Cosmo

Diary of a Shota Boy

Prologue

Boys! The endless wonder of them! Cute, naked, horny young boys. Pretty, hairless, nubile little shota boys, bursting with youthful lust. There was an increasing demand for sexually precocious young boys. There always had been and always will be. Perhaps the proliferation of Shota Clubs was the belated concession to the fact that the beauty and sexuality of young boys was something to be revered, and the idea of wanting to have sex with a young boy was not actually anathema, but something to be enjoyed and even celebrated. Shota Clubs, whilst still hovering on the borders of acceptability in most places, at least acknowledged this irrefutable truth. Shota Clubs catered for those who really appreciated young boys, those who idolized the young boy physique, who worshipped young boys' sexuality and accepted that their beauty and prodigiousness was there to be enjoyed. Of these, The Saxon Club was the most famous. It was certainly the most widely known of the sudden spate of Shota Clubs that had begun to spring up all over mainland Europe. The Saxon Club had an unrivalled reputation for the beauty and expertise of its shota boys.

At The Saxon Club, shota boys were the specialty of the house. There were boys everywhere. Lots of them. Boys of every description, all laid on just to service the clients. The Saxon Club provided all manner of diversions and delights for its horny clientele. The clients knew that they would be taken care of by the pretty little shota boys that were there to pleasure them. Those boys were sensational – young, slim, tight, with perfectly proportioned hairless little bodies. They were remarkably pretty, no doubt especially selected for their cuteness and good looks. And they could perform too. Their capacity to take cock and swallow cum was mind-blowing. They could keep wood for hours and they could fuck like nothing you had ever seen before. The clientele were mostly virile, horny young soldiers, all at the peak of their sexual performance, starved of any suitable outlet, and they needed to get satisfaction somehow. The Saxon Club provided that outlet. It provided hot, tight, willing little boycunts for the soldiers to stuff their deprived dicks into. Plenty of accommodating little sphincters, begging to be pummeled raw by rampant cocks and pumped full of steaming hot spunk.

Of course, by its very nature The Saxon Club attracted the most unscrupulous and unorthodox characters for miles around. They were invariably drawn to the one venue where they knew that, whatever their particular peccadillo, it would be catered for. It was apparent in every aspect of the Club, so that you could never mistake the nature of what went on inside. It was apparent from the garish neon sign above the door – the sole external pointer, if indeed was one was needed – and from the jaded, almost anonymous look of the place, as though it was slightly ashamed of itself and did not wish to attract attention. The bare, dusty parking lot outside was always crammed with military vehicles, ATVs and Humvees, pickup trucks and motorcycles. But if that didn't provide a clue, it was apparent as soon as you entered the door and descended the steep narrow steps. It was apparent from the way the whole room was enveloped in a thick, stubborn cloud of cigarette smoke which hung permanently in the atmosphere, as though the Club had its own weather system. The bare wooden floor was dull and unpolished, just like the wooden pillars and the little wooden tables that were dotted about the place. It was always oppressively hot which, as there were no windows, served to compound the already darkened, subterranean feel of the place.

The Saxon Club was perpetually inundated with off-duty military. The clientele seemed to consist mainly of soldiers, quite a few of whom were undoubtedly drunk before they arrived and would burst through the doors at the top of the stairs in gaggles of four or five, announcing their arrival with loud, incoherent vocalizations. There were a few airmen, distinctive in their blue tunics, and there was more than the usual smattering of UN 'observers', their light blue berets slotted neatly into their epaulettes. They were known as observers not because they were monitoring the truce – the sixth such truce in as many weeks – but because they stood mostly at the back, reluctant to ever get involved. A few drank. Mostly they just smoked and were nearly always the first to leave. Apart from the odd few aid workers and relief volunteers, the remainder of the clientele was made up of mercenaries and militiamen, who freely consorted with the black-marketers and drug peddlers. Perhaps they were all one and the same. The whole regime was rendered all the more unorthodox and bizarre by the huge amount of black market drugs that were freely circulated, the choice of which grew in variety and diversity all the time. That was the other specialty of the house.

Most of the clients weren't particularly selective who they went with. As long as they could stick their dicks into some hot, tight little shota boy's ass, they were happy. This was Verolino after all. Verolino, also known as the International City, the United City, always had been a mecca for free living and free thinking even before the war. It was famed for its liberal laws and lax restrictions. Now it was the only truly free place left in the whole of mainland Europe. It was a little island of relative peace and harmony, surrounded by warring factions who each sought to possess it. But it was a UN-declared safe area. It was protected against invasion by a UN mandate. Everyone knew that the mandate was only as good as the troops that were sent to enforce it, and that the goodwill which had brought the mandate about was wearing thin. UN peacekeeping troops were being killed, supposedly through 'accidents' and 'misunderstandings', but the fact still remained that UN personnel were dying. The mandate was fragile and probably unsustainable. It was only a matter of time before they were all pulled out. If they did leave, the warlords who controlled the surrounding regions would stop at nothing to gain control of Verolino. Even now, as those left behind pretended to aspire to some kind of normality, they were bombing and shooting and shelling each other not thirty miles [50 km] away. They surrounded Verolino in anticipation, like baying wolves. Verolino was doomed. And like all doomed people everywhere, those left behind just drank, and smoked and danced. They sucked and fucked and wanked each other because it was all they knew how to do. Verolino was like a neutral no-man's-land in a sea of animosity and destruction. In fact, it was of such standing that the warring factions themselves passed in and out with impunity. Strictly speaking, no one was excluded. Thirty miles [50 km] away they maimed and slaughtered each other, but in Verolino, which was in UN hands, they even drank in the same bars. That was the kind of place Verolino was, and The Saxon Club was at the very heart of it.

Chapter 1
A Boy Named Cloud

If you really want to hear about it, I'll tell you. If you really want to know how I ended up as one of those notorious little shota boys, I'll be only too pleased to explain it. But let's get one thing straight from the start: you've got to promise not to judge me. I know you might think I was a worthless little fuckboy, plying his trade around the most permissive venue in Europe, but you have to understand how I got there and why. You have to understand the sad reality behind my lousy childhood and how my parents didn't want me, and how I ran away from an abusive and dysfunctional home. You have to understand the unforeseen circumstances that led to me being caught up in all this conflict and animosity, and how I was badly injured and nearly lost my life and all. And how Guus took me in and coaxed me into a life of servitude and sex. But don't expect me to start going into details about whether I thought it was right or not. Don't start preaching to me about morals and self-respect because I really don't feel like going into all that, tell you the truth.

They tell me I've got a smart mouth for a kid my age. What if I do? I've got a smart mind too. I can think for myself, and I can talk my way out of most tight spots, so don't try and blind me with your moralizing. If you come at me with a holier-than-thou attitude, you'll get no respect from me. I had proved that whenever any of my tricks tried to get haughty and moralistic with me. And believe me, I've had a few.

"You're just a fuckboy," some of my tricks would say, "You're a prostitute. A worthless bum boy with no self respect."

"No," I would say, "I'm a working boy. I work hard for my money, just like you."

"I don't fuck for money," they would reply.

"No, you do it for nothing," I would say, "More fool you."

They didn't like that. My smartmouthing always drew a glare of contempt. So what? They deserved it. They wanted to tell me I was worthless and had no morals? Fuck them. Especially when I thought about how they would so impetuously shed their clothes to fuck my ass, and how eager they were to stick their dicks into my tight, hairless little shota boy cunt, and then go home and kiss their wives or girlfriends after they had just worked themselves into a frenzy busting a wad of spunk into my hot little butt. With that kind of subterfuge and infidelity, they were hardly in a position to pass judgment on me.

Luckily most of my tricks weren't like that. They weren't interested in the whys and wherefores. All they wanted was a quick and efficient little fuck and they were on their way. Most of the time it was a pretty utilitarian transaction. They paid me. I let them do what they wanted with me. That's how it worked. Quite simple really. During the day I laid low, whiling away the time in my room, resting my poor abused body and just minding my own business, waiting for the war to be over. During my downtime I read books and fed my mind. I absolutely devoured books. I read just about everything I could get my hands on, books of all genres and persuasions. I didn't go to school, so that was my education. During the day I read books and in the evenings I went to work just like all the other shota boys at the Club.

My room was in the hotel above The Saxon Club. I rarely left the premises these days. It was considered too dangerous. Everything I wanted and needed was right there, and since I was kidnapped by the KAPO militia the last time I ventured out, I figured it was far safer for me to stay put. At least I was fed and had a roof over my head. So I spent my days inside the compound of the hotel. Of course, it wasn't really a hotel, since the guests hardly varied. I suppose it had been a hotel before the war. Now it was just a convenient boarding house where we shota boys lived and entertained our clients.

This evening I came down the back staircase which stretched directly from the first floor to the basement, and was a good way of making a discrete entrance – or exit, depending on who you were taking back to your room. I was naked, as always. We were required to be naked and accessible at all times. The opportunity for the clients to look at our young, hairless little bodies was one of the attractions of the Club. For my part, I didn't feel vulnerable at all. I loved being naked. I think all us shota boys did. We were proud of our bodies. It was what afforded us the privilege of serving at the Club. Only a special type of shota boy could work here. The only drawback to working naked, especially if the Club was particularly crowded, was the sheer number of accidental cigarette burns on my skin at the end of the night. I swear, some nights I finished work looking like I had been attacked by a swarm of mosquitoes or something.

So, I entered the Club with nothing on but the tight little arm strap around my bicep. Oh, it wasn't for decoration. No. It was just a convenient receptacle for the client's dough. Well, they had to have something to stuff their buckwads into, otherwise where else were they liable to stick them? You see the problem? So apart from the arm strap the rest of me was as naked as the day I was born, and proudly so. Tell you the truth, I liked the clientele looking at me and admiring my tight, youthful 12 year old body. I loved showing it off for them. I wasn't particularly muscly or anything, but I suppose I did have quite a good physique. I was slim and nicely proportioned, with incredibly long, shapely legs. I didn't have any hair down below yet, but that was just the way Guus liked his boys to be. Guus was the Club's proprietor, and my boss. The thing about Guus was he had impeccable taste in boys. I was good looking, like all his shota boys. I had long, shaggy dirty-blond hair that was thick and straight and was always falling over my eyes. The clients loved that. And I had a neat arrangement of features on my face with a lean, hungry, haunting kind of expression, with gray-green eyes that looked almost supernatural when the light caught them in just the right way. I was lucky and I knew it. I was blessed to have such good looks. I really played on that. Sometimes I could look at the clients in such a way that I could make them fall in love with me at first sight. I got a real kick out of that. But I had something else as well, something special, something that very few of the other shota boys had: I was incredibly well hung for a kid of my age. I had a noticeably long and thick little cock. Not enormous, but just the right side of big to cause passing clients to look twice. The way they stared longingly at my cock always reminded me of how lucky I was. That gave me such a thrill. Sure, I got groped a lot. We all did. But I found that strangely arousing, tell you the truth. I enjoyed all the attention. I loved walking around naked. It had become almost a default mode for me. Let them look. It wasn't difficult to interpret those longing, envious stares that almost begged for the opportunity to fuck my slim, round little ass. You could see it in their eyes. You could almost see the cogs turning in their pervy pedo minds, working out what desperate little hustle they would have to pull to get even an illicit little grope of my smooth, milky white skin. I got a twisted little thrill from seeing the anguish in their eyes, fantasizing about what they wanted to do to me if only they could get me alone. It actually turned me on thinking about that, let me tell you. Made my stiffie ache real good. Let them fantasize. Let them think about what they would like to do to me. Some of them – a select few, if the price was right – would actually get to do it too.

I entered the Club just as the place was already packed to the rafters. It was crowded tonight, much like every other night. It was still early, and yet the 'anything goes' mystique of the place was already taking hold. No sooner had I reached the foot of the back stairs, two UNHCR workers were furtively negotiating a transaction for opium sticks with a member of the militia – exactly which militia was unclear since all sides wore irregular uniforms and nearly always carried the token Russian-made assault rifles. This one had his safely strung across his back, with the barrel pointing down. Those AK47s were very distinctive, with their curved, forward-pointing magazines, and were pretty much ubiquitous these days. I noticed that even the UNHCR workers carried pistols. Despite my nakedness, they hardly batted an eyelid as I brushed past them on the stairs.

The Club was always bristling with guns. As I passed by the entrance to the back rooms, away from the main arena of the Club, where the more illicit transactions were usually conducted, I looked in through the open doorway and saw one of the low, circular booths with six Marines around the table playing Blackjack. They all had their Berettas on the table, next to their drinks, mingling with the usual paraphernalia of cards and a little pool of paper dosh at the center. One of them had a sniper's rifle propped against the seat next to him, complete with telescopic sight, and the barrel pointing precariously at the ceiling. At another booth, two paratroopers, distinctive with their 'airborne' patches on their sleeves, were fiddling with a tourniquet and busily shooting up cocaine with a hypodermic. Next to them were five airmen, still wearing their olive drab flight overalls with the familiar winged emblem on the breast, studiously rolling up several large joints. They didn't strike me as combat aircrew. Since there were five of them they were probably the crew of a transporter plane. There was a C130 transporter that came in regularly every week, bringing fresh supplies and aid and also served as a taxi service for anyone wanting to take a flying visit to Verolino. The transporter plane landed at the airfield – which was in UN hands – every Thursday, and left again on the Friday. That afforded visitors one night in Verolino, so long as they could meet the transporter plane out again the next day. You never could anticipate who came in on that transporter. All kinds of military, UN personnel, humanitarian aid workers, and sometimes freelancers, reporters and photographers from the press and media who were covering the conflict. Verolino was a relatively safe place to report from. The transporter plane was the only safe way in and out for visitors just passing through.

Leaving the questionable activities of the back room behind, I entered the main floor of the Club and crossed the crowded room heading for my usual seat. My regular seat was a bar stool at the corner of the L-shaped bar, overlooking the little stage which was sunk into the center of the floor. The fact that the stage was sunk into the ground afforded a great view from the edge, but not from further back. When the audience surrounded the stage it wasn't visible at all from any other vantage point. For this reason, it was wise to take your place well before the proceedings started.

No sooner had I sat down, I felt a comforting hand on the back of my neck.

"Hey Cloud."

It was Ten. Ten was the bar boy. He leaned in and raised his arm to touch fists with me.

"Hey," I acknowledged, bumping fists with him.

I liked Ten. I liked Ten a lot. He was a little older than me, I think 13 or 14, and infinitely more streetwise. He wasn't a shota boy like me, although he did often get propositioned by the clients. In fact he was very much in demand. But of course he never fucked about with the clients. He just tended the bar. To me he was always a good companion. He stroked the back of my neck in his sensuous, feather-light manner, running his fingertips quite deliberately down my bare back. Then he sat on the stool on the other side of me, his white apron flapping around his knees, as always.

"What no luck?" said Ten, quite sympathetically, I suppose because he'd seen that I didn't have any clients yet this evening.

"Too much rough trade," I said, a little downbeat, referring to the quality of the clientele.

"Oh I don't know," Ten went on, "What about that one there?"

He gestured towards the other end of the bar with a quick dip of his chin. There was a Red Cross volunteer standing alone, looking distinctly out of place amongst all the uniforms, impetuously sucking on a cigarette and blowing thin streams of blue smoke up into the atmosphere. I was expected to approach the clients if they didn't approach me. The philosophy of the Club was that we invited them to partake of our services, so anyone standing on their own was considered to be a prime candidate. It was not to be, however. We watched the young Red Cross guy for a couple of minutes, only to observe a military policeman sidle up to him and hand him a drink. He was with someone after all.

"Maybe not," said Ten, "Never mind, I might claim you myself if you're still free at the end of the night."

He said it suggestively, almost half in jest, but as we both knew it was a scenario we had acted out for real on many occasions. That was what I liked about Ten, not only his sympathetic ear, but his good heart, his raffish sense of humor, his boyish good looks, and his good sex. Ten was sensational in bed.

The bar was busy tonight and I knew Ten would not be able to talk for long. For a brief few moments we chatted idly, nothing heavy, just observations about various familiar characters hanging around the bar, and as we talked, the prospect of going back with Ten at the end of the night was infinitely appealing. After our brief exchange, he got up, giving me a quick kiss on the lips, and at the same time he felt for my hairless crotch.

