numbers broke out in Bollywood films.

"Y-yeah! I like to play doctor!"

Asher chuckled again, smiling a genuine smile. Apparently Blake had wanted his approval as much as Asher had wanted Blake's; Asher felt a great sense of relief at that. Perhaps he had found a friend through all of this. An incredibly cute friend whose chest was very hard to look away from.

"Okay, let's play doctor!" Asher replied energetically.

"Kay! Um 3;" Blake had bounced from his bed, heading toward the other side of the room. He extracted a coloring book and a single blue crayon, shoving the two objects into Asher's hands. "You gotta go fill out the paperworks before the doctor will see you. So go to the room and listen to your mom and dad!" He commanded, pointing at the door.

Asher nodded, still grinning, as he did as he was told. He opened the door and closed it behind him, taking a seat in the hallway. Behind him the sound of Blake looking for something filled whatever quiet there would have been, and as Asher found himself thumbing through the coloring book he giggled to himself.

"He really knows how doctors work."

The memory of his prior life didn't seem as tangible as it once had been. Even the doctor's visit from the prior night was now a blur, but he was at least cognizant of the fact that he had had cancer and that paperwork was indeed a part of the process. He started to softly color inside the lines of a very happy looking hippopotamus, unable to deny that the six-year-old not only had a very keen imagination, but was very perceptive. He was at that age where doctor visits were a nuisance, but the time in the waiting room could be spent fiddling with puzzles and other heavily sterilized toys. That had been enough to keep Asher's attention as a youth in his old body, but not Blake. Blake had taken it upon himself to notice and record the activities the adults were taking part in as well, however mundane.

He had only managed to color the head and maybe a quarter of the hippo's body when Blake's door swung open, startling Asher. Blake now wore a plastic stethoscope around his neck, and carried a white toy bag with a medical cross on the side. "The nurse is sick so come with me! Lemme see your paperwork!"

Asher stood as he handed the coloring book and crayon over, Blake holding the open page very closely to his face as he walked inside. Asher closed the door behind him, waiting to be told what to do next. It wasn't long before Blake had designated his bed as the exam table, and he was ordered to sit down on the edge of it.

"I see you have assurance! That's good. Now take off your shirt so I can check your heart!"

Asher tried valiantly not to giggle. Blake was trying to be so serious, and he didn't want to ruin the mood. He simply nodded, lifting the shirt from his head and sitting it carefully next to him. Blake warmed the stethoscope with his breath before pressing it to Asher's chest. Asher watched Blake's eyebrows contort as he pretended to listen, moving the still cold toy around at random intervals.

"Now breath real deep!" Blake commanded, Asher following once again. He had never imagined that he'd be spending his first day in his new body pretending to do the very thing he had escaped.

"Okay, that sounds good. Now I gotta feel you." Blake said, tossing the stethoscope aside. Asher nearly complained at that, having no idea what he meant, but when he felt Blake's fingers on either side of his neck he was able to calm considerably. Asher was a tad embarrassed that he thought, even for a moment, that it could have been anything else.

"I think you have a cold," Dr. Blake decided, opening the bag and fishing around for something. When he extracted a fake syringe, Asher gasped, grasping his chest.

"But Dr. Blake! I hate needles!"

Blake grinned for the briefest of moments, but managed to suppress it. "But if you do it you'll get candy." It was pretty sound logic to Asher's stomach.

"Okay then," he said, raising up his shirt sleeve.

"You won't feel a thing!" He announced, putting the syringe against his arm and pressing the plunger down. Asher grabbed his arm as soon as it was removed in a theatrical manner, rolling around on the bed.

"Dr. Blake! It hurts a whole lot! I think I'mma need an amputation!"

Blake sighed and placed his hands on his hips, shaking his head. "You're so over dramatical!"

Asher and Blake found themselves giggling together, as Blake plopped down onto the bed to join the now still Asher. He turned onto his side and supported his head with his arm.

"You know 3; I kinda want candy now."

"Me too," Asher grinned.

"Well we gotta ask dad, but," he started, a mischievous grin crossing his face, "maybe we should kidnap his Dildo first."

Asher's eyes grew ten times that day. He was certain Blake had said that word. What else could he have said? And why did Sam have a dildo?

"His 3; dildo?" Asher asked just to be sure.

"Mmhmm! It's on his desk!" Blake was already scrambling to the floor and toward the door. "It's for negotiation!"

"Why would he just 3; keep a dildo out in the open?" Asher asked out loud, his mouth agape for the second time that day.

"He likes to look at it! I think he plays with it when I don't look, which isn't nice 'cause he won't let me!" Blake sounded very hurt by the perceived injustice.

"He won't 3; I 3;" Asher's head was spinning, but he hardly had the time to question his new found friend and faux cousin. Apparently keeping dildos around was a common thing in this house, who was he to judge? Besides, there was candy to pursue. He was much slower getting to his feet and heading into the hallway, but clearly Blake had lacked the patience to wait for him. The office door was wide open and Asher walked over as slowly as he possibly could. Clearly Blake wasn't an expert at being sneaky just yet.

"DAD!" the voice boomed out from the office, traveling downstairs.

"Yes?" came the older man's voice in reply.

"WHERE'S YOUR DILDO!?"

Asher was fairly certain he'd faint at any moment. He couldn't quite keep up with what was happening or Blake's thought process anymore.

"It's Bilbo, son. And I hid him so you couldn't get a hold of him!" the voice was coming from the foot of the stairs now. Bilbo 3; it was an action figure. The world seemed alright again. Although Asher was too dizzy to accept that just yet.

"Oh 3;" The acceptance was given with a disappointed tone as Blake rushed out of the office, staring down at his father. "Can we have candy then!?"

"If you shut the door," came the reply.

"Kay!" Blake said, closing the office door behind him and grabbing Asher's arm again. Within moments they were at the bottom of the stairs, and Asher began to realize that he was not, perhaps, as innocent as he had once supposed himself to be.

Chapter Seven

Candy had been just what the boys needed to break past typical energy barriers and advance into a more rapidly evolving and seemingly unending playtime. Asher had been sure he read an article saying that sugar didn't give extra energy to children, but after sharing half of the split Milky Way he doubted the research methods employed. If nothing else, it gave more clearance for the emotions of this body to take hold, and his adult mind fell into complete submission. He skated across the ice fields of Antarctica in seventy-five degree [25°C] heat, lawn gnome penguins alongside, hunted down dangerous African prey that had once been a stray cat, and even transformed into a superhero complete with the most powerful and visually appealing of capes, a tattered towel.

It truly was amazing what the mind couple conceive, and the long abandoned muscle of Asher's imagination found it easy to come back to the forefront. Even the thin frame that he had once perceived as so fragile appeared to be made of tougher stock; twisting, turning, ducking, flipping, falling, and moving with an awkward sort of grace appropriate for a boy of his age. Each game lasted mere minutes, constantly changing to keep up with their combined lack of a considerable attention span, but seemed to last for hours. Even the abrupt transitions somehow made rational sense in their minds, even if their new game was the polar opposite of the prior. When the play was ended with calls to wash up for dinner it seemed far too soon, but had it been? They had played for days, it seemed, but Asher's voracity to continue remained unabated. It matched even Blake's, and gave Asher the confidence to know that he'd never be found out as being an adult in sheep's clothing because he was, in fact, a child again. In every way imaginable. He had nothing to hide if there was nothing to hide.

Even dinner found itself to be easy, lacking in the doubts that once surrounded Asher. Katherine was home, had been for some time, and while Sam looked exhausted from the effort of convincing her of Asher's identity and need to stay, her face was calm, collected, motherly. Hers was the foil of Sam's fatherly dominion, a cheap facade that melted away when faced with the questions of the true leader, the matriarch. For it was the job of the effective to operate in silence, pulling levers that caused cogs to move behind sheer curtains. But as was also required of a true leader, she showed compassion and a plan to action, employing both even before dinner had ended. The playtime hadn't led to Asher gaining much in the way of increased hunger, half a plate remaining when all was said and done, but Katherine had convinced him to eat the revolting Brussels sprouts with little more than a soft voice.