"Yeh, save some of that for me later," he whispered in my ear, squeezing my balls firmly.

It hurt, but it was also strangely erotic. Then he let go and disappeared behind the bar again. He always kissed me on the lips now. And he was always very tactile with his hands. He liked hugs and closeness. Ten was a very affectionate boy. After we'd been intimate with each other for so long it just seemed natural to kiss like that now.

I watched Ten as he got back behind the bar, and sat back while endless waves of clients shuttled back and forth ordering drinks. He was a diminutive figure behind the high bar, but very efficient, moving around as though he was on roller skates, busily pouring drinks and engaging in his over-familiar repartee with the clients. He had a relaxed, natural demeanor about him which the clients found very approachable. And he had a dry, spontaneous sense of humor, which helped a great deal. He could banter and joke with the clients, and was never fazed by anything they did or said. He was perfect for the job. He was very popular too because he was so pretty. He had really dark olive skin and longish black hair that was always flopping over his mysterious emerald eyes. As he worked, pouring drinks and polishing glasses and wiping down the bar, he would sometimes look over to flash a smile at me. In these troubled times, when so much misery adorned people's faces, he knew the true value of a smile. And he wore it so well. I loved his smile. I loved his lips. I tell you, a smile from Ten could really make my day.

The other reason I loved his smile was because he had such a sensuous mouth, such luscious, pouting lips. I loved his mouth because I knew he gave such a superior blowjob. I had certainly never forgotten my first time with him. The body never forgets. It was something he did with his teeth, a faint biting action, something like that. I didn't really know. Whatever it was, it was quite unlike anything I had ever experienced. That was what I thought of every time Ten smiled at me. No, the body never forgets.

Ten was also very special in another way. Let me tell you why Ten was so special. I had idolized him from the very first time I met him. Not only because he was so handsome and affectionate, but because he was the type of boy you just knew had a good heart. Ten was one of those few people which stood out from the rest. He was the rare type that made an instant and lasting impression. When I say I idolized Ten, actually I was secretly in love with him. I think I fell in love with him the very first time I set eyes on him.

I still remember the first time I saw him. It was two years ago now. It was the day he found me in a ditch on the roadside, bleeding and muddy, with a gash in my head that must have looked pretty gruesome. It was just after I had been kidnapped by the KAPO militia. They fucked me hard, then beat me and left me for dead. Ten rescued me. He scooped me up in his arms, bleeding and unconscious and carried me back to his room above the Club. I can just recall the moment I opened my eyes in his squalid little room upstairs and found his cute olive-skinned face bearing down above me, his pretty emerald eyes glinting benevolently. I was not aware then that he had just saved my life. I still remember the way he nursed me, the way his gentle movements tended my injuries, the way he spoke in low, hushed tones. He was so considerate, so complete in his regard for me, I just fell in love with him. I loved him but I had never told him how much I loved him. I regretted that. I regretted it then and every single day for the past two years. What difference could it make to someone so handsome, someone who walked about with the quiet self-assuredness of one who knows what a gift it is to be endowed with such looks and to be able to arouse such popularity? Ten was 13 now, or thereabouts, but he seemed so much older than me. He was a young man who was on the cusp of adolescence and seemingly had the world at his feet - such as it was. Here I was, a relatively unworldly 12 year old kid who had no future and no past. The scar in my head had now healed, but I remembered nothing except my own name and a few fleeting instances of my troubled childhood. Thanks to the KAPOs, I had very little recollection of anything from before I was kidnapped. And so, with nowhere else to go, I ended up staying here. Thus, I was trapped in this strange state of limbo, surviving one day at a time, and plying my trade amongst the Club's dubious clientele because it was all I knew how to do. Luckily, I had youth and good looks in my favor. I became just another one of the resident shota boys who gave his little ass to the clientele every night. I blew a few cocks and jerked them off with my expert hands. My only muted joy was their hot spunk pumping into my hole, squirting into my mouth or dribbling over my knuckles. What would Ten ever want with someone like me? I was nobody to him. We shared a hotel, that was all. Just casual cock play between buddies. We jerked and sucked each other. A few furtive little blowjobs or handjobs. A quick fuck if I was lucky. That was as far as it went. I knew Ten had no further interest in me beyond that. I was just a little playmate to him, nothing more.

On the far side of the room, I could see Guus, as usual standing ominously on the sidelines watching the proceedings. Guus was the Club's proprietor and our boss. He was our 'handler'. All shota boys had 'handlers'. I guess it was something to do with how shota boys were perceived in the outside world. After all, 'handlers' were usually associated with animals. For some reason it applied to shota boys as well. Guus was a mysterious figure, and one with many paradoxes and contradictions. He was tough, yet camp. He was corpulent, yet nimble on his feet. He was uneducated, but probably the cleverest person I knew. He could be mean, and yet was charming and likeable. Guus was Dutch. He had the free-thinking, liberal, open-minded views of the Dutch, and was into just about every libertarian pursuit you could care to name. He was into rough sex, fist fucking and bondage, and he was fond of a joint or two. Although, oddly, he disapproved of smoking. He always took his drugs intravenously, preferring instead to jack up the odd concoction of cocaine or opium. But when he was on duty, he was utterly committed and professional. He ruled the Club like some self-appointed dictator, with no equivocation in what he expected from us. Luckily, he treated us well. We were 'his' boys, and he was clearly proud and very protective of us. He looked after us because he knew we were his greatest asset. We were the Club's unique feature, the one thing which drew the horny clientele here in the first place, so he made sure we were well cared for. He diverted any possibility of dissention because he chose his boys very carefully. We weren't likely to complain about our working conditions or strike for higher pay – every one of us owed our lives to him. We were a motley accumulation of waifs and strays who were grateful to him for providing a roof over our heads and for presenting us with a means to scrape a living. It was a nice arrangement, perfectly balanced by the complementary nature of our agreement: our need to be protected and provided for, and his need to lay on the nightly entertainment – the 'fringe benefits' of the Club, that made it so unique and sought after, and which drew clientele from all over central Europe. Its reputation was spread far and wide. There was nowhere else like the Saxon Club. Even before the war, its reputation was unequalled.

It was interesting how Guus and I met. It had been Ten who introduced me to Guus. Like I said, it was almost two years ago now. I was only 10 at the time. After Ten found me, it had been Guus who persuaded me to stay on as a shota boy. He offered me a means to scrape a living, and to be fair to him, he did take care of us. He was much slimmer and much more attractive then. In fact he was a bit of a looker, with platinum blond hair and the most gorgeous blue-gray eyes that immediately struck you when you looked at him. I thought maybe he wanted to fuck. But he didn't. In fact he didn't lay a finger on me. He thought I was too young. Can you believe that? Guus actually turned down an opportunity to thoroughly molest me. Instead, all he did was watch me jerk off. He took me out, around the back into the alleyway and had me strip open the front of my pants. I took out my hard little todger, and mechanically jerked it between my fingertips until my clear kiddiecum trickled out. I cummed even less then, but it was enough to make my palm wet, and a few stray droplets found their way onto the dirty ground of the alleyway, sweet young kidspunk squandered in muted pleasure.

When it was over, Guus stuffed a handful of crumpled notes into my fist and left. He had happily paid me for jerking off in front of him. Easiest buckwad I'd ever made. It wasn't until much later that I learned that this was the way he 'auditioned' all his shota boys. And that's what sowed the idea in my mind. It was almost inconceivable that there was a living to be made out of doing something that all boys did for their own pleasure. To get paid for jerking off? To make money from spilling a few expendable drops of boyseed onto the ground? What's the difference if you have an audience? Tell the truth, I cummed even harder when I was doing it for money. Or perhaps it wasn't the money at all. Perhaps it was the idea of having an admirer who I knew had a boner in their pants from watching me jerk mine. It was the ultimate voyeurism, the thrill of watching someone watching me while I squirted my kiddiecum into the air.

I sometimes wondered about Guus. He had a weight problem, which had bloated his body and distorted his frame out of all proportion. And his face was showing signs of ageing, the inevitable ravages of time which had taken their toll on what was once an irrefutably pretty face. Undoubtedly he had been extremely handsome in his younger days. And on some nights, after the Club had closed, those of us who were still awake and not otherwise engaged, would gather around the table in the little kitchen upstairs, in Guus's private apartment, and he would ply us with big fat joints and entertain us with his reminiscences. What a life he'd had. It seemed he had done a lot, compared to us relatively unworldly shota boys who knew nothing much about life before the war. Guus would regale us with stories of his many lovers, which sounded like an endless parade of beautiful, handsome young men, a series of homme fatales who had tramped in and out of his life in a seemingly endless succession of torrid affairs which always left him jilted and abandoned. If all these stories were to be believed, his heart had been broken so many times it must have resembled a jigsaw puzzle. Whether it was all true or not, I didn't really care. Guus was very entertaining, and he certainly spun a good yarn.

When on duty, on the other hand, you saw a different side to Guus. Guus was not to be messed with. He ominously hung about at the Club, always keeping a low profile, but never taking his eyes off us. He watched us with an almost grudging possessiveness, which I found oddly reassuring. Guus would walk around with his Uzi machine pistol tucked under his arm, suspended from a strap on his shoulder, always at the ready, forever in wait for the first sign of trouble. But it never came. In all the time I knew Guus, I had never seen him use it. To me, that was a mark of success. He ran this place, with all its illicit dealings and all the outlandish goings on, and all the extreme activities, with guns bristling all over the place and the most shady clientele, but there was never any sign of trouble. He had never used that machine pistol because nobody ever overstepped the house rules. And no wonder. The house rules allowed for a pretty wide scope. They were pretty lax, so no one had a reason to be reprimanded or confronted by Guus because they could do pretty much as they liked. We shota boys provided the unique entertainment, which supposedly justified the Club's stiff admission fee, and I think because of that the clients were never tempted to engage in any behavior that might risk them being ejected or barred. If you were thrown out, there was no refund. And anyway, we shota boys kept them distracted. It was funny, I thought, that in a place with so many shady and undesirable characters, with so many guns and so many drugs, there had never been any serious trouble. The range of acceptable behavior was pretty wide anyway. They could do pretty much what they wanted with us, including fucking, sucking, jerking us off and even a bit of mild discipline – it didn't even have to be in private. They could do it right there on the Club floor if they wanted. There wasn't much that was forbidden. The only stipulation was they couldn't do anything that would leave a mark on one of the boys or result in a lasting injury. I think you'll agree, that still leaves a pretty wide scope of acceptable misbehavior. I should know. I had been on the receiving end of it many times. My exploits in this profession were testimony to that. But I'll tell you all about that next time.

Chapter 2
The Saxon Club

"Hey Cloud," said a little high-pitched voice.

It was Chip. He stealthily sidled up beside me, so I didn't really see him approach. Like me, he was naked, save for the little arm strap on his bicep, and he settled his compact little frame on the stool next to me, holding up his fist in greeting.

"Hey Chip," I replied, bumping fists with him.

Chip wasn't drinking. But then Chip never did. He was a bit of a health freak actually. That was part of his attraction. Chip was one of the youngest shota boys at the Club, and at 10 years old, also the smallest. Paradoxically, that also made him one of the most popular. He had a body that was like nothing you had ever seen before. He was incredibly well toned for a kid of his age. He liked working out and had quite a tight, hard little body. He wasn't overly muscly or anything, but he had excellent musculature, with a flat tummy and a discernible little six pack, and well defined pectorals and biceps. He was a little powerhouse – with broad little shoulders and a narrow waist that was going to make him a very handsome man one day. He was slim and lithe, and had a lovely clear skin tone that radiated a warm, healthy glow. On top of that he had a beautiful little cock. It was small, compact, just the right size for his age, but one of the most perfect little dicks you could ever hope to see. It hung loosely just above his tight little hairless ball sac, curving downwards like a smooth, fat worm. Not only did he look great, but he also had incredible stamina. You would not believe what that kid could do. All this was complimented by his natural good looks. He was a pretty little thing – a sweet oval face with elfin features and steel-gray eyes, crowned with a mop of longish light brown hair, which came down over his forehead at the front and was swept over to one side in an almost cartoon-like downward rip curl. It was so cute. If that wasn't enough, he also wore a pair of round, wire-rimmed spectacles. You could not mistake Chip. He was so distinctive, and his little glasses just set the whole package off nicely. They, more than anything, were his trademark. Strangely, many of the clients found those spectacles an incredible turn-on, and it was not unusual for them to want him to keep them on while they played with him. I had had many joint sessions with Chip, where we had enjoyed multiple tricks together, and I knew that it was quite common for them to want to shoot their spunk over his pretty little face. They loved splashing their seed over his lenses as though it was a way of subjugating the little boy. But then, he was so cute, I think I could see why. Oh fuck, how I wished I could do that to him too. Maybe one day he would let me.

With Chip sitting on the bar stool next to me, here we were again, ready for another evening of parading ourselves around the Club. Chip was sat well back on his stool, leaning forward with his hands clasped together and his little feet dangling cutely off the floor. His little spectacles glinted as he looked around the room curiously, looking for some action. Chip was always very eager and dedicated to his work. He was always amenable and up for pretty much anything. He was a plucky, happy-go-lucky little guy. He was a good fuck too. No wonder he was so popular with the clients.

I think the reason why I felt so close to Chip was because it had been me that popped Chip's little cherry. It had been me who brought him to orgasm for the first time, when he was only a little younger than he was now. I still remember the first time I stripped him, clinically removing his faded and worn out clothes, and sat him down on my bed, with his little dick as hard as an iron rod, straining upwards in his hairless crotch. And I told him what I was about to do. I told him that he was going to remember this day for the rest of his life, and maybe often wish for it to be repeated. But there was only ever going to be one first time. I told him to relish it, to enjoy it and to remember it. He nodded, half fascinated, half scared, but wanting it anyway. His little dick pulsed in his crotch, almost as though it relished the prospect of the pleasurable trauma it was about to experience. Then I lowered my lips to his little rod and enveloped his stiff little organ in my mouth. He winced and gasped from the shock of his hard little dick being encased in that warm, wet receptacle of my mouth, and I quickly and expertly brought him off with just a few deft strokes of my wrist and a few bobs of my head into his crotch.

When his little rod went out of its head, pulsing and straining in his crotch, he was overcome by the sensation of his first cum – his first dry cum, and he let out a sharp breath, as though the grip of his orgasm had expelled all the air from his lungs. Or maybe it was the shock. As soon as the pulses of his little orgasm faded he looked at me with the most incredulous expression, unable to conceive how something could feel so good, and almost disbelieving that his little body was capable of such extreme pleasure.

From that day on, he was addicted. I think the moment his little dick pulsed in my mouth, trying to eject spunk that his little balls didn't contain, gripping his little hairless body in the throes of that ecstatic seizure, he was hooked. It was as if some irreversible switch had been thrown in his mind which from that day onwards predisposed him to seek that very same thrill over and over again. I had never met a boy who was so addicted to cumming. It was like he needed it. He craved it all the time. We could spend an entire afternoon repeatedly making him cum. He would beg me to bring him off, one way or another, sometimes with my mouth, sometimes with my hand. He was always so enthralled by the feeling it induced, almost drunk on the ecstasy of that fleeting high, so much so that he sought after it over and over again.

Not that I minded of course. I loved playing with Chip's little dick. You wouldn't believe the attention I gave that little dick of his. I yanked on it roughly, bent it from side to side, squeezed it hard and jacked it real fast, and no matter what I did it still sprang back like it was mounted on an irrepressible spring. His little worm of a dick was tiny, even when erect it was no more than about three inches [8 cm]. But it was almost as hard as steel, and so stiffly sprung that if he stabbed it into my mouth, which he sometimes did, when he became over excited and was lost in the moment, it could really hurt when he jabbed it into the back of my throat. He was quite strong for such a young boy. And when he was seeking the ultimate thrill, he could be quite cruel too. There were many places he wanted to stick that little dick of his, and when he was determined to pursue his orgasm, nothing would stop or deter him. His little dick was good at taking punishment. Sometimes I would deliberately chew on it gently, nibble on the shaft or let my teeth graze the perfect little head, just to elicit a reaction, maybe induce a little pain. He never complained. It was almost as though he liked me hurting his little dick. It just made his little erection even stiffer, as though it drew strength from the punishment it received. The rougher I treated it, the more tumescent it became. It was the most magnificent little dick I had ever come across.

The other incredible thing about Chip's little dick was that he could dry cum repeatedly, and there was no limit as far as I was aware. I still could recall one particular afternoon where it was sweltering hot and we were in my room with nothing to do. We were so sexed up, I masturbated Chip until he cummed twelve times in one afternoon. No word of a lie. He felt every one of them, and I could testify to having felt his pretty little dick stiffen perceptibly in my hand every time, pulsing away in my fist and sending him into fits of ecstatic agony, as his little dick tried to force out spunk that his little hairless balls didn't contain. His hard, muscly little body tightening up in the throes of little boy orgasm was a sight to behold. He was able to repeat that over and over again, seemingly on demand. And Chip wasn't in the least showing signs of waning. I think he could have carried on had other matters not taken precedence. But then, Chip wasn't like any other boy I knew. Chip was really something else. Chip was special. Of course, the way he derived pleasure from his dick did beg the question of what he was going to be like when that little dick finally got to fuck somebody. When he finally got to stick that little dick in some warm, wet, tight orifice – buried balls deep into some other boy's little cunt – he was going to be sensational. That little dick was going to give him and his lovers so much pleasure. It was a beautiful little dick.

Chip and I had only exchanged a few brief words before we were accosted by two navy guys. The navy guys were distinctive because we hardly ever saw sailors at the Club. It was miles from the sea. They had probably come in on the transporter plane. The sailors were both fairly young, probably about eighteen or nineteen, and they closed in on us both with studious interest, hemming us in on our bar stools. As we were always completely naked, nothing was ever left to the imagination. Like I said, Chip was very popular. It was easy to see why young men were attracted to him. They were more interested in him than me, it seemed, and they started chatting and smiling. Unlike most of the other clientele, they didn't carry guns, but I did notice that they had little Bowie knives and scabbards attached to their belts. I wasn't sure if that was regulation equipment, but they had certainly come prepared. No doubt they had heard what sort of a place The Saxon Club was.

We sort of struck up a disjointed conversation, and I got drawn into it, I guess because I happened to be sitting nearby. The two sailors were Russian, we discovered. They didn't speak much English. We managed to have a rather halting conversation in the little broken English that they knew, and the conversation was punctuated by plenty of hearty laughs and snickers. It was clear they had been drinking. They were frisky, but not menacing, so I wasn't unduly concerned. We chewed the fat for a bit, laughing and gesturing, and I was quite drawn to them, tell you the truth. They seemed quite interesting. I had a fascination for different nationalities, and was always intrigued to hear about unfamiliar and romantic sounding places that I'd never had the pleasure of visiting. From what I could understand they were a submarine crew from one of the nuclear subs of the Russian Baltic Fleet. They said they were from a place called Kaliningrad. One of them, I guess the senior of the two, wasted no time in getting behind Chip and started feeling him up, hunching over him and running his hands over Chip's hard little body. His name was Vadim. Vadim was exactly what I imagined a token Russian blond looked like. He was quite handsome, with neat, thin features, close cropped hair, pale skin and icy blue eyes – like little crystals of sapphire gleaming out from beneath his sailor's cap. The cap was tilted well back on his head and had a band around it with Cyrillic lettering, and two little streamers floating down at the back. The other sailor was darker, but just as handsome. His name was Zory. They were both lean and virile looking and you could tell they were unreservedly aroused. Zory was nodding approvingly at Vadim and egging him on. Chip sat on his stool and indulged them. He didn't seem to mind. I knew he could handle them. In fact, he soon had a little hard-on, his little dick sticking up long and straight in his lap, which the sailors applauded. It was a beautiful little dick, with a neat pink little head, and they took turns tugging at it and passing vulgar but complimentary remarks. Zory brought over a tray of shots, and they noisily downed one little shot glass each. It was vodka, of course. That was immediately followed by another, until they had downed at least three shots in quick succession, and slammed their glasses back down on the tray with a rousing cheer.

I moved away and left them to it, but kept an eye on what they were doing. Guus was on the far side of the Club floor also keeping an eye on their antics. But he never intervened. The sight of him languishing ominously in the background with his Uzi tucked under his arm was usually enough. The Russians were making a lot of noise, every now and then letting up a loud cheer as they continued their banter, mostly in Russian, with a lot of gesturing and a few English words thrown in. They were loud and showy and were determined to enjoy Chip. They grabbed their crotches and were making Chip feel them up, pressing his little hands into their groins. I noticed that they also threaded a large number of bills into his arm-strap. Of course, that made Chip all the more amenable. Pretty soon they both had their flies open, so that Chip was able to stick his hands into their pants and squeeze their hard-ons. He was meekly staring up into their eyes, his little hands groping around into the open front of their flies. It was quite an erotic sight watching that horny little chappie sitting there naked with these two tall uniformed sailors surrounding him. It was clear they had claimed Chip for the evening. Good for them. Chip was damn good.

Vadim leaned in and started kissing Chip on the neck, moving greedily over his face, biting hard onto his little jaw and sucking his little rosebud lips into his mouth. You could tell Vadim was really sexed up, gorging on Chip's sweet, flawless little face and chewing roughly on his lips. It was almost as though he was trying to bite Chip's face off. He was very rough and uncoordinated, and I guessed by this point quite drunk. Suddenly, Vadim grasped Chip in his arms and hauled him up off the stool, making an exalted announcement to Zory. He rose up, slinging Chip up over his shoulder like he was a sack of grain, and administered a resounding slap on Chip's bare little butt. The sharp snap of his blow was quite loud. Zory cheered. Then Vadim carried the little boy's diminutive body over to the stage. I just caught a glimpse of Chip's expression as he was being carried off. Actually, he was smiling, and for a moment there he looked thrilled to have been lifted aloft in the sailor's strong arms, and his pretty eyes widened with surprise and delight. He was enjoying it!

In the center of the sunken stage, Vadim knelt down, and carefully placed Chip's naked little body in the center of the floor, facing up at him. Everybody in the room turned to the stage and started cheering and clapping. Because the stage was sunk into the floor, it had something of the feel of a bear-pit about it. Those around it were drawn to the edge of the stage and gathered around expectantly. They knew they were about to get a show of a different kind. At The Saxon Club there were no rules about what you did with the shota boys. Like I said, the only stipulation was that you couldn't do anything that would leave a mark on one of the boys or result in a lasting injury. If you wanted to fuck one of them right there in front of everyone, you could. Fucking wasn't that common. Sometimes the clients would have you blow them, especially if they were seated at one of the tables, and it was certainly not unusual for one of us to be jerked off by a client just standing at the bar. These Russian sailors couldn't wait and were evidently unperturbed by the impromptu audience. Vadim straightened up, mumbled something in Russian, and then loosened his belt, yanking down his dark dress pants and underwear at the same time, and threw his cap off, revealing his head of clipped golden blond hair. Zory followed him and joined in without hesitation. Pretty soon, boots, caps and belts were all cast aside and both of the young men pulled down their dress pants, freeing their rigid dicks, and they pitched into the little boy lying expectantly on the floor. Vadim pushed Chip's knees back towards his chest, exposing his boyhole and lifted his little ass up off the floor. He plunged his face between Chip's legs and buried his tongue into his boyhole. Chip's smooth, shapely legs were waving around in the air. Zory leaned over and was kissing Chip on the lips. Both of them were gorging hungrily on that beautiful little body as though it was their last night on earth. As they did so, they accumulated quite an admiring audience, some of whom went into amorous little huddles of their own, watching the show from the sidelines, kissing their partners lasciviously at the same time. Some fondled each other. Others just fondled themselves. It was amazing to witness such a diversity of people gathered together, not all of whom were particularly tolerant of each other, and some of whom ordinarily harbored deep-seated animosities, now united in the common admiration of this little performance. It was quite a sight to behold.

Whilst I sat on my stool watching, Ten came up behind me and hugged me, throwing his arms around my shoulders. No one was going to buy drinks while this little show was going on, so I guess he decided to take a break. We were all as hard as hell. He pressed his hard-on into my back, and I could feel it trapped awkwardly under his apron. He kissed me on the back of the neck. I melted backwards into him, tossing my head back against his cheek. It was a welcome and exquisite greeting. At the same time he reached around and grabbed my dick in his fist, which was poking up insistently in my lap, and he gently massaged my throbbing cock. His expert hands manipulated the elastic skin over my turgid organ as we watched the impromptu show together. It felt good to be in Ten's arms. His tactility was always a great turn-on. I leaned backwards against him and closed my eyes in stolen bliss, overwhelmed by how much I loved this boy.

For a few moments, Ten stayed with me, manipulating my little organ, both of us watching the proceedings from the end of the bar. The Russians had no compunction whatsoever and were oblivious to the spectacle they were causing. If this was to be their first and only visit to Verolino, it was going to be a memorable one. Those sailors must have been extremely horny because they gathered around Chip and impaled him on their cocks with such brute force that I knew it must have hurt. They were impetuous and clumsy and not interested in preliminaries. Chip took it though. He was a tough little guy. He squealed a bit, but you could never tell if he was doing that just for effect. It was so erotic when he squealed. Vadim was kneeling down, hunching over Chip, still holding his legs back so that his knees were against his chest, and took his ass roughly and brutally, with no formality whatsoever. He set about pumping pneumatically into him with a force that made even me wince in horror, hammering Chip's little body quite hard into the dull wooden floor. Zory was on his knees, grasping his own cock in one hand and lifting up his navy tunic with the other, leaning in and sliding his cock over Chip's open lips. The sailors were good. They had really big, stiff dicks, and quite athletic looking bodies. Their thighs were muscly and they had hard, rounded butts that flexed as they thrust their cocks all over that little body. The audience started applauding, and I could see that they were getting so into this ad-hoc little performance that there were several joints in circulation. All around the edge of the stage, all manner of disparate personalities were temporarily drawn together in the solidarity of witnessing this amazing spectacle: Chip getting sexed up in every conceivable way by these two horny Russian sailors.

Vadim continued pumping away into Chip's little hole, and he was savoring the sensation of the little boy's body, throwing his head back and screwing up his eyes in joy and concentration. Zory was grasping his stiff cock, and Chip was alternating between jerking him off or having him rub his cock over his face and body. Vadim was the first to cum. He didn't take long, and he thrust his last few strokes with such force that I could see Chip's little head bounce a couple of times on the wooden floor. His little spectacles flashed intermittently as he tossed his head around, reflecting the stage lights on the gantry above him. When Vadim cried out, he threw his head back sharply and practically screamed out his orgasm. The audience gasped and then broke into a smattering of applause. He thrust hard into Chip a few more times, draining his spunk into him completely, then pulled out, dripping a little trail of watery spunk all over the wooden floor. His place was hastily taken by Zory. Vadim moved aside and watched. He was kneeling close by, his cock still hard and now all slimy with his own cum, and he continued to stroke it. Zory fucked Chip in quite a utilitarian way and injected his load into him with gusto and great relish. Chip's little body was shiny with sweat, stressed by the efforts being demanded of him, but he bore the full force of the assault. Then, when he had finished, Zory pulled out and paused to wipe his cock on Chip's face, smearing the residue of his cum on the little boy's cheek. Vadim then closed in for a rerun. He was still very horny and his dick was still rock hard. He was obviously not satisfied and wanted more. As he closed in and roughly impaled Chip on his cock one more time, the audience cheered and whistled.

Vadim turned Chip over, so that the little boy was face down, and gave him a few more hard slaps on his butt. The sharp crack of Vadim's palm on Chips bare flesh was tangible. Chip yelped with each one. That must have really stung. Then Vadim laid down on the floor and pulled Chip's little body onto him. He held the little boy upright astride his pelvis, mounting him onto his cock and pushing him down by his hips. Chip steadied himself, leaning forward on the sailor's chest, and sank down hard onto his big column of flesh, until his cock had been fully inserted right up into Chip's tiny little pelvis. Chip knew what to do. He rode the big sailor expertly, arching his back and rotating the angle of his hips on the downstroke to get maximum purchase and induce maximum pleasure. Chip was so expert, so well practiced, Vadim never stood a chance. He cummed really quickly, this time straining his orgasm deep into Chip's little butt with a strangulated cry of pleasure, bucking upwards into Chip's sweet little ass so violently that he nearly threw the little boy off him. When it was over, he finally collapsed back onto the floor as though unconscious. The audience applauded appreciatively. Chip fell off him and laid out on the floor breathlessly, his well toned little chest heaving rapidly. He had his knees drawn up and his legs splayed out, so that it was clear to see his bruised little boyhole, red raw, still dilated and leaking three loads of spunk. Chip's cute little body looked thoroughly ravaged and the usually disciplined little curl of hair on his forehead was now disheveled and falling over his spectacles.

At this point Zory knelt over Chip, even as he was lying there hyperventilating, feeling his little body all over, pinching his nipples, cupping and squeezing his pecs and tugging his stiff little dick. It was clear that he was preparing to cum all over him. The audience were all calling out encouragement. Spurred on by that, Vadim leaned in at the other end and was roughly stroking Chip's little cock. He was going to make Chip cum. Chip could only dry cum of course, but his dry cums were spectacularly erotic. His little dick would go out of its head. I was easily overwhelmed by what Ten was doing to my cock as we watched. It was partly the sight of what those Russian sailors were doing to Chip, Zory set to explode all over him, Chip's little cock set to spasm in a dry cum, and partly Ten's firm, relentless, unfaltering strokes on my own little cock as we watched. I knew that he was going to make me cum. I let him. It felt so good I don't think I could have asked him to stop. He was planting wet little kisses on the side of my neck and I wanted to cum for him. Zory jerked himself off all over Chip, raining down another shower of cum, painting his tight little body with shiny wet streaks, and at the same time Chip moaned out a really loud, high-pitched cry, a little scream of ecstasy as his little dick spasmed violently a few times in Vadim's hand. It was just possible to see that beautiful little boydick of his go wild from Vadim's ministrations, urgently trying to squeeze out spunk that wasn't there, and Chip was emitting a succession of desperate, plaintive cries of "Ungh, ungh!" The audience gasped and applauded.

Chip's dry cum sent me over the edge. Ten's firm fist around my cock ushered me towards quite an explosive cum. I moaned when I felt it approach, indicating that I knew it was going to be a big one, and then Ten realized just what he was doing to me. Still standing behind me, he wrapped his other arm around my chest and held me real close, breathing hard into my ear as though he wanted to feel my orgasm with me. I tensed up violently and emitted a quiet, ecstatic "Uh!" as my orgasm hit, and I squirted two graceful little arcs of clear boyspunk up and out over his fist, which was still hammering away in my lap. I exhaled loudly as I cummed. It was almost as if I was cumming over Chip. Chip always had that effect on people. These two sailors seemed to appreciate that he had the kind of body that was just made to be fucked hard and spattered with cum. That was what flashed through my mind as Ten's deft fist forced the spunk to shoot out of me in the most pleasurable and uncompromising way. Fuck, it was fantastic.

When it was over, Ten let go of my softening dick. Still leaning in over me, he brought his loosened fist up to his face, with my watery boyspunk drizzled over his knuckles, and studied it closely for a few seconds. Then he put it to his mouth and licked it all off.

"Mmm, just like daddy used to make," he said.

I smiled. He had swallowed plenty of my cum before. And I his.

"Sorry," said Ten, whispering softly in my ear.

"What for?" I asked, surprised.

"You're supposed to save that for the clients," he said.

I turned and gave him a sidelong glance, not in the least perturbed. I knew I could cum two, three, four times in an evening, given enough time to regenerate between cums.

"Oh, don't worry," I reassured him, "There's plenty more where that came from."