She even led Asher to the guest room that would be his for a time, querying about things that ranged from fears of the dark to the amount of pillows he preferred. There were tens of questions, but they came out in a line that seemed straight, organized, and much shorter than it actually was. He even found them easy to answer, her voice seeming to bring him to decisions without a need for intense thought. Asher hadn't noticed that a casual touch of his shoulders and a quick inventory of his form let her know his size, or that she had already set plans into motion to send him to school with little more than an offered backpack whose reds and yellows appealed to his eyes. He was first up for bath time and with assurances that he was fully capable of bathing himself, left alone in the porcelain and tiled tomb. Asher hadn't even been afforded the chance to realize that baths were now incredibly boring to this new body as the water ran and he stripped completely naked for the first time.

Katherine was the consummate mother, and Asher knew that he was nothing compared to her. She was kind, welcoming, but dangerous; it was amazing how much she could garner from a few words, but for some reason it didn't bother him. As he slipped into the water with the wash cloth she had given him, he realized for the first time how much dirt and perspiration had built up on his body. He also whispered in quiet observation that he was home. No longer did he have to fear for the future because it wasn't a present idea in his mind, it was only those present ideas that mattered. It was for the adults to decide what his future would be, and that relief was a part of childhood usually forgotten by most. His feet kicked in the warm water as his toes curled, and his body stretched and extended to its lengthiest point as he slipped beneath the warm embrace, allowing both his face and hair to become wet.

He didn't bide for long, shampooing and soaping being the tools necessary to get back to playtime. The body no longer felt foreign, but the movements felt new. He had to practice precision when he swept the rag across new skin and toes. He thought of taking short cuts but knew it would be better to comply. It was as much to his benefit to stay in Katherine's good graces as it was for Sam and Blake. It was only when he had drained the tub and rose to wrap himself in the over-sized towel that he noticed his member again, the ultimate ambition to continue his time with Blake having made it nothing more than a thankless tool when he had washed it before. The terrycloth felt nice against it, and his fingers dug it into the delicate area in a basic, primordial sort of way, delighting in the feeling rather than having an ultimate aim or agenda.

A tepid knock and quiet opening of the door was all that it took for Katherine to become a part of Asher's existence again, and his hand took a moment to realize it ought to drop and stop teasing the appendage the way it was. Katherine had noticed but took it as a grain of salt, making Asher discern that what he had been doing was probably fairly normal. She placed a pair of giraffe pajamas on the vanity, and bent down to place her hands on either side of his toweled shoulders, rubbing them up and down to finish the job that Asher hadn't been focused enough to do.

"Are you excited about signing up for school tomorrow?" she asked, smiling gently.

"Can I be in Blake's class?" Asher's voice implored, his mind not even taking the time to consider how he felt about it, or the fact that this was the first he was hearing of it. Somehow he had known, or had accepted the reality in that moment without protest. His only concern was being with Blake as much as was possible.

"He's in Kindergarten, sweetie," she laughed in the same tinkling way that Blake did, but Asher didn't have time to notice it. He looked down in a dejected sort of way.

"I wish I was littler."

"I'm sure you'll have lots of friends in first grade," she assured. "And besides, you and Blake can play when you get home."

Asher quietly shrugged. He hadn't even noticed that she had completed the toweling when she took him into her much larger arms. They were soft and warm, comforting. They somehow felt so right.

"It's okay to be nervous, but be proud of who you are. You may wish you were younger right now, but you're a big boy. Imagine all the things a seven-year-old can do that a six-year-old can't," she pressed her forehead against Asher's, making him smile.

"That's true," he responded, getting a kiss on the forehead instead as she pulled away.

"Squeaky clean?" she asked.

"Yep!" Was Asher's response, as he lifted each leg dutifully for the pair of red and white underwear and the pajama bottoms. He brushed his teeth under close supervision, correcting the process with gentle encouragement when he brushed side to side instead of up and down. When he rinsed out his mouth the top was slipped on, and the still damp hair was combed back on top of his head.

"Can I play with Blake now?" Asher asked, looking hopeful.

"You can watch some cartoons together after he takes his bath," she smiled, making Asher nod in agreement. It was a no delivered in such a sly way that he hadn't noticed, and the idea of cartoons became more appealing than it would have otherwise.

He followed her out, passing greetings exchanged with Blake as his mother led him toward the bathroom. He had been commanded to go downstairs, and he did. Sam was sitting in a recliner, and Asher found himself sitting on the carpet and apprehending a collection of Lincoln Logs. Playing with them seemed to make time pass, because before he knew it Blake was joining him. The sports game that would have been a point of interest the day before was just background noise until it transformed into a litany of anthropomorphized figures in pursuit of physical comedy. It was strangely fascinating, drawing both Asher and Blake from the rough stacking to a world of visual stimulation. They laughed in time, loud laughs that filled the entire house. They weren't even aware of their physical selves anymore as small bodies leaned back against the sofa, Katherine quietly knitting as she leaned against a cushion above.

When it seemed as if the endlessly repetitive japes would never cease in their amusement, the television went dark and directions to report to their respective rooms were given. Blake's protests filled Asher's mouth with mirrored words, but the fruitlessly pleas were dampened with promises of no cartoons for the week if they didn't comply. The boys marched upstairs finding the prospect of sleep impossible, but the repercussions of not trying were too severe to imagine. What sort of a full life lacked cartoons, after all? And as Asher slipped between the sheets, the blanket feeling heavy but comfortable on his chest, he stifled a yawn. Perhaps today had been much more exhausting than he had allowed himself to notice.

Katherine and Sam tucked them both in, taking the time to say good night before closing Asher's door and cracking Blake's. Asher stared up at the ceiling with a goofy grin on his face, his eyes already half lidded.

"Best day ever," he said and decided in tandem. And it had been, as far as he could tell, the truth. But as his eyes started to fail and his hand decided to drift, his adult mind was allowed to wake up for the first time in many hours.

Chapter Eight

At first it was the fabric that Asher played with. He was not so asleep that his erection wasn't noticeable, but his erection wasn't enough to fully wake him up. His fingers pulled at the front of the pajama bottoms, the underwear beneath, briefly relieving the not so profound pressure before being snapped back into place, time and time again. It made the tiny erection jump, and it began to demand attention from the fingers that seemed so much more focused on the soft clothing.

Asher prodded it, his fingers pressing into the tiny length and pressing it down. Each time it bounced back, refusing to lie and saluting the ceiling with unfettered pride. As it was reborn with each release, the touch of the underwear became electric, charging the erection with enough power to convince the oncoming sleep to step aside; at first a whisper and now a chaotic yell, echoing into his brain with the same thunderous tone that his laughter had made. The brain was convinced and sleep fell asleep, those fingers now pressing the pajama bottoms and underwear down to his ankles.

Now that Asher was clean, his body felt softer and more relaxed than before. The delicate movement of his fingers across his tightly kept scrotum were more profound. His middle finger etched the line of separation more deeply, and eventually met with his thumb to encompass the excess skin around the base of his cocklette. His teeth buried into his lower lip as he tried to remain quiet, eyes darting toward the door in hopes that no one would hear. He had to be stealthy, a ninja trapped in a bedroom that everyone knew about. His bodily explorations were a private affair, these much different than the towel grinding that Katherine had discovered and accepted as normal.

The tiny prick couldn't help but brush against the sheets as his fingers began to fellate himself, and while he would have preferred to keep them there they seemed too rough and displeasing. He thought of using his left hand to tent the blanket, but it seemed like too much work. The house was falling into a dark quiet, and as much as he strained he couldn't even hear adult chatter in the distance. He was safe, he had to be. He pressed the covers down instead and spread his legs gently, closing his eyes and focusing on the feelings instead of being caught.

With each up and down stroke, his mind fell further away from the physical world. He pursued the same feeling he had achieved earlier that morning, in a field that felt so far away. It was a pursuit that didn't allow for wanderings to deeper topics, or to even question his increasingly childish state. He had a mission to accomplish, and when it was through sleep would take up the space that should have been filled with quiet contemplation. It was a necessity for registering for school in the morning, but he didn't think about that.

He bit down harder on the lower pink lip, protruding and moist, and his hips softly squirmed beneath him. He felt his body lower, and then raise in turn. It was quick, almost jarring, but he didn't wonder why it had happened.

"Whatcha doin'?" came Blake's voice, and Asher's mind shattered. His hand stopped the movement, but made no effort to cover himself. He had been bested in the ninja department, by a mere six-year-old no less.

"I'm, um 3;" He tried to explain, but nothing came to mind. The room was dark but he felt as if his blush could glow. The door was shut tight, but the dim light of the moon by the window made him visible, length and all. It also made Blake visible, who was looking at the appendage as if he had seen something new for the first time. In fact, that was precisely the case.

"Your wiener looks weird," Blake admonished quietly, reaching out to quietly poke the head. It sent a shiver through Asher's spine as he released it, the skin returning to his shaft and leaving the now fellated tip to the young boy's eager eyes who seemed to understand in that moment that he was quite right. It was a realization that covered his face and that Asher could clearly see.

"Why's that?" Asher asked all the same, trying to gain the attention of Blake's eyes but failing completely. He saw the dawn of realization, but still didn't understand from where it came.

"Well 3;" He started, but words seemed to fail Blake as well. As he started to lower his own pajama bottoms and underwear, emblazoned with hundreds of tiny pterodactyls, brontosauruses, raptors, and other multicolored prehistoric reptiles, it was apparent that a game of show was easier than the tell.

It was apparent now why Blake thought Asher looked so odd. Blake was uncut, and the uninspired boyhood was nestled close to his body. The foreskin covered the head completely, and tapered off at the end in what looked like a very tiny pair of lips.

"It can kinda look like mine," Asher said, the thought of explaining that he was cut and Blake uncut not occurring to him. And like so many other sentences and questions that had escaped his mouth that day, it came without any time or way of processing it. The filter had fallen, any prior assumptions that he had resumed control of it were moot.

"How?" Blake's voice was inquisitive and high, perhaps a bit louder than it should have been but nowhere near his typical blare. "You're not gonna cut me are you!?"

"N-no," Asher laughed softly, both at Blake's momentary rush of fear and his proving, once more, that he was more analytical than he appeared. Asher was aware that Blake probably lacked the knowledge that he had indeed been cut, but to notice that it looked as such was remarkable.

"I'll show you," was Asher's final reply, slipping his pajama bottoms and underwear off completely. "Just do what I do."

Blake followed suit, and Asher's adult mind was now yelling as loudly as it could. This seemed well beyond the promise he had made to not cause harm, but it was his younger body that was leading and not his adult lust. It was a point of curiosity, of sharing, but Blake hardly knew the consequences or what was even going on. What were those consequences though? It was a fair question for his mind to ask. He had spent an entire life believing that self pleasure was evil. He had traded his soul to take part in that evil. But how, his body wondered, could something that felt so good be evil? Was it intent? Was it knowledge? Asher couldn't help but think of the apple in the Garden of Eden.

Asher had commanded Blake to lie down, and as he snaked his way between his legs to get a better view, his hand was slow to complete the ritual. His mind refused to respect or believe that this was a child's game, but his body was only just now listening, albeit barely. It was true that he had a crush on Blake, but it was a very different crush than the ones that belonged to adults. His crush led him to want to play, to run, to conquer a million different locations across the world in fleeting ways. His crush made him want to wrestle Blake to the Earth as enemy and friend at once, all for the joy of bringing a concept to reality rather than anything carnal. He didn't want to have sex with Blake, he only wanted his approval, his time, and his smile. He only wanted to return the same.

So when Blake had discovered him and found his differences curious, Asher only wanted to show him that he could look the same. There wasn't a hidden agenda behind it, and there would be no wild sex going on that evening. He could impart the gift, or rather the knowledge of pleasure, but it would be without the knowledge of what it meant or why it was even pleasurable. Blake could hardly be blamed for a sin that he hadn't known he had committed. Asher's mind quieted, and his hand rose, pinching the tip of the puckered foreskin with interest. Blake didn't flinch or protest, but merely watched. As curious as Asher was to see what was inside, Blake was just as curious to see his tool transformed into something resembling Asher's. So Asher lacked any hesitation now as he started to get the feel of his first foreskin, moving it around and softly seeing how far it would recede.

"That kinda tickles," Blake giggled, breaking the momentary silence between them.

"S-sorry, I've never seen one like yours before; I only heard about it." It was a completely honest statement from Asher, and Asher knew that figuring out exactly how the hood worked would take a bit more time than it had taken to figure out the proper way to masturbate his own diminutive appendage. His was far less complicated, but the foreskin appealed to his childish nature; it was a curiosity, a new adventure. It wasn't filling Asher with lust, although there was some sort of latent excitement akin to that that kept his own flesh alive below, but more of a focused attitude that could be compared to someone trying to master a new and challenging game.

"Is it gonna hurt?" Blake's voice ran with concern, and Asher had to look up at that. He smiled, reassuringly, and shook his head.

"No, I'd never do that. You're my friend."

"And cousin!" Blake responded, eliciting another soft laugh from the older boy.

"That too."

It was a difficult task at first, the foreskin wanting to hold both because it wasn't as clean as it ought to be and because the tiny member was still soft. As he worked on it, fingers trying desperately to segregate the length from his hairless pubis, the tiny uncut erection finally began to tower proudly from his pale form. Asher noticed a dash of freckles dancing across the soft, hairless mound that would someday be the proud display of hormonal changes. As the length grew, it seemed to exude the same energy and enthusiasm that the rest of Blake did, the puckered skin delicately bouncing as tiny leg muscles flexed, having a hard time keeping still.

"It does that when I gotta pee," Blake remarked.

"Do you gotta?" Asher asked, looking up at Blake again. He knew in his mind that playing with yourself led to this, but a part of his body needed to know. It was his compassionate side, one that wanted to ensure that Blake felt as comfortable about the new exploratory game as he did.

"Not yet," Blake shrugged, still staring down at the events below.

Asher eventually managed to grasp the concept, being slow and careful with the lowering of the skin. And when at last he managed to gather it beneath the head, the shaft now at full mass, Blake gave a shiver at the recognition that his untouched tip was sensitive. The room's stagnant air seemed to rush toward it, feeling like a thousand tiny fingers brushing across it at once. Blake giggled, grinning widely from above.

"Now they look the same," he barely spoke, just within the furthest reaches of a whisper now.

"Did it hurt?" Asher asked from that same place of compassion, wandering at the prior shiver.

"Nope but it feels kinda weird. Like when you take a band aid off after a really, really, really long time, but it doesn't hurt no more."

Asher giggled and nodded. He could understand the analogy even if he had never been uncut himself.

"I dunno what it's like to be like you but, I think it's cool," Asher commented. Blake's teeth revealed inside a wide grin, showing pride in the compliment and their differences.

"You just have more stuff than me," Asher grinned, feeling very accomplished and not at all ashamed that his mouth had forgotten the word foreskin.

"So what was you doing to your wiener?" he asked the first question from before, now remembered after really looking at his head for the very first time. His eyes finally managed to depart it and look into Asher's.

"This," Asher began, easily climbing over Blake's left leg and returning to his back next to him. The bed gave off no protest due to his light weight. His hand traveled back to his still stiff tool, grasping at the excess skin as he had before. He looked over at Blake, at first in his eyes and then at his length. The foreskin had managed to crawl its way back up in an instant, and Blake's fingers were fiddling with it curiously.

"See this?" Asher began, pumping his much less ample skin up and down a few times. Asher's cheeks flushed again, but from the feeling the motion provided rather than inner-turmoil.

"It feels good," Asher explained, glancing back toward Blake's eyes which had awkwardly kept a vigil over the older boy's actions. Blake's fingers were awkwardly pinching the pucker at the end of his foreskin, and the idea of emulation began to enter his mind. Although it had been Asher and not himself that determined how to move the foreskin down.

"You can try if you wanna. It's kinda like 3; I dunno how to describe it," Asher giggled, fiddling his prick absentmindedly. "But if you do it for a really, really, really long time, it tingles kinda like you gotta pee and feels really good. Like, way better than anything else."