Chapter 3
Strange Bedfellows

So now you know the type of shenanigans that went on in the Saxon Club. That episode with Chip and the two Russian sailors was not common, but it was a good example of the 'anything goes' mind-set of the place, and it was easy to see why it attracted all the pervs and boyfuckers. As a shota boy, I was used to dealing with them. I met all sorts of shady types. I'd been doing it for nearly two years and I had learned a few things about people in that time. I knew that most of them were basically selfish and corrupt. At any rate the ones I mixed with. But then, this WAS Verolino. Verolino was renowned for its hedonism and self-indulgence. It was full of the worst that Europe had to offer. When the rest of Europe was being ruled by an array of repressive regimes, who all seemed to spring up around the same time, and began to impose draconian laws against any type of unorthodox activity, where do you think all the pimps and drug-pushers went? Anybody who wanted to carry on their illicit little activities all escaped to Verolino, where pretty much anything was still allowed. So Verolino was chock full of the undesirables of Europe. That was why Guus came to Verolino. Apparently he was convicted of running a boy bordello back in Amsterdam. There were some things even the Dutch wouldn't tolerate – and that was a country where the courts allowed a pretty wide interpretation on the age of consent – so it was inevitable perhaps that he ended up in the only place in Europe where he could operate his established business model quite freely.

To be fair to him, Guus was quite an astute businessman. He operated the Saxon Club as something of a cross between a maison close and a maison de passe. That is, he kept all the admission fees that the clients paid, and it was a significant amount. Rightly so. It was designed to discourage casual browsers and the just plain nosey. The admission fee showed that you had to be serious if you wanted to come in. But we shota boys had plenty of opportunity to milk the clients further once they were inside. There was none of that euphemistic 'look but don't touch' nonsense here. It was accepted that the clients wanted to touch you. They could feel us up quite freely. We made plenty of tips just by parading around naked on the Club floor. The punters stuffed bills into your arm-strap for nothing other than because they liked the look of you. If you were an experienced shota boy, and you knew what you were doing, you could earn enough just from doing that. If they groped you or jerked you off on the Club floor, that was almost the equivalent of spending the night with a single client. But if we did take a trick up to our room, Guus also kept a portion of that transaction. I thought that was quite fair. After all, we lived on the premises. He provided our accommodation, and he fed us. As I said, it was a nice arrangement, so we had nothing to complain about. We were free to keep pretty much everything else we made. Not that there was much to spend it on. Verolino was surrounded, and it was too dangerous even to venture outside the compound of the hotel. I kept most of my dosh. I stashed it away, perhaps waiting for the day when I would finally get to spend it.

Did I like my work? Sure I did. At any rate, I was proud of my exploits as a shota boy. I knew I was good at it too. Or so I'd been told. I had a reputation for being one of the best. Truthfully, there wasn't much that really threw me. Nothing freaked me out or fazed me. Whatever perved-out little peccadilloes the clients wanted to engage in, I was usually game. I had learned one thing in my time as a shota boy: that guys were basically ruled by their dicks and would go to great lengths to satisfy whatever erection-induced little cravings they had, and to obey the little sex-devil inside their heads that was relentlessly aggravating that festering itch that drove them to repeatedly seek the fleeting nirvana of blowing their loads in some hot, tight little boycunt. That craving would lead them to want to stick their dicks in the strangest of places. I should know. I had had spunk deposited in and on just about every part of my body, not just the usual areas, my crotch, my face, my chest, my butt, but practically everywhere else too, including my armpits, my feet, my hair and even my ears. Yeah, that's right, my ears.

I had also learned a thing or two about spunk. I had sucked so many cocks and swallowed so much spunk that you might say I had become something of a spunk connoisseur. I could write you a whole treatise on spunkology. And why not? Spunk was a magical substance – drawn from deep within the most intimate places of a guy's body, the byproduct of every good session, and the inevitable evidence of a good fuck brought to an appropriate and fitting conclusion. It was the anticipated finale, the pop of the cork of a good champagne, almost mimicking the overflowing effervescence of it's release, the burn of a good workout, the highest note on the piano keyboard, the fanfare that signaled arrival, the climax of the pyrotechnic extravaganza, the pinnacle of ecstasy that could only be achieved by that ephemeral peep into that boyfuck nirvana that all my tricks had the privilege of experiencing. All too quickly it was gone. And all that was left was the copious liquid emission from their brief visit to the heights of pedo heaven. Spunk was the fruit of their endeavors; the incidental consequence of their energetic thrusting; the residue of their magical, fleeting encounter with me.

So how do you become a spunk connoisseur? By tasting as many different kinds of spunk as possible, that's how. By sucking as many different cocks as possible, and by savoring every one of them. I didn't just swallow straight away, impetuously digesting their seed into my stomach as soon as it came out. No way. That would be a waste. It had to be enjoyed while it was still warm. I would hold it on my tongue, roll it around my mouth, feel its consistency, detect the heady flavors which ranged from the chemically, oily kind, to the strongly flavored salty, seasoned connotations, to those that were just plain weak and floral. Then there were those that tasted clean and healthy, and then of course there were the clear, watery varieties from the younger boys. Kiddiecum was the best. Certainly the sweetest and least offensive. I should know. I've tasted my own clear kidspunk, and it's the best. The only problem with kiddiecum, like mine, is that there was never very much of it. But it made up in taste for what it lacked in volume.

My favorite of all was Ten's spunk. I had tasted Ten's spunk quite a few times. He spunked up a lot. If we worked him up over a long time, and we built up to it, he'd have a good reserve accumulated, just bursting for release, and when that beautiful cock of his let go, it was spectacular, a real gusher that squirted everywhere at tremendous force. His cum tasted great. It always did when the boy was good looking. Ten's spunk had a slightly metallic undertaste, but it was always hot, very white and very sticky, thick and globular. It filled your mouth with a substantial gooiness that was a pleasure to feel sliding down your throat. Better than vanilla pudding.

As for Chip, I knew his little cock didn't spunk up yet. Doubtful his little balls would have anything in them for a while yet. But when that pretty little body finally started up production, I wanted to be the first to swallow its offerings. His kiddiecum was going to be delicious. I couldn't wait to taste the fruit of his little balls – when that pretty cock of his finally spewed forth, I wanted my lips to be around it. I bet Chip's kiddiespunk was going to taste just like he looked – heavenly!

I had also studied the myriad ways that spunk came out. This magical substance was ejected in pleasurable release in as many ways as there were stars in the sky. It was quite spectacular to witness. Sometimes it merely trickled out, sometimes it was ejected in a few muted little squirts, sometimes in graceful arcs. But at others it gushed like a fountain, disintegrating into little droplets that peppered my smooth young body like a little shower of rain. It sometimes came out in strong, forceful jets that could reach up to several feet away, so that some guys could squirt it into their own faces if they wanted, or even above their heads or over their shoulders. Sometimes it would come out in big elongated gobs that landed in little puddles at your feet. If it was particularly loose and watery, you could sometimes hear the splashes as the little spunk jets hit the tiled floor.

The other fascinating thing about spunk, when it wasn't in my mouth, was it's color and consistency, which again varied a great deal. It ranged from the clear, watery varieties, like the kidspunk I was so fond of, and was so colorless it literally resembled warm spit, through to the thin whitish liquid type which looked for all intents just like milk, going on to the slightly more substantial consistencies which resembled more of a creamy, custard-like substance. That graduated up towards the type that had a little more viscosity and was so thick that it clung in loose gobs to your lips and chin, and even thicker than that so that it was sometimes so stringy and gelatinous it clumped together in your mouth like wallpaper paste.

Anyhow, that's how you become a spunk connoisseur. You learn from experience to distinguish the different varieties, and recognize the unique and distinct connotations of each. It's exactly the same as wine tasting. I had read about wine tasting. You take the time to appreciate it and savor it – the only thing I didn't do was spit it out. No sir. I ALWAYS swallow.

Of course, my experience made me something of an authority on cocks as well. Men's dicks were a whole subject in themselves. It never ceased to amaze me how many oddball perky pricks and other strange bedfellows I came across. Men's dicks were such marvelous devices, especially in the way they magically transformed from shriveled little acorns into magnificent rampant beasts. It was amazing how they became so firm and engorged, and how they grew in length and girth, elevating upwards so gracefully like a flower seeking the sun, but also in what they were capable of doing. These magical accoutrements were the source of all men's pleasure, as well as their means of procreation. It was still something of a mystery to me how cocks worked. How was it possible that these magnificent appendages could induce such pleasure? I never tired of watching how a cock, given enough stimulation, could be ushered into such a state of arousal that it literally would go out of its head, enter this ephemeral state of ecstatic seizure and pulse so incredibly that it would literally spit out such vast quantities of spunk, not just in one squirt, but in a whole series of squirts. It was quite the most amazing sight, which I never grew tired of witnessing.

The way a cock spunked was almost as individual as the cock itself. They seemed to have their own personalities, as unique and disparate as the personalities they were attached to. They genuinely did have individual personas. Some were proudly tumescent, stiffly straining upwards with great strength and virility; others were simply long and perpendicular, sticking out like some cocked gun. Some were curved, with graceful inflections that made the little eye in the head point upwards. Others seemed to be lopsided and leaned to one side when erect. I soon found out that these cockeyed cocks were not at all compromised in performance. In fact, it was interesting to see them eject their spunk somewhere off to the side. Some had large heads, big mushroom cap heads that flared over the shaft, looking almost like they could plug any tight orifice, like some fearsome organic plunger. Others had small heads, unobtrusive little conical caps that gave them the appearance of being pointed and streamlined, perfect for fucking into tight little holes.

Then of course there was the cut/uncut comparisons. Most guys, I noticed, came down firmly in either one camp or the other, depending on what type they had and what they had heard. I had heard all the arguments and could only conclude that there were probably advantages and disadvantages to both. I had no real preference, except that the cut ones were of more fascination to me simply because they were so unlike my own. But for giving head, I definitely preferred the cut ones. Even an experienced shota boy in the throes of deep-throating someone could administer the odd involuntary nip on a loose foreskin. In the heat of the moment, I had done that many times. Accidentally of course. Most of the time it was a cock-deflator, guaranteed to cause its owner to utter some terse obscenity and withdraw fairly sharpish from whatever welcoming orifice his cock had been buried in. But not always. There was one trick who discovered he liked it. I accidentally nicked his foreskin as he impetuously stabbed into my mouth, just as he was cumming, and he said it made him cum even harder. I guess there's no accounting for diversity.

The other way I judged a guy's dick was by how clean it was and whether he took good care of it. It was easy to distinguish those who valued their dicks and treated them with the respect they deserved. But there was always a small minority who didn't care. I could easily identify those who didn't care for their dicks because they didn't wash. I was wise to them. I knew what was going through their minds. They thought I was a worthless little fuckboy who was there to be used and abused, to service their dicks and deserved no respect in return. Wrong. I may have been a fuckboy, and sure, sometimes I did feel pretty worthless – when I was dripping with sweat, covered in cum and reeking of sex, yeah I did feel pretty degraded. I may have been willing to take their cock in every hole, and submit my body to just about every demeaning sex act their perved-out pedo minds could concoct, but that didn't mean I didn't have my standards. They thought I didn't care what I put in my mouth or up my bum? Think again. I was actually very discerning. Guus insisted that all his boys had good hygiene and were scrupulously clean. For our part, Guus always insisted that our holes were clean and well cared for before any client could stick their dicks up there. He gave us special cleanser, and always reminded us to make sure our bowels were empty before we started work. We cared for our holes using antiseptic cream and special oils that kept them moist and pliable, and eternally ready to stretch out around some sexed up rampant cock, endure a punishingly stiff fuck and accommodate whatever load was deposited deep within it. I cared for my hole religiously. It was the focus of my nightly exploits, along with my dick, so it deserved special attention. I always ate lightly, avoided anything that gave me gas, and always emptied my bowels before work. I was very clean and quite meticulous. I wasn't willing to wrap my mouth around any dirty old cock, no sir. So if they ever whipped their dick out and it was caked in cream cheese, it wouldn't get past MY lips. If they thrust that yogurt-squirter into my face and it was smelling of fish paste, they would be in for something of a disappointment.

Pet hates? Well, there were some things that really did nothing for me: tricks who couldn't get it up or keep it up, or who couldn't cum even when it was up, usually because of drugs or alcohol. The one thing I did resent was when a client had had too much of the sauce, or whatever other illegal substances happened to be in the offing, and were so whizzed out of their face that they banged hell out of my butt for ages trying to get their cock to spunk up, when in reality it had given up the ghost. Some would go on interminably, roughly manhandling me and sticking it to me in the most ungainly and sometimes violent fashion, reluctant to abort the mission. They would try desperately to shove their load into me by any old means, and would hammer my chute raw in their endeavors. Honestly, some guys just didn't know when to give up. The most frustrating thing about that was that they then had the sheer brass balls to blame ME! As though I was somehow responsible for not being able to bring them off. What kind of kackminded fuckology was that? Like I wasn't SEXY enough, or what? More likely the sauce distorted their savvy of what they were actually capable of. Like, guys who normally never touched fuckboy ass suddenly turned into pedo of the year and were somehow magically transformed into the most luscious boyfuck machine ever created, and thought they were so fucking incredible that every fuckboy from sea to shining sea secretly pulled their little todgers fantasizing about getting that monster twelve inch [30 cm] boy-batterer forcibly shoved up their fuckholes in the most undignified way. Gimme a break. The only thing we fuckboys ever fantasized about was a good night's sleep.

The other thing I really couldn't stand were the boyfuck virgins, i.e. those who had never had the privilege of dipping their wick in fuckboy ass. You could always tell the boyfuck virgins. For one thing their movements were tentative and hesitant, and even when they did coax their rampant boy-plungers out of their pants, they didn't quite know what to do with them. They would usually have this look of perved-out confusion in their eyes, totally overcome by the sheer wonder of actually getting to fuck a luscious piece of fuckboy ass – which for some of them was like their lifetime ambition or something. When they finally did close in to insert it into you, they would go looking for your boycunt in the strangest of places. I mean, surely they knew where their own fuckholes were. Like, did these guys think we were a different SPECIES for chrissakes?

Apart from that, generally speaking, I could handle pretty much everything else. What any trick wanted to do was between me and them, and their little foibles could range from having a favorite position, to playing out some kind of pervy fantasy. You always came cross strange requests as a shota boy. And the funny thing is, it wasn't just the clients. Invariably I fucked about with some of the other shota boys as well. We were always in and out of one another's rooms, and by implication, in and out of one another's butts too.

Take Dax for example. Dax was only a few months younger than me, but so much smaller in stature. He was quite slim, some might say almost too skinny. But I didn't think he was too skinny – his slimness was part of his attraction. He was very lean and still at the stage of growing where he had not yet accumulated a trace of fat on his lithe and compact frame. Sure, he sometimes looked like he could do with a good meal, but that was because Dax was either bulimic or he took laxatives to keep his system flushed. Maybe both, I'm not sure. I doubt he ever felt the benefit of anything he ate because hardly anything ever stayed inside him long enough. His complexion was always white and pasty, and he always had dark rings around his eyes. He sometimes looked quite frail and weak, like he wasn't getting any nourishment at all. That, coupled with the fact that he chain smoked and took speed or PCP or whatever was going. Dax was very wiry by nature, and would have had a very slight composition even if he wasn't underweight. He had long, languorous limbs, with legs that were incredibly shapely and beautiful. His hips were narrow and his tummy was almost concave, so that you could see the lean musculature of his composition beneath that pale white skin. His face was pretty, yet always sad, with an incredibly thick mop of unruly hair that was an odd teal color, and flopped about his ears in lank little waves. His gray eyes were big, round and inquisitive, but always longing. The most incredible thing about Dax, however, was that for such a slight, wiry little guy, he had an enormous cock. In its aroused state, it was inordinately large for such a small boy. When erect, it was like some wayward accoutrement that seemed to take on a personality of its own, waving about in his crotch like some big fat probe, ready to be inserted into some tight cavity that urgently needed plugging. I wouldn't have minded having it in me, tell you the truth. Alas, he never fucked me. Dax was essentially an uke boy and generally took what was given to him.

Yet, despite his apparent frailty, Dax could take extraordinary punishment. He seemed to almost welcome the hurters and the clients who got off on hearing little shota boys squealing with pain. They liked Dax because he wanted to be hurt. It was like he needed it. I was amazed by the amount of punishment that boy could endure. It was not only the extremes of pain that he could undergo, but also the length of the protracted sessions he afforded his clients. They could be with him for hours, tying him down, stuffing ballgags into his mouth, sticking thick dildos up his boycunt, attaching nipple clamps, dripping hot candle wax onto his hairless balls. With Dax, just about anything was acceptable. And if there was no likeminded client, he would invite one of the other shota boys to oblige.

Many times Dax had invited me to whip his butt real hard, so that the blows caused dark red raised welts on his flawless skin, sometimes so hard and deep that the bright red lines on his white skin were actually oozing blood. I don't know how his young, frail, slight little body withstood such punishment. I asked him about it once, because I couldn't really understand why he liked the pain. I could see the attraction in mild bondage, a little restraint and perhaps a hint of forced sex or reluctance was vaguely stimulating, but outright physical punishment, with the objective of causing real pain and suffering, was anathema to me. He said he couldn't get off without it. I remember the way his dull gray eyes looked at me, with that resigned expression that told me he knew I would never understand and he simply said "There's no hope for me." I remember thinking how sad that was, before he handed me the little leather cat o'nine tails and insisted I hit him with it as hard as I could. He told me to use as much force as I could muster. He must have seen the look of revulsion in my face because he added "The harder you hit me, the harder I'll cum." So I did. I brought that leather cat down on his boyish skin with a small hop and jump from across the room, swinging my arm up in a big arc, and using my whole upper body to bring the full force of the blow down on his little body, at that moment crouched on the bed with his knees splayed and his head down. The crack was tangible, loud and sharp, and he winced and froze at each one, trembling from the pain it induced, and at the same time he was jacking that pretty dick of his. The harder I hit him, the faster he jacked, and he wanted me to hit him faster and harder until he was ready to cum. What a way to masturbate, I thought. What shocked me perhaps more than anything, was that I severely underestimated how many blows this was going to take. I thought maybe ten or twenty, because anything more than that was going to rip his butt to shreds. Well when we got up to about thirty, I lost count, but it must have been maybe double that before his fist jacked back and forth along his shaft at a pace that foretold of his impending orgasm, and he started pleading with me "Harder, harder," as he increased his pace and his body at last entered pleasurable release. I must have whacked him maybe three or four more times even while his body was consumed by a tortuous, shuddering orgasm, wracked with pleasure and pain, and he emitted a low, guttural growl as he was cumming. His spunk was copious and liberal, and the big, thick globs fell onto the bedclothes between his knees in a pure white glutinous mess. For such a young, slight, underfed boy, he sure spunked up a hefty load. It was difficult to believe his somewhat immature little body could ever produce cum in such quantities. But it did. Perhaps that was testament to what a good job I'd done. I hoped so. That aspiration was vindicated when Dax turned and stared up at me, red faced, sweaty and looking slightly oppressed, his gray eyes moist with tears, and said meekly "Thanks, I needed that."

I never did get to understand the association with pain. I just accepted it as part of the inevitable hazards of being a shota boy. You just had to expect that you were bound to be asked to do stuff like that. Just like any other job, there were always aspects of it that you didn't enjoy. But what can you do? You have to take the rough with the smooth and just get on with it.

As far as I recall, there was only one trick that ever made me seriously hesitate. Let me tell you what happened. It sticks in my mind for a very good reason. It happened not so long ago. I remember it well because it was the first time I ever hesitated when negotiating with one of my tricks. Even then, it was only a momentary hesitation which I overruled almost immediately. He was a man in his late 30s, still at his peak, with dark eyes and a lean, muscled body, well kept hair and classic facial features. He was handsome in his own way. He was nice enough, although fairly typical in some ways because you could detect the distraction in his eyes as we were negotiating the transaction. I could tell he was only interested in the rudiments of sticking his dick into my prepubescent shota boy cunt, and all the time we were talking the look in his eyes was transmitting "I'm gonna blow such a big load in you fuckboy". All had proceeded smoothly up to that point, until he decided to unilaterally shift the parameters slightly by adding his own condition to our arrangement – he wanted his son to watch while he fucked me. That threw me. I hesitated slightly, and even as I balked at his suggestion, he unpeeled a further crispy bill from the wad of greenbacks in his hand, and I decided to make no issue. Once I had accepted his Judas offering, it was too late to raise objections.

I almost regretted it. By the time we were inside the room and I saw how young the boy was, I was committed. Not that I was averse to a little 10 year old boy watching. Chip was 10 and was as sexualized as it was possible to be, but this little boy didn't have Chip's knowingness. There was a bright-eyed, fresh-faced innocence about this boy that told me he did not belong in this place, and it was almost as though he didn't deserve the dubious obligation of being a spectator as his father brutally fucked his cock into a boy only a couple of years older than him.

During our session, he fucked very efficiently and pneumatically, even kissing me on the back of the neck as he was slipping his thick, well oiled shaft in and out of my boycunt. He rocked me violently with the impetuosity of his pursuit, eager to bust his load in me, and he was muttering dirty talk into the back of my head. Somewhere off to the side, I could see the little boy sitting there watching from across the room, half fascinated, half scared by the seemingly oppressive and sometimes violent act of his father forcing that big dick up into me, bending me over and slamming into me for what seemed like ages. And as he was doing it he was cursing and swearing, as though that was going to make him cum even harder. He was saying things like "Yeah, take that dick you dirty lil cunt…" and "Gonna bust your lil fanny wide open…" and stuff like that. I didn't mind dirty talk. I didn't charge any extra for verbal abuse, that was an occupational hazard, but I'd never heard my boyhole being referred to as a fanny before. That was a new one on me. Then, when he was getting closer, he ratcheted up the excitement a little with "Gonna fill your lil sluthole…" So it was a sluthole now? Whatever next? Then, as he was cumming, he slammed into me one last time and froze, his enormous dick lodged deep into me, and he barked out a strangulated "Oh baby boy, take my daddy cum!" So I had started out as a dirty little cunt, he had busted my fanny and filled my sluthole and once the reward of cumming up my butt had ameliorated his desire, suddenly he was my daddy and I had graduated to being his baby boy. He was full of compliments for sure.

When it was over, he pulled his big dick out, and there was an audible pop. His well greased member was still tumescent with lust, and he was smiling, pleased with himself, or perhaps cruelly amused by the fact that he knew he had hurt me. I wasn't looking too happy because my little snatch was stinging, but I bore it and said nothing. As soon as he unplugged his still tumescent cock from my butt, a stream of pure white spunk trickled out. He had sure injected a hefty serving into me. The warm liquid tickled a bit as it ran down the insides of my bare thighs. He saw that and a self-satisfied smirk crept across his lips. He glanced over at the boy, still sitting there obediently, just to make sure he had seen it. Perhaps this was his initiation, I speculated, as I set about wiping down my crotch with a towel. Perhaps he was grooming the boy. Maybe that little 10 year old would eventually fulfill the role of cumdump for his daddy's rampant cock. I don't know why, but the thought of that little boy being utterly corrupted actually turned me on. Perhaps because he was so cute. I wouldn't have minded giving him a few lessons in boylove myself.

As we finished up, I gathered up my clothes and we both got dressed with a minimum of formality. He pulled his clothes back on with an air of accomplishment, and then took the boy by the hand and left. Not even a thank you. That was disappointing, but typical. Once their dicks had been satisfied, it was unusual to receive any hint of gratitude. There was never an acknowledgement for the efforts expended, or the pain endured, or even just for the quality of the service. Oh well, in this trade there were no customs to be observed. Indeed, in the life of a shota boy, the normal social formalities didn't really apply.

Chapter 4
Tricks of the Trade

It wasn't unusual for a trick to have a special request. A special request usually meant there was some kind of pervy fantasy they wanted me to act out. Like that guy who wanted to fuck me while his little boy watched. Little did I know then that he would be back. The next time I met him, I recognized him of course. I asked what he wanted this time, expecting that it was perhaps some rape fantasy he wanted me to indulge in. But it was nothing of the sort. This time he didn't want to fuck me. He said this time he wanted me to fuck his little boy. He wanted to have his little boy's ass cherry popped by me. Remembering how cute his little boy was, of course I agreed. His little boy was beyond cute, with a little round cherubic face, a mop of thick black curly hair and bright blue eyes. There was nothing I would have liked more than to root his cute little butt. But what I hadn't bargained for was that the boy's father was intending to watch the whole thing. It was a variation on his first encounter with me, but with the roles reversed. I hadn't anticipated that he would want to be a witness to his little boy getting his ass reamed for the first time. That didn't bother me of course. I wasn't averse to being watched, ever since the first few times that Guus paid me to jerk my boydick in front of him. Like I said, it turned me on even more to do it to an audience. What did unnerve me slightly was the prospect of this guy jacking off and shouting out encouragement to me as I rooted his little boy's ass. That was exactly what he did. He sat and masturbated while I attempted to force my stiff little dick into his little boy's virgin hole.

To give him his due, the little boy was very compliant. He readily stripped for me, and he already had a little boner as soon as he removed his tiny underwear. He knew he was about to get sexed up and the sight of this inordinately small boy standing there in my room, primed and horny, was enough to make me want to fuck him so hard and so fast that I couldn't wait to blow my fuckwad deep inside his little pelvis. He was extraordinarily pretty and ripe for getting his ass cherry busted. But I had to go slow. This was going to take a little patience and application. Luckily, it seemed this boy had already had some experience. It was clear to me that he was used to having his hole stimulated. When I laid him on the bed naked and spread his skinny little legs, I got down between them and played with his hole a little bit. As soon as I touched his little star, it opened up a little for me. Reflex anal dilation was such a beautiful response. That little butthole had been stimulated plenty. It was used to being played with, it seemed. All I had to do now was force it fully open and stuff it full of boycock.

Slowly, I mounted the bed, pushed his little legs back so they were way over his shoulders, and I connected my aching cock to his little star. He stayed like that and watched me submissively, looking up at me with a quiescent curiosity which just made me want to fuck him even harder. My stiffie was aching to be buried inside him. Then his father started to call out as he masturbated. He was calling out remarks like "Yeah, abuse my little boy!" and "Fuck my boy's virgin ass!" I'm not sure what the boy made of it, particularly when his own father was beseeching me to be violent and brutal. I didn't mind. Words were essential for fulfilling most fantasies. I knew that only too well. But I was concerned about how this boy would interpret his father's exclamations, particularly with vocalizations such as "Yeah, rip my little boy's cunt!" and "Bust his ass!" It seemed that me reaming his little boy's ass was as much for his own pleasure as his son's.

The idea that this dad was so eager to see his son's ass fucked real hard was actually a tremendous incitement. No sooner had I managed to open up his little boy's hole, and stick my dick into that tight little virgin butt, I started hammering away pneumatically. I sank my hairless little shota boy dick into his hole like a hot knife into butter. And I tell you, it felt damn good. His father's encouragement worked. He got me so worked up, I fucked his boy's ass real good. I bent that little boy's legs back so far it was almost as if I was going to snap his little spine. I was quite rough with him. I fucked my stiff hairless dick into him with a gusto I hadn't used on anybody for a long time. I rarely got a chance to fuck like that, unless a client wanted to watch me fuck with another boy, usually Chip. But Chip had learned to accommodate my cock really well. He could take a twelve inch [30 cm] dildo no problem. This boy was a virgin, and I must admit, it was an inordinate pleasure to think that I was the first to sample this little boy's butt – mine was the first cock to punch into his most intimate place and bust his ass cherry for the first time, and I was the first to feel the tight warmth of virgin butt that had never been violated by a cock before. Fuck, that turned me on so much! The thought of soiling his little virgin chute with my kidspunk caused my little dick to boil over in no time. The boy himself took it without protest. He was a brave little guy. What a pasting he took. He seemed so resigned to his fate. But then, it wasn't as if he didn't know what was happening. He had watched his daddy fucking me, so he understood the rudiments of what we were doing. He was very accepting of the philosophy that little boy butts were there to accommodate men's cocks. But I kinda felt sorry for the little guy not getting any pleasure out of it himself. It was a shame to see his tiny little dickie so hard and not getting any stimulation, just poking up so aroused, pulsing with need, redundantly pointing upwards into thin air. So, even while I was fucking up into his tiny ass, I gave him a little wrist action, pinching his tiny cocklet between my thumb and finger and giving it a few token tugs. I still had his little todger pinched between my fingers as my orgasm approached, and I think I must have jacked it real hard as I cummed because he squealed a little. I couldn't tell if it was pleasure or pain because by then my orgasm completely overwhelmed me. When I cummed, I cummed with a force I hadn't known since Ten's first blowjob. Ten's first blowjob did something so magical to my dick, I always remembered it. He made me cum in such a way that my dick was stimulated to new heights, a level of ultra-ecstatic release that I don't think I had ever felt before, or since. That's what it was like fucking this little boy and blowing my wad into his tiny little cunt. Oh fuck. I'll never forget it.

Of course I've had lots of other memorable tricks too. Let me tell you about some of them. I'll start with one of my favorites. Strangely, I didn't know his name. You never asked your tricks for their names unless it came up in conversation. If they became regulars, you usually got to be on first name terms with them, but since most of my tricks were military personnel, they were always being moved about. You would see them maybe once or twice, then they would be mysteriously shipped out, nearly always at short notice, never to be seen or heard from again. Well this guy, I know for sure, was something of a big-shot in UNVERO, part of the joint United Nations Forces in Verolino. He was a pretty senior officer. I know he spoke French. I'm pretty sure he was Canadian. He had a little Canadian flag on the lapel of his tunic. The reason I remember him is because he was always well dressed and immaculately groomed. His uniform was always spotless and neatly pressed, and he was clean shaven with a thick dark head of hair that was graying at the temples. And he smelled of a very distinctive aftershave, with a fresh, citric scent. He was well mannered and polite. He had confident, purposeful movements and seemed to be very considerate and courteous. I liked him. If only all my tricks were like that. He was tremendously fit and supple for a guy of his age, with good definition and tight musculature. It was clear he took care of himself. Apart from that, he also had a very big cock and, unfortunately for me, he always wanted to fuck. He was strictly into boy ass, nothing else. No hand jobs or blowjobs for him. I think he was strictly old school pedo, this guy: believed that a boy's ass was for real men's dicks and any other means of blowing his wad was ersatz and contemptible. His technique was to always fuck that cock into my ass as deep and hard as he could. It was thrilling, but damn, it stretched my chute to the limit. The first couple of times he fucked me my snatch was so sore I was shitting traces of blood all the next day. He was strong too. He could hold my entire body in his hands and literally lift me up and down onto his protruding cock. My body seemed so small and light in his big hands as he maneuvered me around him. My body became almost a little toy for him, and he was bending me and folding me into whatever shape he chose, manhandling me into whatever position he was able to fuck me in. It was usual for him to try several positions in one session, until he found the one he wanted to finish up in. He would bend me over and fuck me just standing behind me. Or he would do it kneeling down, with me bent over the side of the bed. He would do it with me on my back, my legs folded up against my chest. Or he would have me lie on the bed face down and fuck down into me with my ass raised up on a pillow. Or else he just bundled my whole body into a little ball, laid me on my side on the bed, and fucked my ass by scooting in and out sitting on his ankles. But my favorite was when he laid on the bed and had me get astride him, so I could bear down onto his cock, using my weight to force his big dick up my little cunt. I liked that because I could dictate the pace. I could take it slow and give my hole time to adjust to his girth. I also enjoyed it because he was usually so dominant, and it was nice to see him looking so submissive beneath me for a change.

There was another trick that was memorable, but for all the wrong reasons. This guy was pretty well built, with a hefty, substantial stature. He looked mean and I knew from experience that he was a hurter – he liked to hurt little shota boys. In some ways I was glad he had chosen me and not Chip. I had no doubt Chip could have handled him – Chip was very robust, and a tough little guy – but I didn't like the idea of little Chip getting hurt. It was better that I dealt with this guy instead. I had a smart mouth, if nothing else. I could always rely on that to get me out of trouble. The other reason I remember him is that he was incredibly unattractive. I mean, no offence, but he really was butt ugly. No word of a lie, this guy looked like Shrek.

Anyhow, I was right about him all along. He was a hurter. First he wanted to play with my stiffie. It seemed he was quite accomplished at sucking little boy dicks, and he gorged on my erection for a good long time. But boy was he rough with me. He squeezed it so hard and gnawed on it so impetuously that it hurt. Then when he scrunched it in his big fist, he pinched the foreskin back so hard he nearly tore it. As if that wasn't enough, having punished my dick, he finally threw me face down onto the bed and got above me as though trying to force me into submission. He pressed me into the bed and leaned over, putting all his weight on me until it was difficult to breathe. Then he shoved his big paw right into my hole, digging his thick fingers deep into my ass and clawing the lining of my chute with his fingertips. Fuck that hurt. Did this guy think I was cybernetic or something? That was delicate human tissue he was trying to rip.