"Even better than swimming?" Blake's question would have seemed out of place before, but after the excitement the sound of water had given Asher earlier and all the memories of hours spent in a pool as a child rushing back to him now, he recalled well what a rush it was. There was something about swimming as a child that was decidedly different from swimming as an adult; it captivated more of your senses, allowed for a completely different set of imaginative games, and was the kind of thing you never wanted to stop doing. Was this feeling as good as that?

"It's real close," Asher mused. "It's different, though," he added. He wasn't sure, at that moment, which he'd prefer if he had to choose.

"Oh," Blake said, looking down at himself. "I won't really pee, right?"

Asher shook his head again. "Nope."

Asher was amused when Blake tried to mimic the movement, his fingers pinching the considerable skin and trying to pull it down. It seemed that Blake needed the same learning curve that he had, and after a minute of toying he had imitated the lowering from before. Asher gazed down at the bluish head, a decidedly different color from his own top, its exposure sending another shiver through Blake's tiny frame. Blake smiled at Asher, feeling much more mature, like the seven-year-old that had accepted him as an equal so easily. To him it was just a game, as it was to Asher somewhere deep inside.

"Ready!" Blake announced, looking at Asher's penis expectantly. Tonight would be a first for both, Asher never having jacked off in front of anyone else, and Blake having never done it solo or otherwise. Asher nodded, having not expected to join but merely to watch and guide. Although he supposed it made sense that Blake would want to play the game together. It caused a smile to creep up on his lips without him even noticing.

Asher began to lead, and with a ragged, unpracticed pace, Blake followed. It was at that moment that Asher realized the benefit of being uncut. Blake's eyes fell away quickly to his activity, and began to cloud as he kept up his imperfect imitation. Asher had, in his prior body, grabbed himself many times. But since his head had always been exposed, it wasn't sensitive enough to implore him to continue the fondling until hormones commanded that he do so. Asher knew well Blake's attention span, so the feeling elicited from the skin passing up and down over the wet, boy scented fore had to have been many times more glorious to keep it so tightly wound in this singular activity.

Asher had to close his eyes to keep from being compelled into envy, but then again he couldn't imagine it feeling any better. As Asher's breath became jagged his ears allowed him to hear Blake's own jagged breath in return. He didn't have to see to know that Blake was continuing, and the subtle feeling of Blake's movements, the slightly wet sound of the foreskin passing over his head, the differently measured intervals of his breath, increased Asher's pleasure and extinguished the last tinges of guilt.

"I'm b-breathing funny," Blake commented, apparently having not heard Asher's exhalations.

"Y-yeah, me too," was all that Asher could think to say in response.

"Are you sure it's o-okay?" Blake asked. Asher reached his free hand softly toward his adopted cousin, grabbing Blake's hand.

"I promise," Asher said, squeezing the younger boy's hand in assurance. Blake squeezed back in acceptance.

"It's gonna feel like you gotta pee, but you won't," Asher pressed the statement from his lips in a single breath, knowing that he had to get the message across. He had forgotten that he had made the warning before. "J-just keep going," he recommended, feeling Blake's grip tighten a bit.

"You already," Blake breathed, "said that."

Asher giggled in spite of himself. "Sorry, I forgot."

"That's 'cause you're olderer," Blake replied cheekily, causing both boys to giggle together.

It was Blake that squeezed tightly first, the sign that he was coming to the end of his first orgasmic journey. Asher's eyes opened dimly as he glanced over, surprised at how tight the six-year-old's leg muscles had become. He even noticed that his bottom, though only visible from the side as he was on his back, had tightened beneath him. It seemed that there was no muscle memory involved when it came to the zenith of pleasure, the body knew just what it ought to do.

"I-it 3; t-tingles," Blake said with a voice that was quite foreign, almost wincing at the alarming quickening with which it came. He had dutifully listened to Asher though, continuing his stroking, refusing to back off despite the intensity.

"It's gonna be 3; o-okay," Asher said as his eyes clamped shut again, his own hand now applying an equal amount of pressure. He hadn't even noticed it, too focused on Blake's journey to take the time, but that same tingling sensation from the morning had entered his abdomen and washed down to his cocklette. Even if Blake had a few seconds advantage on Asher, Asher's orgasm would spill over in roughly the same order.

Asher clamped his lips shut as tightly as he could, his eyes closing even tighter as the tingling danced across the rim of his head and the pulsing throbs consumed him. Blake bit his lower lip as he tried to remain quiet just the same, although his was a quiet that he knew was needed not to be caught in Asher's room; he had no idea that what he was doing was verboten. The tiny penises stirred and leaped, trying desperately to press out a liquid that belonged to neither. Their hands were sweaty and caught in a war of quiet dominance, trying to hold onto some part of the tangible world as their minds could barely conceive the power of their boyish orgasms.

Asher was the first to release his prick, the pleasure ebbing away after a couple minutes and his body stating that it could handle no more. His length was sensitive from each tingle that had transpired, like a long asleep foot that had been forcefully awakened, but as long as he didn't touch it he'd be alright. His grip decreased its intensity on Blake's hand but Blake's didn't relent.

"I-it w-won't st-stop!" Blake whined.

Blake wasn't as fortunate, despite releasing his boyhood and allowing it to slip back into place, the engorged head still had the foreskin to pulse against and draw out the agony of sensitivity. His hands rushed to his mouth as he found it more and more difficult to keep quiet. Asher crept onto his side and wrapped his arm around his younger friend, fingers softly brushing against his side as he hushed him quietly, being as assuring as he possibly could.

"It'll stop, I promise," he said with a tired voice. He could barely imagine staying awake any longer, but knew that he had to. He had felt orgasm as an adult, and as a child once. He had expected what was to come, but Blake had never come close to anything so intense.

Blake dared not move, realizing quickly that each movement made the sensitive head move inside his foreskin. He was barely holding it together, but the older boy's words were somehow helpful. They promised an end, and even if he felt like he couldn't be patient enough to reach it, he had to. If the older boy could do it, so could he. Had had no idea that his was a worse position than Asher's.

It took a small eternity before his appendage began to deflate, and even then he quietly waited. He first tested tiny movements of his legs, and then his hips. He had to be sure that there would be no recourse before he allowed his body to melt. And when it did, he bore a look that spoke more of exhaustion than even Asher's face could.

Now was Asher's turn to play older brother, carefully collecting Blake's clothes so that he wouldn't have to move again. He felt bad, as though his sharing had led to a feeling more catastrophic than good. He'd never bring up the game again, he quietly accepted. His mind had been right. How could he have expected Blake to enjoy it? He wanted to apologize, or even to cry.

When the tinkling giggle finally came as Blake's breath calmed, it took Asher by surprise. He was slowly slipping the matching dinosaur underwear over Blake's ankles, but stopped to look up at the young boy's face.

"I think that was crazy," Blake commented, making Asher sit back on his haunches. Was it a good crazy or a bad crazy? He had giggled 3; but why?

"Are you okay?" Asher asked. It was the only question he could ask.

Blake nodded sleepily as a yawn gave confirmation to the dark circles between his eyes. "Mmhmm, that was fun."

Asher giggled as he pressed the underwear over the younger boy's hips, soon joined by his pajama bottoms. He looked down at the now nearly flat dinosaur pattern on his friend's crotch, and marveled at the journey it had experienced at this suggestion; a journey that he had reasoned to be good, then bad, and now good again. He quietly slipped his own clothing back on, half expecting Blake to say something else but nothing came. When everything was secure again, and he felt his conscious clear, he lie down at the younger boy's side. It was remarkable how large a full sized bed was to the both of them, expanding as far beyond their tiny bodies as his guilt had mere moments before.

Asher pulled the covers over both of them, assuming that Blake was asleep, but to his surprise the younger boy had the tiniest bit of energy left. Blake slowly turned onto his side and wrapped his arms around Asher's torso.

"Can we play again tomorrow?" he asked in a sleepy voice.

Asher quietly nodded, but said nothing. He made sure it was animated, so that Blake could feel it, and it was the last of his energy expended. He wrapped his arms around Blake in turn.

"Cool," Blake breathed, the air escaping at increasingly more shallow and steadied interludes from his nostrils.

"Night," Asher whispered, closing his eyes as sleep finally demanded his attention.

"Ni-" Blake replied, unable to form the word entirely.

The two boys held each other as they quickly fell into sleep, not because it was what one ought to do after orgasm, but because it felt secure and safe. They had both earned each others trust and admiration earlier, and while they'd likely be scolded in the morning for sleeping together, it was a worthy price. There was no other way to sleep now, and this was how both of them felt they wanted to sleep forever. Just to be close, to spend their time together even when they weren't playing. A six-year-old and seven-year-old that had developed a bond much more powerful than any adult romance could ever be. A bond that was decidedly not nearly as carnal as Asher assumed his life would be.

Chapter Nine

The sun had risen, and Asher was none too happy about it. The boys had a lot of similarities; they were around the same age, enjoyed the same kind of games, enjoyed candy more than they should, and had an aversion to Brussels sprouts. But there were several differences as well, such as the color of their skin, the grades they'd be in, and the now known cut versus uncut status. The morning brought to the fore a very newly realized difference, that Blake was a morning person and Asher wasn't. When Katherine sneaked into the room and implored the boys to rise, Blake was on his feet in a moment. Asher wasn't having any of it, rolling onto his other side and grumbling. It elicited a chuckle from Katherine that almost made Asher feel bad, but his sleepy body refused to entertain the idea entirely.

"You need to have breakfast before we get you registered for school, and I don't want to see you boys sleeping together again."

As Blake began to whine, Asher's eyes shot open. His adult mind was now in full control. She had discovered him for the monster he was, and those thoughts had grabbed his innate childish fear and shoved it onto his face. He sat up and looked at Katherine, unable to hide the emotion.

"Why not?" Blake asked loudly, tugging on his mother's arm.

Asher was preparing himself for the worst. An admonishment that he had touched her son, a declaration that it was dirty and wrong, a proclamation that he'd be handed over to the police post haste and tried as the adult he actually was. Even if her tone had been light when she said it, Asher hadn't heard it. All that he'd managed to hear were the words, and they were dread, dark, and unsavory.

"Because you'll never get any sleep if you stay up all night playing. Maybe on Fridays and Saturdays, but only if you're good," was Katherine's reply.

Asher fell over onto his side letting out a sigh of relief. It suddenly seemed silly that he had come to such dark conclusions. How could she possibly know what they had done? Why would anyone imagine a six and seven-year-old would have the knowledge to complete such an act? Her reasoning was practical, his hadn't been.

"Yes ma'am," he said, glancing up into Katherine's eyes again now that he was safe. "Do I have to go?" The bed was warm and inviting, not at all like the prospect of repeating school for the second time in his life.

She placed her hands on her hips, a feigned sternness crossing her face. "Not if you want to flip burgers as a career. But I think being an astronaut or a pilot would be a lot more fun, don't you?"

Asher giggled at the words, finally sitting up again. He'd face the day, even if his ambitions weren't quite so grandiose. He wasn't entirely sure what he wanted to be in his new life, but he knew he had a lot of time to think about it. Clearly Blake had made an early election.

"I'm gonna be a super hero!" he declared, jumping up and down next to his mother who laughed.

"You can be anything you want to be if you work hard enough," she commented, placing her dainty hand on Blake's similarly colored red hair to make him halt.

Asher smiled, cherishing that he was in a place in his life where adults were still so encouraging. That wouldn't be the case anymore when he was a teenager, although the transition from hopeful to cruel was gradual and eventually hit you like a ton of bricks. Although at least this time he'd be prepared for it.

"What do you wanna be?" Blake asked Asher in his still excited, upbeat voice. The energy of his hopping, now stopped, had traveled to his voice box instead.

"Maybe a biochemist," he said nonchalantly, causing both Katherine's and Blake's face to contort into the same look of confusion. From Katherine because it was such an adult answer, and from Blake because he had never heard of the job, as a child their age shouldn't have. Asher blushed.

"I sawed it on T.V.?" Asher felt the need to dignify his response. Katherine just laughed awkwardly, presenting her hand toward a set of clothing she had placed on the dresser when Asher wasn't looking.

"Both of you get dressed and come downstairs for breakfast. Chop, chop!"

Blake ran toward his room as Katherine casually sauntered into the hallway, leaving Asher alone for the first time since last night's events. He let out a longer sigh this time, staring at the clothes waiting for him.

"You're stupid, Asher," he accused himself, making his body feel bad as soon as he had done it.

The clothes were simple enough, a t-shirt with had stripes of dark blue and light blue in a horizontal pattern. A black pair of jeans that fit him just perfectly, and wouldn't allow much room for growth. A pair of white socks that felt thick somehow, but then again his new body's feet had never been constricted before. Putting those on and being able to wear them was simple, Blake had an ample supply of slightly larger clothing since he was at that stage where his body was still growing unabated, but when he made it to the kitchen and onto his chair, shoes proved to be a different challenge.

Katherine was clearly becoming frustrated, finally having to relent on the third pair that were the least tight of the options. Asher's feet were slender and two sizes larger than Blake's.

"I can't believe I didn't even think about your feet. What's wrong with me? I guess it can't be helped. I'll have to pick you up some shoes while you're in school." Her voice was just as frustrated as her face, and it made Asher feel bad. He wanted to compliment how easily she had discerned his clothing size, how much she had accomplished, but he didn't know how to form the words.

"It's okay, I don't wear shoes much anyway," Asher finally managed, but the words solicited worry rather than relief. Katherine grabbed him tightly, bringing him to her chest, as her voice became soothing and motherly again.

"Don't you worry at all, Asher. I'm going to make sure you never have to live like that again."

Asher felt even worse now, and wanted to protest that he had lived just fine before. Although, that really wasn't the case. This body didn't have a before, and his prior body certainly didn't have a just fine. Whatever Sam had told her about his life in addition to being his nephew was an unknown, and he had to go with it. He had made a great mistake in his response, but it was his body's response and not his mind's. This tongue was unpracticed in consolatory speech.

He decided to remain quiet, which apparently Katherine took as a sign of remembered pain from his prior life. Her eyes rarely left him as he ate his cereal. He was glad it was sugary at least, so some part of him didn't have to feel bitter about himself. When Blake finished eating his, completely oblivious to the two's emotional states, Asher jumped at the opportunity to talk with his 'cousin'. He entertained any topic, and stretched it out as long and as deeply as his mouth would allow. It eventually calmed Katherine's nerves, and the morning was able to progress with a sense of normalcy.

The car ride to school was alright, but it was the parting outside of Blake's Kindergarten classroom that made things difficult. Blake felt a profound anguish at their separation, and while Asher shared it to some degree, the fact that he was inside a school and about to be guided by an adult to a new and unexpected fate was sinking in far too quickly. He had no idea what was expected, and try as he might he could only remember fleeting events from his first school days. Even high school, at this juncture, was a blur. When Blake was guided into the classroom by his teacher and the final goodbyes were given, Katherine gently took Asher by the hand and outside of the tiny building belonging just to Blake's peers. Their steps on the sidewalk were loud, the tin canopy above making everything echo back at an increased volume. With the larger main brick structure in sight, Asher felt his stomach sink. How was he going to do this?

He naturally looked down at his feet, refusing to acknowledge that the school or other students were real. If he accepted it, it would become a part of his reality. So when he was dragged into the principal's office and placed on a wooden chair that allowed his feet to dangle above the floor, he felt very small. Katherine gave her assurances that everything would be alright, and made her way to who Asher assumed was the secretary. He hadn't looked, and felt it didn't really matter.

"I'm here to register my nephew for school," Katherine began, and the sound of papers being moved around became audible.

"Do you have his records?" Asked the other woman's foreign voice.

"I'm afraid not," Katherine began to whisper but Asher could hear it just fine. "He had a bad home life before so he's not attended school yet."