"Ow, that hurts," I squealed, my face muffled into the mattress.

"Good," he said, with a tone of meanness in his voice.

Then he slapped me real hard on the butt, bringing the full force of his palm down on my rounded ass, so that the sharp crack of his blow resounded off the bare walls of my room. I told you he was a hurter. He loved to see shota boys restrained and pleading for mercy. Well, I pleaded alright, and as he held me down, one arm keeping me secured fast against the mattress, I could just twist my head around enough to see that with his other hand, we was jerking himself off. He liked to jerk off to the plaintive cries of a shota boy nearly having the life squeezed out of him. That was his thing. So I bore it. I put up with a few minutes of breathlessness while he fiddled with my boyhole and whacked off onto my back. The bed was squeaking in time to the rhythmic movements of his fist, as he pummeled away at the turgid organ in his crotch. Finally, I felt the warm, wet spatters of his spunk peppering my back, and he froze, letting out two almost silent gasps as his orgasm consumed him. It must have been a good one because I actually felt the force of the little jets of cum splashing against my skin, and his spunk was scalding hot, a sure sign that he had ejected it from deep within his balls. Finally, the last few drops fell from his cock, and he let me go. He loosened his grip, so I could breathe again, and he paused to wipe the head of his cock on my butt cheeks. I turned over and looked at him. He still looked mean, and had an annoyed, gruff expression, as though he was still not satisfied. As I sat up, I felt the watery puddles of his juice running down my back to the base of my spine and pooling in my ass crack. It felt good, but at the same time I couldn't help thinking what a waste it was because I couldn't lick it up.

One particular trick liked to alternate between me and Chip. I think it depended on what mood he was in. If he felt like subjugating a little boy, he would go for Chip. If he wanted a more experienced boy, he would choose me. Sometimes, when he couldn't make up his mind, he would have us both. Strangely, he never fucked either of us. His particular specialty was eating butt. Not just eating butt, but felching in particular. Yeah, this guy was an expert felcher. He liked to lick our holes clean, particularly after they had been filled with spunk. If I fucked Chip, he would get very excited seeing me deposit my watery spunk into Chip's pretty little hole, then he would get down there and felch it out of his ass. He would lick Chip's little butt clean, his tongue cleaning it of every drop of my cum until it was wet and shiny with his spit, and spotlessly wiped of every trace of my kiddiespunk. Then he would jerk himself off as he did it, cumming into his hand as his tongue fucked Chip's hot little hole. It was the ultimate method of masturbation, bringing yourself off while your tongue was firmly engulfed in some hairless shota boy's little snatch. I swore I would try that myself one day. Perhaps I would even go a step further – fuck my load into Chip's hot little hole and then felch my own spooge out of his pretty butt while I whacked off another in my hand. Oh fuck, that would be the ultimate.

Surprisingly there were no restrictions on taking pictures at the club. That always puzzled me a little. I would have thought more tricks would want to take pictures and videos. Cameras of whatever variety were not barred and, although they were not common, they were certainly not unknown. Having said that, there was one particular trick who always brought a camera with him. I quite admired his foresight actually. He obviously relished his sessions with me and I let him photograph the proceedings as he liked. Usually he would fuck me, then video or photograph me jacking off. I let him video me with my spunk shooting out. I had already cum whilst he was fucking me, but I worked out another one just for him. He photographed that as well, with my little trail of clear kidspunk spilt across my belly button. Then he whacked off all over me and photographed me with his spunk spattered across my chest. He shot it really spectacularly as well – long wet streaks and numerous splashes where the force of his ejaculation made it splinter into little droplets and it rained down making my chest and tummy wet all over. It was worth preserving the spectacle, just to immortalize the image of my young body soiled by his cum. It glistened so tantalizingly on my skin, I would have liked to lick it off myself if I had had a long enough tongue. I knew those images would be worth endless hard cums for him later on. He would spill plenty of spunk over those photos, maybe even print them out, enlarge them, and spatter the images with his spooge, and the thought of him achieving that thrill over my photos made my dick instantly hard. Did I like the look of myself? You're damn right I did. I could cum real hard just looking at myself in the mirror. A few times I had cum so hard I had squirted right onto the mirror, my thin kidspunk trailing in watery rivulets down the glass. That was how I discovered that cum, especially the clear, runny kind, like mine, made a particularly good glass cleaner.

I had become quite proficient in playing up for the camera as well. I had plenty of little tricks that were erotic and suggestive and never failed to induce at least a stiffie, if not a full blown cum. So what I did once, just for him, I did my favorite trick with the toothpaste: I squeezed a tiny blob into my mouth, worked it around with my spit so that it frothed up, then opened my mouth in a big O and let the white, spunk-like froth coat my lips and dribble down my chin. They loved that. Doubtless it looked like they had just spunked in my mouth. I bet they jerked themselves stupid over that. Let them. Here, let me give you something to force that spunk out even harder, let me give you something to focus on while you're jerking that spunk out of your cock, looking deep into my eyes as you release your essence all over me. His camera clicked away, the flash firing repeatedly.

Another guy liked to watch porn, rather than make it. He would set up his laptop on the end of the bed with some grainy movie of an inordinately tiny boy getting reamed by some thick set guy with an enormous cock, and while that was running, he would lie back, propped up on the pillow and have me jerk or blow him. That struck me as odd. I thought porn was for when you didn't have the real thing to hand, although logically I couldn't see any drawbacks to having someone else beat your meat while you watched it. Struck me as the ultimate decadence. So that was what I did. I brought him off with my fist or my tongue, as he watched that tiny boy being fucked and, if I timed it right, I could just get him into fits of ecstatic release just as the guy in the movie pulled out and blew a massive load over that tiny boy's trembling little body. That boy sure was pretty. I wouldn't have minded a heavy session with him myself. He was just like Chip, small in stature, but pretty beyond words. Tell you the truth, once while I was huddled over this guy's cock, working it over in my mouth, I scooted around so that I was sideways on, and I could sneak a glance at the movie as I sucked him. My other hand was meanwhile scrunching at my little cock in my crotch and I made myself cum even before my client. I deftly switched hands and used my spunk to lubricate his cock as I continued to jack it. Nice huh? Luckily, it went almost unnoticed. A few muted shudders, and I was able to carry on sucking him off as if nothing had happened. That's me, always utterly professional. But then, by now I had got my silent cums down to a fine art.

There was another memorable trick who was heavily into watersports. That is, he got off by pissing on little shota boys. Now that was a real education. I thought I knew everything about cock and ass play until this particular trick showed me what real piss games were. I was quite surprised the first time he finished fucking me. He had insisted that we fuck on the floor. It had to be the floor. Even though I had a perfectly comfortable and clean bed for us to fuck on. I thought it was just another little foible. That was nothing unusual. All my tricks had their little idiosyncrasies, so I just went with it. Tell you the truth it was actually quite erotic getting my ass fucked while he thoroughly pummeled me into the bare wooden floor. The banging noise from him grinding my stiff little cock into the hard floor was quite a turn on. When he had fucked his load into me, he stayed in me, and there was a period of stillness and silence as he laid on top of me, his still hard dick wedged deep into my boyhole, and he seemed to be waiting for something. I thought maybe he was going for seconds. Some guys could do that. They stayed hard and could go for another cum right away. They could work up another spunkload within a matter of minutes. But he didn't want to fuck. He was breathing quite evenly and there were a few moments of quiet concentration. I waited, bearing his weight and patiently staring into the dull wooden floor. Then he seemed to exhale with relief, and I felt the strangest sensation. An incredible warmth radiating from his dick, deep inside my hole. I felt the warmth before I felt the wetness, and it took me a few seconds to work out what was going on. His dick was still hard and he let go a powerful stream of warm pee deep into my hole, filling me up with hot liquid. He was pissing in me! He breathed softly into my ear as he was doing so, and I could even feel him squeezing his bladder muscles as he emptied every last drop into me. What I found incredible was that none of his pee leaked out. His dick was still so engorged and so tightly plugged into my hole, that all his liquid was working up inside me, filling up my insides and making me feel quite bloated. It then made sense why he had wanted to fuck on the floor. The pissing thing was his encore, and out of due respect to the bedclothes he insisted on the floor. It had nothing to do with him having fantasies about ravaging a poor little farm boy on the barn floor, which was quite a common fantasy, I had found. I knew that because I knew all the most common fantasies. When they weren't raping some helpless little farm boy in amongst the hay bales, they were fiddling with some innocent looking choirboy, playing with their little stiffies and making them squirt their kiddiespunk into their pure white robes, and fucking their virgin butts on the floor of the vestry. Whatever the scenario, the common denominator was that there was always some poor innocent little boy getting a big mancock forcibly shoved up his butt. Anyhow, this time it was no rape fantasy. This guy had actually released a long stream of piss that penetrated deep into my butt, and I must admit the warmth and wetness, and the sheer volume of it, filled up my chute so substantially that it felt like my bowel was going to burst. Actually, that tightness was very pleasurable. I had never felt such sensations before. I had taken big loads before, sure, and believe me some guys could spunk buckets – but this volume of liquid was even better. For sheer eroticism, it was a welcome advance on even the most voluminous spunkloads. When he was done, he withdrew, slipping his still hard member out of my hole, thus relieving the pressure and at the same time releasing a little damburst of pee from my chute. The warm fluid flooded out in a little stream between my legs and onto the floor. I could feel it splashing against the insides of my thighs.

"Did you enjoy your little enema?" he said, standing over me menacingly, his flagging cock glistening with wetness right to the root.

Raising my butt up off the floor, I looked down between my legs and there was a little puddle of almost clear pee, rippled with the unmistakable swirl of his thick white spunk, and traces of other darker matter that I didn't care to think about.

There was another guy who was so mechanical and devoid of emotion that getting fucked by him was actually unnerving. He showed no signs of pleasure and the whole transaction was so utilitarian, I wondered if it was actually worth the effort. He was completely expressionless all through our coupling. He fucked efficiently, cummed silently, and said nothing throughout. He barely looked me in the eye. I swear this guy was like a robot. Hell, worse than a robot. At least a robot was capable of FAKING it, for chrissakes. It was as if he didn't feel anything at all. When it was over, he pulled out, barely pausing to wipe his dripping cock. No word of a lie, he never made any noise at all. Not even a muted puff, or even so much as a quickening heart rate. He didn't bat an eyelid. Stayed completely expressionless. You would have thought it was something as mundane and unmemorable as cleaning your teeth. Geez, I wondered why he bothered. Was it even worth the expense.

The other thing that I never understood were the clients who just liked to talk. That was something I could never work out. Here was a luscious piece of fuckboy ass in the offing, with an opportunity to fuck and abuse my pretty little body in whatever way they wished. They could stick that rampant boy-plunger anywhere they liked, with me willing to pleasure their cock, take their spunk in my ass or down my throat and all they wanted to do was talk? Never in all my endeavors in boyfuckdom could I make sense of that. It was the worst kind of kackminded fuckology. Nevertheless, I did it. I did it because it was far less effort than getting fucked. They wanted to chew the fat awhile? Sure. Shoot the breeze? No problem. Talking was cheap. Talking was easy. Of course most of the time it was just idle yammer about irrelevant things, about themselves and their chaotic lives, about their families back home, the children that were the same age as me. That always struck me as a rather odd paradox. Here they were, in a seedy hotel room with a naked little fuckboy, for all intents there to comprehensively defile my hairless preteen body, and at home they had sons the same age as me who they probably went home and kissed on the forehead, after having had their engorged daddy dick sunk into some poor shota boy's little cunt, and deposited their immoral daddy spunk deep into his ass. I guess some boys were not there to be abused. Some boys were there to be valued and nurtured and were not there to pleasure grown men's dicks and to be their fuckpuppy or their cumdump or their cockslut. Well, I guess I wasn't destined to be one of them.

When they weren't talking about themselves, they would talk about neutral subjects, like the war or the political situation, or anything that wasn't about them or me. But sometimes it was about me. There were always those who wanted to 'rescue' me; who offered to take me away from all this; who tempted me with untold delights and the possibility to live the life of Riley with them; to put me up in some millionaire mansion where servants would pander to my every whim and where I would be well fed and well looked after. What? And be indentured for the rest of my life? To have no means of independence? That was more like enslavement for me, for undoubtedly all they wanted in return was boy ass on tap, to have a ready supply of cum-inducing fuckboy to pleasure their dicks whenever it took their fancy? No thanks. I know I was a fuckboy, and I didn't have many choices, but I valued my individuality too much. That was what happened when I met the American. He was another one that wanted to throw me a lifeline and escape Verolino with me. I'll tell you all about the American next time. For the moment, I was content to carry on with what I knew. I wasn't ready for the big wide evil world. And it wasn't ready for me. I was content to continue this heady, profligate existence. Why? Because I loved it, that's why. Every ass-pounding, cock-sucking, spunk-squirting, cum-soaked minute of it.

Chapter 5
The Young American – I

Every now and then, as a shota boy, you met a trick that was really memorable. Not memorable because of some perved-out fantasy he wanted to act out, or because he wanted to plumb the depths of depravity with you, or because of the inventiveness of the degradation he wanted to inflict on you. But memorable because he was kind, considerate, or just simply a nice guy. Don't get me wrong, most of my tricks on the whole were quite amenable. Even the gruff and ill-tempered ones did not pose a challenge for me. I knew how to handle them. But I was also realistic. I knew I couldn't afford to be too cavalier about it. This was my work. I respected it because it kept me fed. Most of the time it was a pretty utilitarian transaction, whereby I went through the motions, submitting to whatever they wanted to do. If I cummed too during the process, that was a bonus. If the client was pleasant and respectful, that made for a more enjoyable encounter. If they were interesting to boot, that was even better. For the most part, there was no emotion. It was quite passionless actually, just a mechanical process designed to induce an orgasm. It could leave you feeling pretty much like a fuck machine at times. But once in a while you had a trick that you actually felt something for. There were those very rare occasions where you met a guy you really liked and for whom you had a genuine affinity. The American was one such guy.

Let me tell you about the American. He was pretty hot. You could always tell the Americans. They were so clean looking and had such great teeth. This one was young, a pretty stud of 18 or 19, and he walked in with an arrogant swagger and a knapsack slung over one shoulder. On his hip, there was a holstered pistol. There was a brief silence, during which the hubbub in the room lowered temporarily – it always did when a new and unfamiliar face entered. But he looked innocuous enough and, significantly, he was on his own. He descended the stairs, clattering down the wooden staircase in his big clodhopper boots. His boots were leather, and very well made. He had tight black pants on, which accentuated the muscles in his thighs. His camouflage tunic was undone, so that you could see the tanned skin of his bare chest underneath, his trim, tightly ridged stomach disappearing tantalizingly under the webbed belt that was holding up his pants. He was tall and lean, and around his head was a large, brightly colored bandana, expertly tied at the back, half covering his ears. Beneath that he had a thick head of black hair, a bushy halo of loose curls, which flopped about as he turned his head to survey the room. In one ear he had an earring, a thick hoop of gold, which lent him something of the look of a buccaneer. At the same time, he was chewing away suavely, his firm, handsome jaw masticating on a rather large blob of gum. Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, he took a cursory look around. He was almost baby-faced, with big round eyes that were bright and friendly, and quite thick black eyebrows that framed his eyes nicely. He spotted me sitting on the corner stool at the bar and focused on me, I suppose because I was nearest the door. Then he meandered through the crowd towards me and leaned across the bar next to me. He looked around at me, and I could see his bright, sparkling eyes roving over my naked body as I was neatly perched on that stool next to him. I felt a twitch of delight in my crotch as his eyes deliberated for rather too long on my cock.

"Hey lil man, what's good to drink around here?"

"Try this," I said, proffering my glass.

He smiled as though I had said something quaint, and I could see a flash of white. I was right – he had great teeth.

He took my glass and was about to lift it to his lips, but he hesitated, the glass hovering just below his chin. He raised his other hand and took the big blob of gum out of his mouth, then drained what was left of my drink, pausing to wipe his lips with the back of his hand. Then he looked back at me and nodded approvingly.