Asher wasn't certain he could handle listening anymore, so he finally allowed his eyes to rise to the Plexiglas lined wall. What he saw certainly did the trick, he no longer heard a single syllable that escaped either of the adult's mouths. The sea of students was daunting, and he was amazed at the size differences. These were children that ranged from six to eleven, but the fourth and fifth graders seemed so much larger and more intimidating than he had remembered. His body saw them as a great deal older but that wasn't all, they also looked cool. He found himself looking at the taller, self-confident boys and immediately wanted their approval. He casually fingered the strap on his red and yellow backpack, the recognition of how Blake felt sinking into his bones. It was 3; odd, and certainly more intimidating than it ought to be. He then realized that he'd have to feel this way again in sixth grade, and then in ninth.

Was he 3; cool? At least to his peers? He wasn't sure. He knew that the clothes he wore were nice, but were kids as fashion conscious now? They certainly wore things that were quite different from what was stylish when his old body was young. The same expressions were there, but fleeting glimpses of smart phones and other electronics were clear evidence of the digital age. There wasn't anything like that when he was in school, and he had only flirted with such items briefly as an adult. He didn't have a Facebook, but he reasoned most first graders wouldn't. He also didn't have a phone, but neither did Blake. Would anyone in his class have one? Would he be a pariah because he didn't? He suddenly felt the need to attain one. It was a strong, urgent need, not anything like the casual wants he had as an adult. It was selfish, but he couldn't help it. He could choose not to vocalize it, though.

Katherine retrieved him when things were sorted out with the secretary, and it took her calling his name several times to break his concentration.

"I wanna cellphone," he said, out of nowhere. He mentally bashed himself for the slip.

Katherine laughed, grabbing his shoulders and guiding him to his feet. "I think you're a little too young for a cellphone just yet."

As she followed the school map in her outstretched hand, her other grasped Asher's so as not to lose track of him. Asher's eyes wandered, taking at the other kids without the shelter of glass to protect him. He didn't even realize she was holding his hand, and when they arrived at the classroom he became glad that she had despite that. He was so distracted he likely would have ambled off without thinking. This attention span issue was troubling.

There was still a lot of anticipation, but something somewhat calming about being surrounded by kids that were the same age as him. He felt there wasn't as much pressure to conform to the desires of someone his age for approval as there would be for someone two or three years his senior. His teacher was Mrs. Applegate, and he was seated next to a much taller, lanky boy with glasses and a faint odor of sweat. He hadn't even noticed Katherine's goodbyes or returned them, which was expected by her, as his eyes were too busy soaking up all the knowledge they could.

There were some cursory glances from other kids, but nothing that lingered too long. Apparently he at least appeared normal and acceptable. He caught a glimpse of a girl's pocket and could have sworn he saw the outline of a cellphone, but as there weren't any electronics out in any of the other kid's hands, he couldn't make a logical conclusion. He pulled the backpack from his shoulders and noticed, for the first time, that it wasn't empty. As he unzipped it he saw a collection of essentials, likely supplies kept for Blake; paper, pencils, crayons, glue, tissues, and countless other things that he couldn't see. He decided to extract one of the fat pencils and hold it between his fingers. It had been so long since he had held one, and it felt strange.

The bell finally rang and random conversations died down. The school's announcement system chirped to life, and the class president of the fifth grade began to speak. He sounded so much more mature, and while Asher barely caught what he said, he marveled at that fact. He wondered if he could be class president someday. He did hear the words corn dogs, which sounded good, along with the an announcement of school pictures coming up, which he had no opinion on. When his voice died away and Mrs. Applegate began to speak, Asher realized that Katherine was gone. He was completely alone with this strange adult that he knew nothing about, and all these kids who he'd never even spoke to. That latent fear came bubbling to the surface again almost immediately.

Chapter Ten

The boy next to him was named James, which he decided was as mundane as his appearance, and the girl with the possible cellphone was named Britney. When Asher was forced to give an introduction, and learned that he now shared the last name of Carson with Sam, Blake, and Katherine, he did his best to be interesting. He said his new name, that he liked to swim; that he had just moved in with his uncle, aunt, and cousin. He said that he liked to write, and that he hated math. It wasn't the most entertaining of speeches, but no one scoffed or laughed at him. As he sat back onto his plastic chair he felt the fear begin to fade. He'd be alright.

The morning started with reading, and he was given a book to read from that the rest of the class already had. The story in question was uninspired and simplistic, but something that was appropriate for the class. It was about a bird who was trying to find a new home, and finally realizing at the end that his home was where he had started. A simple lesson, with simple words, and Asher was glad that he wasn't chosen to read aloud; although he figured he couldn't expect the same treatment in the future. Next was writing, and the decision by the teacher for them to write about a bird since the animal had been covered in their story. Asher felt fairly confident about this. He could certainly write something more entertaining than the story had been. He pulled out some paper, wide ruled, and grabbed the pencil that was now sitting in a crevice on the bottom of the desk's top. He placed the graphite to the paper and his eyes grew in surprise.

It was something that he should have noticed before, but hadn't. That time last night that should have been spent focusing on introspection was wasted on bodily pleasures, and he wasn't prepared for it. He remembered how tired his arm had been both times he had masturbated, and how his lips often failed him when he tried to say something and it came out all wrong. This body was a slave to age appropriate memories. His motor skills were severely retarded compared to where he had been as an adult. The pencil felt strange, and writing legibly took some work. Even staying within the lines was hard, but he managed. Each stroke of the pencil presented a new letter, a new word. Words developed into sentences and sentences into paragraphs. He had become accustomed to the act as a story easily slipped from his adult mind and through his childish hand. The mouth filtered out adult complexities, but the hand wasn't capable of doing that. It merely made his writing look simple, unpolished, but it didn't keep him from penning, or rather penciling, what his mind could conceive.

"The bird was perched at an odd angle on the branch, looking out at the grass and the animals. He admired them because they were different, but was afraid that they wouldn't want him there. So he quietly waited, and since they didn't say anything he felt it was okay. His wings expanded as he moved into the sky, searching for twigs, pieces of thread, anything that he could use to make a fine nest and an even finer place to sleep.

He collected each item with purpose, bringing them back to the branch that none of the animals tried to reclaim or say belonged to them. He placed them together and wove them into as fine of a nest as he had ever made, and the animals saw it. They all smiled, and told him that he was talented. They said that he was a good bird, and that they were happy to have him as their neighbor. He was glad to have done such a good job, and to have so many new and diverse friends."

He paused as the eraser rose to his lips, slipping inside. His eyes read over what he had wrote. At first he was glad, proud that he had managed to make a short story so much more interesting than what they had read. Then, another thought occurred to him. His adult mind was unabated when it came to writing. There was no way this would pass as a first grader's work even under the best of circumstances. He panicked, trying to grab the paper and shove it in his desk. He'd just have to force himself to write something else 3; something with short, simple sentences. But it was too late for him, Mrs. Applegate had noticed and chuckled, grabbing the top of the paper with her chubby fingers. He wanted to bite off those fingers.

"Don't be ashamed Asher, I'm sure you wrote a wonderful story!" she proclaimed, bringing the paper to her eyes.

Asher sunk into his seat. He had wrote a story that was beyond wonderful, for his age anyway. He had always been an aspiring writer but knew that he lacked the ability to make anything worthy of publishing. But this, this was impossible for a seven-year-old. Everything was going to be over. He was going to be found out and destroyed. He cursed himself for ever making that deal with the demon, and then for the demon giving him the capacity to write that way. If he could filter his spoken words and movements, why couldn't he filter how he wrote?

"Oh my 3;" came Mrs. Applegate's voice in an astonished tone. Asher's cheeks were bright red, and most of the class was looking at them now.

"I think we need to go to the office," she smiled, gently guiding Asher from his chair. His knees almost buckled beneath him, a collection of 'ooh's coming from the children in tandem. They assumed him to be in trouble, and he assumed much the same.

It was a long walk, a great deal longer than he had remembered it. The hallway was now empty, and his shoes squeaked against the linoleum without anything resembling grace. He wanted to run now, to struggle away from Mrs. Applegate's grip and make a shot for the door. But he couldn't, because that would be unequivocal surrender. He'd never get to see Blake again, and he'd never eat again. He'd be a homeless mongrel once more, but this time the cops would be an even more present threat. Adults now knew he existed, and missing children were always pursued with earnest. His small legs wouldn't allow him to hide for long.

He had to accept his punishment, no matter how severe it was. He had to hope that he would at least see Blake one last time. Even before he was guided through the door to the school's office, it gave off a harsh aura. He almost held his arm up to protect his eyes. It seemed to glow, the florescent lighting much harsher inside than it was in the hallway. But once they had crossed over the threshold, his fate was sealed. Mrs. Applegate pressed him into the same chair he had been in before, and she quickly and excitedly made her way to the principal's office in the far corner. He tried to glance inside, but she had shut the door behind her. There was noway to know what was going on now.

The secretary chuckled, leaning over the counter. "Already in trouble on your first day?"

Asher sunk into his seat again, shrugging softly. "I 3; I guess so."

The secretary didn't say anything else, turning around and attending to what needed to be done. He knew that spanking wasn't allowed in school anymore, but maybe there were exceptions. He winced at the idea, deciding that he didn't want to experience any physical pain. Maybe expulsion 3; that wouldn't be so bad. It's not like he particularly wanted to go to school again in the first place. But then Katherine's words from that morning resurfaced. He would become a burger flipper. It was the cost of his sin. Those words had been prophetic! This was all his fault. He started to feel tears well up in his eyes.

Mrs. Applegate opened the door to the principal's office to beckon him inside, but by the time she did the tears had started to cascade down his cheeks. His nostrils were filling with snot and he was sniffling. His chin had drawn up, forming tiny dimples. The teacher, who looked shocked and concerned, rushed over to sit next to him.

"Are you alright?" she asked in a surprised tone.

"I-I'm sorry I did a bad thing! I didn't mean to! Please don't make me leave! I promise I'll be g-good! I don't wanna flip burgers!" He wailed, causing Mrs. Applegate to run her hand over his back soothingly.

"You didn't do anything wrong at all, sweetie! I'm so sorry if you think you did. I was just so excited, I should have stopped and talked to you."

"Wh-wha?" Asher asked, sniffling and wiping his tears against his arm. His mind had broken again, he felt that he was going to have to get used to that.

"You're a very bright little boy, Asher. I've never seen a first grader write this well. I dare say I haven't seen many fifth graders write this well either. I'm not sure why you think you'd have to flip burgers, but I'm certain that you have a very bright future ahead of you. I had to come tell Principal Nyugen that you were in the wrong class. Someone as bright as you isn't going to learn anything from me."

Asher stared out at the principal's shoes. Not for any reason other than their being there; he had to look at something. His eyes were puffy, and he still sniffled on occasion, but he realized that everything was going to be alright. His adult mind did have a very strong limit, his imagination. It was capable of concluding with much worse scenarios than were logical. Child prodigies did exist, they were rare, but they weren't impossible. That's all he was seen as. An adult turning into a child wasn't even scientifically possible, so why would they think that? And all that aside, the story hadn't contained in harsh language or bad material, it was just well written. What else were they going to assume? Asher sighed, before looking over at his now ex-teacher.

"Does this mean I'm goin' to second grade?" he asked, his voice still wavering but regaining its composure slowly. Mrs. Applegate chuckled.

"That depends on how well you do on your placement test. It may be much further up than second."

"Gosh," he said, out of nowhere. Another unfiltered comment. But then the word test had a moment to roll around, and he decided he didn't like it. No one really liked tests, after all.

"Come in here, son," the principal said in a jovial tone, and Asher looked at him for the first time. He was tall, impossibly so, with graying hair on his head. He looked to be of Asian descent, and wore a smart brown suit with a blue tie.

Asher nodded as he stood, getting an affirming pat on the shoulder from Mrs. Applegate. He walked into the principal's office without fear, but with mixed curiosity and dread. Where on Earth would this lead? He was sat in a leather chair that he had to make an effort to climb into, and the principal was whistling while extracting the stapled sheets of paper from his desk. They looked old and unkempt, but when they were placed in front of him, along with a pencil, they made sense. Asher set to taking the test as the principal watched, a silent proctor to ensure that he was as smart as his story told.

He defined parts of speech and corrected sentences. He wrote a paragraph or two on random topics presented, making sure to cross the 't's and dot the 'i's as needed. He went through math problems without any major problems, only struggling with basic algebra concepts. He hadn't remembered algebra being a part of elementary school before. Next was science and history, and while the science questions were elementary enough, no pun intended, his mind hadn't been addressed with historical observations in many years. It was his weak point, but he pressed through. He was at least confident he did acceptably well there. When all was said and done, the principal clicked a stop watch to record the time, he took the papers and started to read through the answers, nodding occasionally as he did.

"I'm not in a position to really say where you belong based on this test, it'll have to be sent off to a specialist for that," Principal Nyugen began. "But I think for the time being we'll put you in with a fifth grade class and see how you fit in. How does that sound?" He smiled.

"I could just go home," Asher suggested, causing the older man to laugh.

"While that class may not end up where you belong, you do have to get an education. You'll be just fine," he said confidently, Asher wished he was that confident about it. He also wondered why men were so confident; first it was Sam, and now Principal Nyugen. Had he been this annoyingly confident before?

"Let's get you set up," he said, standing from his desk and carrying the test with him.

Asher followed quietly as it was handed to the secretary with orders to be sent to the correct people, and the command to temporarily place Asher in a fifth grade class which may or may not be where he belonged from then on. The tasks were completed way too quickly in Asher's opinion, and Principal Nyugen guided him to the newer classroom. A quick conversation with the teacher in the hallway left Asher frozen in place, and as he peeked into the class at the much larger kids. He was reminded of his morning's awe and fear.

First grade meant that he'd have to do some impressing, but nothing major. Fifth grade meant that he'd really have to do something extraordinary to be accepted. He could already hear the taunts of nerd in his mind, and he assumed that he'd never be socially acceptable again. Why hadn't he just played stupid? Why hadn't it occurred to him? There wasn't any turning back now, although his mind quietly assured him that he was probably thinking the worst again. He didn't want to believe that, but experience was a decent teacher.

Mr. Castaway, who Asher couldn't judge as a good teacher just yet, led him inside. The door shut quietly, but it sounded loud. Asher wanted to reach up and hold his ears. The man's hands sat on his shoulders as he smiled, all the ten and eleven-year-olds staring at Asher now.

"Everyone, this is Asher Carson. He might be becoming a part of our class. Now Asher is only seven, so he's probably going to be pretty scared. I want you all to be nice to him and treat him well, alright?"

"Yes, Mr. Castaway," was the collective response, and Asher was physically trembling now. His cheeks were on fire and he wanted to run. But one of the girls in the front row with incredibly styled hair and makeup looked like she was going to cry.

"He's so adorable!" she squeaked. "Can he sit by me?" She practically begged the teacher with overly mascaraed eyes.

Mr. Castaway laughed. "Sure, make sure you help him get caught up with everyone else."

"Absolutely!" she said with an adoring tone, causing several of the boys to glare at Asher with a mixture of envy and confusion. Asher was also confused, and he wasn't sure whether he liked the idea of playing pet to some fifth grade girl. Although, he had to admit, it was better than navigating this all alone. He took his seat as she grinned brightly, drawing his eyes to hers.

"I'm Brianna! You're so cute!" she drew out the 'o' in so to an impossible length.

Yep, this was going to be one hell of a school year.

Chapter Eleven

Mr. Castaway was a young teacher, even if it took Asher awhile to figure that out, and his enthusiasm and colorful timbre were clear signs of his new teacher status. He had a passion for the job, and an even greater passion to have the children enjoy the material. So the jokes and pop culture references he pulled from his bag of tricks were suited for the fifth graders, and Asher was partially thankful his body was at a place where he could be excused for not getting all of them. As a general rule he followed Brianna's example, laughing when she did, and tried to gauge the mood of the rest of the class without directly looking at them.

Mr. Castaway also seemed to delight in Asher's new presence and his prodigy status. He was called on several times to answer questions, and Asher had mixed opinions about it. On the one hand it was embarrassing, and he quickly missed the short simplicity that was his first grade classroom. On the other hand it wasn't him waving his arm anxiously to answer something the older kids ought to know, he was forced into this position and that gave him an excuse. Math came before lunch, and he was glad that it was a field in which he had some amount of struggle. It was basic algebra, and he had to listen to the lesson carefully.