"You sold it to me lil man," he said.

The American moved over and stood directly in front of me. He stood really close, so that he was towering over me as I sat there, his thighs pressed against my bare knees. He put one hand on my shoulder and lifted my chin with the other, and he looked down at me.

"Y' know, you're kinda cute lil man, what's your name?"

"Cloud," I said shyly.

"What, like in the sky?" he asked, jerking his thumb at the ceiling.

I nodded.

"Well Cloud, will ya have a drink with me?"

"Sure. Whatever you want," I said.

He took off his knapsack, unhooking the strap from his shoulder, and put it on the floor by his feet. It looked heavy. With his other hand he grabbed my jaw tightly, his finger and thumb pressing into my cheeks. My mouth opened slightly and he popped his used piece of gum into my mouth, closing my jaw shut. He held his hand over my mouth, studying my face closely, looking into each of my eyes in turn. I could feel the gum on my tongue, still warm from his mouth, and I started chewing on it. He smiled. He had quite a friendly face. I liked the neat, young stubble on his jaw, which had not yet acquired the fullness of an adult beard, and was still soft and sparse enough to tickle when he kissed me, as I was sure he would later. For me it just added to his mystique. Despite his predatory approach, he appeared very unthreatening. I looked up into his warm brown eyes and I knew straight away he was going to be fun. I bet he had a beautiful physique. I bet he had a big, stiff cock. I bet his cum was delicious.

"Yeah, you sure are cute," he said, staring into each of my eyes in turn.

At that point Ten arrived and leaned over the bar to take his order.

"What's your pleasure sir?"

The American rested his hands on my shoulders, to indicate that I was now his for the evening, and he settled on a glass of Black Death, the specialty of the house.

"And one for my buddy here," he added, slapping his palm down affectionately on my shoulder.

Ten pushed two glasses of the dark liquid across the counter and the American threw down a pile of crinkled dollar bills. Good old greenbacks. US dollars were the only currency around here.

"Keep 'em comin' until that's all used up," he said, pushing the little pile of dollar bills across the bar.

The American looked at his glass and raised it to his lips, then drained the whole glass, slamming it back down on the bar.

Ten fixed him another one. Then with his glass in his hand, the American turned his attention back to me.

"So what do you do Cloud?" he asked enquiringly.

"Anything you want," I said, chewing on his gum, "I'm here to please you."

"You're already pleasing me lil man," he said, glancing strategically at my crotch, and took another swig of his drink.

I knew that look. He wanted my cock. Probably wanted to play with it. Maybe he even liked to suck little hairless dicks like mine. There was only one way to find out.

"Hmm, Cloud…" he said, savoring the sound of it, and looking wondrously up towards the ceiling, "That's a cute name."

"Thanks," I said, chuffed by his compliment.

"What's your last name Cloud?" he went on.

"Nine," I said, laconically.

He hesitated a moment, not immediately grasping the joke. Then he broke into a sly smile.

"Oh, I like that," he chuckled.

The Americans always did.

"What's YOUR name?" I asked, reciprocating.

"Cigarette," he said, curtly.

I quite liked the way he said it. He said it the American way, with the emphasis on the first syllable.

"But my friends call me Ciggy," he went on.

I smiled, vaguely amused by his unusual nickname.

"Why?" I asked, crinkling my nose in bemusement.

"I used to smoke a lot," he said resignedly, "but now I mainly just chew gum."

It was a good story, I decided.

"Where are you from Cloud?" he asked.

"Around," I said vaguely, rolling his gum around in my mouth.

I wasn't really in the mood to go into convoluted details about how I had suffered a head injury and lost my memory and all that. It would have killed the conversation even before it had started.

"Where are YOU from?" I asked him.

"I'm from a place far, far away from here," he said, mystically, "A place called Topeka. Y' know where that is?"

"Kansas," I said, emphatically.

He was genuinely taken aback, visibly blinking in surprise.

"You know it?" he said, astounded.

"Of course," I said, suavely.

"How come?"

"I read a lot," I replied cryptically.

"Well, I'll be…." he exclaimed, "Y' know, I've travelled all over Europe and goddamn, if you ain't the only charlie I've spoken to that's heard o' Topeka, Kansas."

I smiled to myself. I wasn't just a pretty face. I may have been a fuckboy but I was no doof. I may have been blond, but I was no bimboy. I spent a lot of time in my room, and when I wasn't playing with Chip's little dick, I was reading. The atlas was one of my favorite books. America was one of my favorite subjects, so I knew all the state capitals of the USA.

"So what brings you to this hell-hole?" I asked him.

He cocked his head, pursing his lips in thought.

"I came to seek my fortune," he said, raising his eyebrows, "Where there's war, there's money. I'm just collecting up some insurance to take back home with me."

Great. Just what I need, I thought, another mercenary. Europe was chock full of them.

So that was how we got talking. Ciggy seemed like a great guy. We spent ages just shooting the breeze about what it was like living in Kansas, and how he had given up on ever having the opportunity to go to college because he happened to be trapped in Europe when the war broke out. He couldn't get home, so he just had to make the best of it. He was waiting until he could save up enough money to take back home with him, although I never asked him what exactly was "enough" or how exactly he was acquiring this money.

After talking for a good long time, it seemed clear that he would want to stay the night. He happily paid the going rate and readily threaded his greenbacks into my arm-strap. Great, I thought. Here was a pretty decent guy who seemed quite down to earth and might actually be a pleasure to spend the night with. He wasn't shady or threatening and wasn't likely to be overly demanding in his sexual pursuits, nor give me a hard time. He was also very handsome. It followed that he must be a good fuck. My little cock was imperceptibly stiff all the time we were talking, aching to be fondled by him.

He managed to down several glasses of Black Death, which was unusual for someone who had just tasted the drink for the first time. For many it was an acquired taste, but he seemed to take to it almost instantly. I just had the one, and even that was heavily diluted. I knew my limits, and I knew it didn't pay to drink too much. I was still quite small in stature, and too much alcohol deadened my senses. It didn't seem to affect my little stiffie, because my cock was still as hard as steel, but I liked to keep my senses sharp. The clients didn't like it if you were slurring and incoherent. Although, even then, there were those who would have fucked you even if you WERE unconscious. Hell, some of them might have even PREFERRED you to be unconscious. They wouldn't then have to make the effort of interacting with you. Mind you, some of the tricks had such a grave lack of personality I might have preferred to be unconscious too.

With an air of jubilation, I took Ciggy's hand and slipped out of the club with him in tow. We meandered out of the back, brushing past a couple of comatose UNHCR workers, who were slumped on the stairs probably stoned shitless. Maybe they were the very same ones that were always there trading with the militiamen, who knows?

When we got to the top of the stairs, I led Ciggy along the musty passageway to my dingy room, and let him in. I slipped in behind him, making sure I locked the door. I invited him to make himself comfortable while I went into the adjoining room to put away my evening's spoils. Conveniently, I had one of the very few rooms in the hotel that had an adjoining door. This had once been two interconnecting bedrooms, but I had turned the adjoining room into a little sitting room and study where I kept my music and my books. I had a secret hiding place on the bookcase where I stashed all my dough, just behind The Collected Works of Oscar Wilde. I stuffed the greenbacks into the little tin, replaced the lid, and put it back on the shelf, making sure I slotted the thick tome back in it's rightful place.

When I went back into the bedroom, my cock was already hard in anticipation of some good sex. I expected to find Ciggy already in bed, or at least undressed, but he wasn't. He had sat down in the big armchair by the dresser and wasn't taking his clothes off. He was sitting there as though he had other things on his mind. I stopped, concerned that maybe he had changed his mind. Sometimes clients did that. They were fairly compliant and amenable about fucking me, until it got to the point that they were actually confronted with the reality that they were going to have to make wood and physically stick their dicks in me. Somehow, that prospect seemed to frighten some of them.

"Aren't you getting naked?" I asked, almost disappointed.

"No," he replied, folding his arms across his lap.

"You don't want to fuck me?"

He shook his head regretfully.

"Oh, I want to," he said, "But I can't."

I hesitated a moment. I was standing there with my hardened cock protruding from my crotch and it looked a bit forlorn, straining upwards with unrequited arousal.

"I'm impotent," he said, "Even the sight of you naked doesn't get me hard."

I stared at him incredulous, my hairless little erection suspended there redundantly.

"It's not the alcohol?" I queried.

He shook his head.

"No, it's a permanent problem," he explained, "Don't worry, it's not you."

"You mean…?"

He shook his head again.

"I can't do anything."

"Oh," I said, not knowing what to do.

That sounded pretty hopeless. Here was I, a 12 year old shota boy who could make wood at will, and who relied on my cock for my survival, and often misused it. I could see the paradox with this poor young man. He was handsome and sexy and should have been at the height of his sexual prowess. How could it be that his cock didn't work?

He rose up a little and leaned forward on the chair, then took off his camouflage tunic, so that his torso was fully exposed. He had a beautiful physique, lean and tight, with good musculature and flawless brown skin, obviously tanned from his exploits. Then he leaned way back on the chair, so that he was almost lying down, his chin resting on his smooth chest. I could see the leanness of his tight flat stomach, and the rigid sections of his six pack were clearly visible beneath his flawless brown skin.

"You spunk?" he asked.

"Yeh," I asserted, "I spunk good."

"Can I just watch you?"

"What you mean…?" and I grasped my cock and jacked it a couple of times.

He nodded.

"Cum on me," he said, "Will you do that for me?"

"What there?" I asked, pointing to his chest.

"On my face," he said.

He removed his bandana, exposing his thick head of loose black curls, and I loved the way he shook his head to loosen his hair up. I looked at him. He was pretty and all, in his own way, with those neat, handsome, baby-faced features, that mussed-up hair and that gold earring. Actually he had quite a spunkable young face. I could just see my clear spunk trailing down his cheeks with that immature stubble on his jaw.

"Okay," I said, "but can I try something first?" pointing to his crotch.

"Sure," he said, totally non-committal, "Knock yourself out."

He relaxed, laying his arms on each side of the chair and opened his knees in invitation. I then got down on the floor between his knees. What I liked was that he reached over and stroked my shoulders and my bare back as I crouched before him. I was pleased that all the peripheral sexual rituals and affectations were not completely lost on him. He liked my naked body. That was a good sign.

I reached in and unfastened his webbed belt, undoing his tight black pants. I pulled down the front of his boxers and burrowed my hand into his crotch. He helped me by lifting his butt off the chair so that I could pull his pants and boxers down over his knees. I took hold of his limp cock, nestling there in a neat thatch of pure black pubes. He watched me studiously as I did so. His cock was warm and substantial and smelled very clean. It had a good girth to it and was quite prettily cut. It was a beautiful cock, which would have been a monster when erect. What a shame it had no life in it. I took the floppy snake into my mouth and gave it a few token sucks, all the time looking up into his eyes from between his knees. He had a look on his face that said, "boy if I could get this thing to work I would give your little ass such a hammering". Alas, it never came to life, even though I sucked on it good and hard, jacked it a few times and even grazed the head with my teeth. You could see the longing in his eyes.

I let the head of his heavy dick slip from between my lips and scooted up, mounting him even as he was sitting in the chair. I got astride his lap and dug my knees into the seat either side of him, so that the fleshy inner part of my thighs were hugging his narrow hips. I lowered my naked butt down so that his limp cock was nestled in my ass crack, warmly incubated by my perineum. I took hold of my stiff little dick, which looked tiny even compared to his limp adult dick, and I forced it downwards so that it was thrusting into his taut stomach, and I bounced up and down a little on his cock.

"Pretend you're fucking me," I said, "Just imagine your big, stiff fuckstick is digging right up into my ass right now…"

I threw my head back, just for effect, gasping and opening my mouth in a big O shape.

"Oh god… oh yeah, do it some more…!" I enthused, "Oh fuck, you're gonna make me cum so hard...!"

He looked alarmed, almost incredulous that he had this gorgeous naked little fuckboy squirming around on his lap, my stiff hairless cock digging wantonly into his abs. He was positively out of his depth, probably completely unprepared for my forwardness and precocity. Good. At least I could blow his mind, if nothing else.

"Fuck me!" I went on, tossing my blond head around, screwing my eyes shut, still bouncing on his lap and jacking my dick furiously, "Oh god, you're gonna fuck my spunk out!"

His eyes widened, passively drinking in my performance. Then he reached up and ran his palms ever so gently over my body, skimming my chest and tummy lightly, feeling me up as though I was something precious and fragile. His submissiveness was tremendously arousing to me. I knew I had him in my power. Tell the truth, I even surprised myself. I had managed to work us both up into a frenzy without having my ass fucked. That was a first, even for me.

In no time at all, I could feel that familiar burning urgency rising in my cock. I jacked it even faster, using my best stroke and a good even pace. When I knew that I was past the point of no return, I rose up on my knees and pointed my cock right at his face, closing in on the target just as my mission demanded. Just as my cock went into its spasms, I expertly flicked off my watery spunk right across his nose and lips, gasping loudly, actually taken by surprise at how powerful an orgasm it was. He closed his eyes and savored the feeling of my warm kiddiespunk splashing his face. It was quite watery, so that it dribbled in little rivulets down his face like cloudy tears.

When it was over, I sank back down on his lap, still holding my wet cock in one hand. He opened his eyes, then raised a hand to wipe his face. I stopped him.

"No," I said, putting a hand out to bar him.

He lowered his arm, curious to see what I was going to do. I leaned forward and stuck my tongue out, and licked his face in one upward sweep, using my tongue to scoop as much of my spunk off his face as possible, rather like licking a large postage stamp. I curled my tongue into a little scoop, holding a little pool of my cum in the center, and then I leaned in, probed between his lips and stuck my tongue into his mouth, depositing my essence right inside. He closed his lips around my protruding tongue and instinctively sucked it all off. He knew what to do. I watched his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed, even sucking his palate clean afterwards as though savoring the taste.

He looked at me, a bit shell shocked, but nonetheless satisfied. I stared right back at him, still perched on his lap.

"You're really somethin' else kid," he said, breathlessly.

I smiled mischievously.

"They say I'm the best," I said, a little blasé.

"I can believe that," he replied.

At that point I got up off his lap, climbing down off the chair, and went over to the bathroom to clean up. I could feel his eyes following me as I moved, and he admired me from across the room. I kinda felt sorry for him, so I stopped just by the bathroom door and held out my hand.

"C'mon," I said, "Shower with me."

He seemed taken aback.

"You wanna SHOWER with me?"

"If you can't cum you may as well get the benefit of showering with me," I said, "I don't offer that to all my tricks."

He smiled, genuinely flattered. Again he flashed his perfect teeth. He really did have a very nice smile.

"Y' know, I like you Cloud," he said, genuinely touched.

"Thanks," I said, "I like me too."

He chuckled at my arrogance and I was pleased that he got up and started getting undressed completely. I noticed his crotch still had a little gob of my cum where my post-orgasmic little dick had sunk down and leaked the residue of my cum onto his black pubes, just above the base of his flaccid cock. It looked almost like he had cum on himself.

He extricated himself from his jeans, like a snake shedding its dead skin. He had a fine physique, every bit as pretty as his dead cock, with quite well defined musculature. Other than his pubes and underarms, his body was smooth all over, save for a fine dusting of very thin hair on his calves. He stood up finally naked and waited. My cock was standing up once again, reaching maximum elevation. It never went down after just one cum and was no doubt spurred on by the sight of his gorgeous teen body. It wavered stiffly in my crotch, redundantly pointing upwards, and he smiled at the sight of it.

"Doesn't it ever go down?" he asked, amused.

"Can't help it," I said, "It obviously likes you."

He smiled, looking flattered.

"C'mon," I said, taking his hand, and led him into the bathroom.