Asher was glad when Brianna had to help him with the order of operations, it made him feel somewhat normal. He almost stood on his chair and declared to the class that he wasn't a nerd, that he indeed did need help in areas just as, he was sure, most of them did. Naturally he kept to his chair though, and scribbled his pencil at her words, getting the hang of it eventually.

Shortly before lunch Mrs. Applegate had returned the backpack Asher left behind, and he was glad that he didn't have to share supplies anymore. But when lunch came, he would have to learn something entirely non-academic, the life story of Brianna Rose McAlister. She kept him close by and even made sure he kept his caloric choices low in the lunch line. She seemed to have a plethora of friends, even if they were mostly girls, and all of them seemed to be cut from a similar mold. They were popular, had well off families, enjoyed fashion, and Asher was now the high princess' newest accessory.

She was eleven, had an iPhone, no siblings although she always wanted one, her reasoning for keeping Asher close, and her father was a doctor. Brianna never mentioned what sort of doctor, but Asher didn't care. She had an obsession with lip gloss which she reapplied after every bite of her salad, and even had opinions about Asher. For instance, Asher would look better in warmer colors. If Asher had highlights, he would look older. The only point of delight for Asher's childish mood was that she shared his opinion he ought to have a smart phone, but his mind was trying desperately to pummel him for the transgression. When she brought up the idea of having a sleepover, Asher's mind nearly broke again. He knew she didn't have any particularly devious plans, but the idea of having his nails done or being forced to hear about how much more mature middle school boys were seemed painful. He said he'd ask his aunt about it but had no real intention to do so.

Asher had barely eaten any food by the time lunch ended, and class was a welcome escape from the chatter. He didn't have a headache, but he felt he should. He tuned into Mr. Castaway's voice like a radio broadcast, and class became the singular point of attention of his tiny being. He didn't care if the other kids thought he was a nerd anymore, opinions would be what they were, but he'd have to take the time to reflect on how to deal with Brianna. He realized that part of her annoyance was just because she was a girl, and that his body was inclined to like things of a polar opposite nature. He also knew that the other aspect of her annoyance was how materialistic she was; she certainly wasn't going to be a Hillary Clinton one day. But Brianna did come with several benefits that he couldn't deny.

Brianna was protection, and her popularity meant that he wouldn't be mercilessly picked on. She also genuinely went out of her way to make him feel included and welcome, even if most of the things she was including him in were things she enjoyed. Perhaps it was proof that she was kind beneath it all, although he did have to wonder how she treated her social inferiors. He would see as time went on, he supposed, but for now it would be alright. Asher would be the little brother that Brianna wanted, as long as she didn't turn out to be cruel. It was for his benefit and his adopted family's, but his moral standards were still strong inside of him.

When class ended he was asked to stay behind, and Asher noticed that no one was giving him any odd glares or saying anything beneath their breath. Could it be that he was alright? But why was he alright? Was it his age? The teacher's request? Or was it Brianna? Whatever the reason, he didn't care. A small smile crept up on his face at the realization, and he didn't even mind that Brianna pinched his cheeks in parting.

Mr. Castaway was sitting on the edge of his desk with the same confident grin he wore all day, and when everyone had filtered out he began to speak.

"So how was it? Terrible?"

Asher had to think for a minute, but shook his head. "It wasn't so bad."

"So Brianna didn't get on your nerves?" He chuckled, eliciting a giggle from Asher as he shook his head again.

"She's really girly, but I think she's nice."

"Well that's good." Mr. Castaway nodded, grabbing a folded piece of paper and holding it out just within Asher's reach. He grabbed it, unzipped his backpack, and placed it inside.

"I think you did well, considering the circumstances. I know it has to be hard to be around so many older kids, but I hope you get to be a part of my class. You'll get used to it if you let yourself, and I'm sure that you'll make a lot of friends. Just make sure that you give that paper to your aunt."

"Yes sir," Asher said, quietly nodding. His hand was hanging in the air inches away from his backpack. He was glad for the vote of confidence and the encouraging words, but after that day he really just wanted to get back to Blake and play.

"And here she is now." He smiled, standing as Asher glanced over. Katherine was standing in the doorway with a proud grin, but Blake wasn't anywhere to be seen. Asher found himself running at full force toward her, wrapping his arms around her waist. It had been a long day, and he needed the comfort of an adult that wasn't in the education profession.

She laughed and hugged back, as best as she could from the angle. "How was first and fifth grade?"

"Tiring," Asher replied honestly, refusing to relent his grip.

"He did really well today," Mr. Castaway repeated for Katherine to hear. "It's going to be an awkward transition for him, but it's for the best."

"Well," she began, placing her arms around Asher and lifting him to her hip. It was unexpected, but he decided that he liked it. "He did say he wanted to be a biochemist, and that doesn't seem so odd anymore."

Mr. Castaway chuckled and nodded. "Not odd at all."

Katherine gathered the backpack in her free hand and carried Asher toward the car, seemingly amused by what she had learned in the principal's office before picking him up.

"Where's Blake?" Asher asked, finally feeling free enough to ask it.

"He gets out an hour before you so he's at home with your Uncle Samuel."

"Oh 3; did you know I look better in warm colors?"

Katherine laughed deeply from her stomach, shaking her head. "Stay away from those older girls, they'll get you in trouble," she teased.

"She wants me to have a sleepover but I don't wanna. What if she paints my nails or somethin'? That would be weird." His mind had been slapped to near oblivion, his body wanting desperately to share every casual thought he had had that day with someone he could trust.

"Well don't worry about that, little boys and girls shouldn't have sleepovers anyway," she grinned.

"But she's huge," he said, making Katherine laugh again.

"I guess that's true, but I'll keep you safe."

"Thanks!" Asher grinned as Katherine fumbled with the car door and set him down.

With both buckled and the car rolling, Asher's insecurities started rolling over him again. He had no way of knowing what Katherine actually thought, and he wanted to know. He also knew that at seven, he ought not to pry. But he had to say something. He had to quit letting his imagination get the best of him, especially now that he'd be surrounded by more mature children all day.

"Aunt Katherine?" he asked tentatively.

"Yes?" she replied, turning out of the parking lot.

"I'm sorry," he said, letting out a breath. He stared down at the floor mat with a quiet concentration.

"For what?" The lack of music made her voice that much more audible.

"For 3; comin' to stay, and for bein' a surprise, and for not goin' to bed right away, and for sleepin' with Blake, and for not gettin' up right away, and for sayin' stupid stuff about shoes, and askin' for a phone, and for not sayin' goodbye at school 3;" He could have droned on forever, but Katherine's hand reached over and grabbed his, a look of amusement lighting on her face.

"That's a lot to say sorry for." Her hand squeezed around Asher's much smaller one. "But most of it isn't your fault, and the stuff that was, well, it's not that big of a deal. But thank you, that's very mature of you."

Of course she had been wrong, every bit of it was his fault. He couldn't reveal his secret, but at least he had apologized for it. It would let him rest easier.

"I love you," Asher said quietly, his cheeks flushing. He realized as soon as he said it that he meant it, and that it was the love a boy should have for his aunt. Especially one that had been as kind as Katherine.

"I love you, too," she smiled, patting his hand before returning hers to the steering wheel. He wondered if she meant it, hoped that she did. He wouldn't dwell on it, it would just cause more frustration. He'd accept it as a simple fact.

"Does Blake know I'm a nerd?"

Katherine laughed the loudest Asher had ever heard, even vague memories of her laughter in college included. It made Asher grin, and the tension was completely broken.

"You're not a nerd. I mean, you don't even have a pocket protector!"

He giggled and nodded, looking back up and toward the road. He could see the house coming into view and felt his stomach return to normal for the first time in many hours. He'd be playing with Blake before he knew it.

"Do you have homework?" The question came as she turned into the driveway. Asher moaned as he pressed his head into the seat behind him. It would be awhile before he could play with Blake again.

NEXT PART