It was strange. Here I was, a little 12 year old shota boy, and there was this young adult who seemed so much older than me, and yet he let me take charge. He put himself completely at my mercy, and I suddenly felt very mature, very grown up, and very powerful. We both stood in the shower quite close to each other, confined by the glass partition of the cubicle, and he shivered slightly in the coolness of the bathroom. Then I turned on the water jets and let the shower run until there was steam billowing up around us. Gently, I took some soap and lathered him up all over. My small hands looked so frail ministering to his muscled physique. But he said nothing. He just watched, with this look of curious fascination on his lips, and seemed very acquiescent to whatever I wanted to do. His floppy curls of hair were soon plastered flat against his head by the shower jets and he watched me through the water running off his face. I treated him to a lovely warm shower, making sure I lathered up every inch of his body, even running my hands over his firm butt and into the groove of his crotch. I lathered up his heavy balls and cock, almost like I was jerking that limp piece of teen meat, which was still substantial even in its permanent dormant state. Finally, I got him to rotate under the water jets to rinse off all the white foam. I swear I was hard all the way through.

Afterwards, when we were both standing outside the cubicle, drying off, he suddenly stopped and let the big bath towel fall from around his shoulders and he looked at me with a longing stare. It was slightly unnerving.

"What?" I asked.

He stepped closer, turning to face me head on, and stared deep into my eyes.

"You're really somethin' else kid, you know that?"

It was the second time he'd said that.

"Gee thanks," I said, shrugging it off with a laugh.

He carried on staring intensely, showing me that he was serious and that I should listen carefully to what he was saying.

"I mean it Cloud, you're special."

"Gee, you're full of compliments aren't you?" I replied, humbled by his flattery.

"Yeah, and bullshit," he laughed, "but then, aren't we all?"

We both laughed good naturedly for a few moments, then paused, standing there in a slightly awkward silence. Then he did something I was totally unprepared for. He leaned over, wrapped one arm around my neck, and drew me towards him, zeroing in on my lips, and kissed me very hard on the mouth. My body fell against him, and I felt his warmth and suppleness, still a little wet from the shower. It surprised me because kissing didn't usually figure in my repertoire. Cum-swapping, snowballing and felching yes. Kissing no. Even when I had jacked my kidspunk into his face the temptation to kiss had not arisen. It felt odd doing it after the event.

Stopping to draw breath, he released me, still holding me real close, and spoke softly, right into my face.

"You're beautiful lil man," he whispered softly.

"Thanks," I said, staring up at him, still in his embrace.

"I think I'm falling in love with you," he replied.

Oh fuck. Not another one, I thought. They all said that. It was nothing new. One quick fuck and they automatically wanted to possess me. They rent my ass for an hour or two and already they wanna buy me outright. In this case he hadn't even fucked me. He had tasted my spunk, that was about as intimate as it got. Now suddenly he was IN LOVE with me? Gimme a break.

I didn't take Ciggy's declaration of love too seriously. That was my way. After all, my tricks uttered all kinds of affirmations and avowals in the heat of the fuck. If they were about to bust a nut down my throat, their utterances were just designed to ratchet up the eroticism; declarations of love borne of the urgency to unload their fuckwad as deep into my boycunt as possible. It was kackminded to take their vocalizations at face value.

But that is not to say that I didn't enjoy being with Ciggy. I did. He was very pleasant. What I liked about Ciggy in particular was that he seemed to value closeness and intimacy, and he was very good at being affectionate without it ever turning into anything sexual. You see, he couldn't fuck me. His encounter with me didn't revolve around him seeking to fuck my little ass or bust his wad all over me. Indeed, that was what made him special. The very fact that he was incapable of even getting an erection allowed me to appreciate all the things that were usually peripheral to the sexual act, the things that were usually relegated to secondary importance, like hugging, kissing or just simply lying there together.

He had paid to spend the night with me, so that's what he did. After our shared shower, we laid on my bed just yammering, with our hair still wet. He chewed another couple of sticks of gum, then eventually fell asleep. We were both lying on top of my bed naked, and he had dozed off with one arm at his side, and the other around my shoulders. I was lying next to him on my side, way down with my head on his chest. I quite enjoyed resting my head on his smooth chest, beneath which I could detect the perfect pattern of his ribs. The rise and fall of his breathing induced a strange kind of peaceful lull that was almost rocking me to sleep. I glanced up and noticed that he was very still and his eyes had gently closed. And that was how I slept with him, in the protective embrace of this handsome, softly spoken young American.

In the morning, when the early dawn sunlight was just starting to penetrate the dusty sackcloth over the window that passed as a makeshift blind, I decided to get up. Quietly, I sat up and loosened his arm from around my shoulder, and gently placed it back down on the bed by his side. He stirred a little, but didn't wake up. I decided to go into the next room so I wouldn't wake him up. I felt like pottering about for a bit. I went over to the writing desk and saw that Ciggy had left his knapsack on the chair. I went to lift it off and realized it was quite heavy. There was something quite hard and cumbersome in there. So I looked inside. It seemed the knapsack was full of tools. There was a claw hammer, a wrench, some pliers and a pair of wire cutters. The largest item of all was a rather fearsome looking set of bolt cutters, with quite a long handle. I wondered what he did with all this stuff. In the bottom of the bag was a little cashbox with a hammered metal finish and a handle in the lid. It sounded like it was full of stuff, metal objects, something like coins. It was pretty weighty. This strange collection of objects aroused my curiosity. I had naturally assumed he was just another mercenary, so I didn't really understand what he was doing with all these tools.

As the sun rose and morning arrived properly, I went and brought us both some breakfast from the kitchen. I nipped down the passageway and grabbed some fresh croissants and a little pot of coffee and brought them into my room for us to share. I spread everything out on the bed and when he woke up he had a nice surprise. He rose up, still naked, and we sat there across from each other, cross-legged on the bed, and shared the spoils. He simply smiled and poured the coffee into two tin mugs. That was what I liked about Ciggy – he was easy to be with. It required no effort to be in his presence. He was just a very nice guy.

So we ate, munching on the still warm croissants, talking about everything and nothing. Then, when it came time for him to go, he dressed slowly and forlornly. I watched him as he pulled on his camouflage tunic, did up his belt with the holstered pistol, and slung his heavy knapsack over one shoulder. I could hear the tools inside clanging together as he did so. That saddened me a little. Tell the truth, I was kinda sorry to see him go.

As he turned towards the door, he suddenly stopped, as though he'd forgotten something.

"Are you doing anything today?" he asked.

I hesitated, caught a little off guard.

"I have nothing planned," I said, "Why?"

"Let me take you out," he suddenly enthused.

I flashed him an uncertain grin. I didn't know what he meant.

"Spend the day with me," he said.

I didn't know what to say. I wasn't very good at spontaneity, especially when it involved venturing outside the compound, but I had to admit his proposal had an air of excitement to it.

"C'mon, let me take you out for the day. My treat."

"Gee, I dunno," I said, more than a little apprehensive, "I don't go out much these days."

"Pity," he said, "We could have a real good time."

"Last time I went out I was kidnapped," I said, remembering how the KAPO militiamen had detained me and beat me and did all manner of horrific things to me. They were maniacs, I swear, every one of them.

"I'll look after you," he said, with a knowing smile, "You'll be safe with me."

He meant it too. He seemed so confident and I already felt safe with him. It wasn't a hard decision really. To save me from the unwelcome task of having to see him go, I agreed. I agreed because I wanted to spend more time with him, and I wasn't ready to let him go just yet.

Ciggy stood and watched as I got dressed. I pulled out some clean clothes and he seemed to enjoy watching me put them on. I slipped into clean boxer briefs and then pulled on my knee length cargo shorts and a fresh polo shirt. I quickly ran my fingers through my shaggy hair to smooth it down, as though that was all the grooming I needed, and presented myself to him. He smiled admiringly.

"I almost can't recognize you with your clothes on," he chuckled.

It was the first time he had seen me dressed. We walked out together. What I liked was that he put an affectionate arm around my shoulders as he led me downstairs and outside into the parking lot. Sitting there, in the dusty courtyard outside that passed as a parking lot for the Club, was a black Jeep Wrangler. It was the only car in the lot. I understood immediately why he had brought his knapsack inside with him – the soft top was removed so the vehicle was totally open to the elements and there was no trunk.

Ciggy watched my reaction.

"You like it?" he asked.

"Yeh, it's great," I said, beaming.

"Jump in," said Ciggy, pulling the passenger door open.

So I climbed in, negotiating the high step up into the vehicle. Ciggy slung the knapsack into the narrow space behind the passenger seat and then he climbed in next to me. He reached over and opened the glove box and took out a little pack of gum. He withdrew two sticks of gum and put one between my lips. I accepted it with a smile. Then he stuck the other in his mouth. There was a pair of sunglasses in the glove-box which he also took and, using both hands, he carefully put them on me. He looked over at me wearing his sunglasses and he seemed to be admiring me. I liked wearing his sunglasses, and I was flattered that he wanted me to wear them. It was such an affectionate gesture and I liked the way Ciggy did things for me.

Turning to the controls, Ciggy fired up the engine, and he gunned it a couple of times. It growled under the hood of the tiny car, and he seemed to get real pleasure from the sound it made.

"Now hold on tight," he said, with a grin, "you're gonna get a real rollercoaster ride."

He wasn't kidding. The little car moved off with a jolt, and he swerved it tightly through the gate of the parking lot, weaving between the metal posts with only inches to spare. Once into the road, Ciggy put his foot down and we left the hotel behind at great speed. There was virtually no other traffic on the roads. There were very few civilian cars, mainly because the supply of gasoline was so restricted. So the only vehicles we passed were the distinctive white vehicles of UNVERO, sometimes Humvees, sometimes open trucks, the odd APC. There was a low-loader with tanks on it, and even a very long missile launcher. Everywhere was the feeling of confrontation and war. The UN was supposed to be keeping the peace and monitoring the truce in Verolino. Supposedly it was protected against invasion by the UN mandate. But the fact that the UN were a prime target for the rebel militias, who didn't recognize the mandate in any case, also made the UN presence something of a liability.

Leaving the compound of the hotel for the first time in many weeks, I'd almost forgotten what the outside world looked like. Not that it was very inspiring of course. There was still a lot of shell damaged and demolished buildings. Soon we were travelling at high speed over open roads, where the odd house-front or porch flashed by. I sat there in the open car, which was quite high off the ground, giving me a feeling of detachment. With Ciggy's confident hands at the wheel, I felt quite invulnerable. Every now and then we would pass a house that had been burned out and had been left as an empty shell. Even those that were still intact had the tell-tale signs of heavy shelling, that had gouged pockmarks into the brickwork. That was the problem with Verolino. The signs of war were never far away. Everywhere you went there were reminders of conflict and death and destruction.

Presently, we entered a village that seemed almost deserted. The irregular and random little villas that lined both sides of the bare highway were quite spaced out from each other and set well back from the road. This village itself seemed to have been spared the ravages of war and actually looked quite intact. There were ribbons of smoke rising from the odd chimney, and even washing hanging on the clothes lines, as though life was carrying on very much the same as before.

Ciggy slowed down as we entered the village, negotiating a few narrow, twisting lanes, heading straight for what seemed like the center of the village. The road eventually led out into a flat, open area, like a little piazza. There were a lot of people around. The piazza was surrounded by tall, imposing buildings that looked very old. At the far end was a church, and looked to be the tallest building for miles around. Along one side of the piazza there were a few market stalls with awnings thrown loosely over them to provide some shade, and some dejected market traders were selling some sorry looking fruits and vegetables. A lot of would-be purchasers were ambling about, gingerly fingering the produce. Ciggy slowed right down and maneuvered the open car through the center of the little marketplace, negotiating the crowds of oblivious pedestrians. I felt very privileged sitting there gliding through this little sea of people that was milling around us.

"We're here," Ciggy announced, impatiently sounding the horn a few times.

"Where are we?" I asked, looking around a little disorientated.

Ciggy didn't bother answering me. We scythed through the crowd and he stopped the Jeep at the end of the marketplace, just by the broad, flat steps of the church and jumped out. I was more than a little ruffled by Ciggy's erratic driving style, so somewhat relieved to get out and step back onto terra firma. Because the car was so high off the ground, I realized that you tended to feel the twists and turns a lot more, and got thrown around a lot. Something to do with the vehicle's center of gravity, I figured.

Ciggy just took my hand, and pulled me away. He didn't seem at all concerned about being seen with me, and him openly holding hands with a 12 year old boy wasn't going to cause any consternation. This was Verolino, after all.

Next to the church was a little parade of shops. One was a café which had an open forecourt. There were a few round tables with brightly colored parasols. Ciggy pulled up one of the metal chairs for me, and he left me sitting at one of the tables while he went straight inside. I could see him chatting animatedly with the proprietor. They shook hands and greeted each other loudly and enthusiastically. It seemed they knew each other. I could see the proprietor, an older man with wiry grey hair and a long apron, glance over towards me approvingly.

Ciggy came and sat down and handed me a laminated menu.

"Here," he said, "what will you have to drink?"

"You mean I can order anything I like?" I asked.

"Yup," Ciggy nodded, "Or let me order something for you."

Looking over the menu, there was some fascinating and delicious sounding stuff on it. It was inconceivable to me that even in this state of war, when so many basic things were in short supply, there was still some semblance of normality in Verolino.

I noticed that, instead of sitting down opposite me, on the other side of the table, Ciggy pulled up a chair right next to me, so that we were both on one side of the table looking out into the piazza. I quite liked the way he stayed so close to me.

Ciggy ordered me a big milky drink. It was cool and frothy and came in a tall flared glass with a long bendy straw.

"What is it?" I asked, as it was placed before me, amazed at how big it was.

"It's a milkshake," said Ciggy.

"Oh," I said, impressed, "I've read about these."

Ciggy laughed.

"You've READ about them?" he exclaimed, "But you've never HAD one?"

I shook my head, almost embarrassed by my ignorance. I took a long draw of the drink through the straw. It was very sweet and delicious. Ciggy seemed to enjoy watching me drink it. Every now and then Ciggy would take a sip of his coffee from a big round cup, which looked almost as big as a soup bowl, and he would glance over at me and just smile affectionately.

When I had polished off most of the milkshake, I found I could get no more through the straw. Frustratingly, it wasn't long enough to reach the very bottom of the tall glass, so I discarded the straw and tipped the glass to my lips and drank what was left. That left me with a little white moustache on my top lip. I could see my reflection in the polished steel of the table top. Ciggy thought that was funny, and he lovingly leaned over and wiped my lips with his fingers. That seemed like such a caring and affectionate gesture, and as I sat there with him, I wondered if this is what normal 12 year old boys did. I wondered if this is what it felt like to be taken out by a father or an older brother and whether this is how my life should have been. I wondered if 12 year old boys really were meant to be fucked by older men, instead of just being looked after by them, and whether they were meant to drink Black Deaths instead of milkshakes. I liked sitting there with Ciggy, shaded by the big parasol, watching the passers by, still wearing his sunglasses. I don't know why, but in Ciggy's presence I didn't feel so grown up anymore. I just felt like a little boy.

As we sat there, I could see Ciggy casting a wary and watchful eye on the Jeep, which was only a short distance away from where we sat, probably because his knapsack was still in there. It wasn't until then that I was curious enough to probe Ciggy about what he did with all that stuff, so I asked him about the tools in his knapsack.

"What do you use them for?" I asked.

He watched me for a moment before answering, clearly contemplating an appropriate response.

"I collect up people's jewelry," he said, fixing me with an intense stare, "Gold rings, earrings, chains, bracelets, anything they won't be needing anymore."

"You mean they just GIVE you their jewelry?" I asked, puzzled.

Again he laughed.

"Hardly," he said, somewhat amused, "they're dead."

I blinked, not sure if I'd heard him right.

"You mean, you rob the bodies of the dead?"

"Well I can't very well ask permission," he countered, with a laugh.

I stopped still and regarded him with a slight air of suspicion. He evidently noted my change of expression.

"Don't look so horrified," he said, "I just recycle their accessories. Pity to let them go to waste. If it wasn't me, it would be somebody else."

"So why do you need the tools?" I asked, still intrigued.

"Some things are not that easy to remove," he explained.

"You cut the rings off people's fingers?" I asked, horrified.

"Nah!" he said, in a derogatory tone, "That would be silly. If I can't get their rings off I just cut their fingers off."

I stared at him for a good few seconds, trying to reconcile the realization of how this beautiful, pleasant, baby-faced young man had more or less admitted to being something akin to a grave-robber. But I decided not to judge him. We all did things that were maybe anathema to some. I didn't like it when people judged me, so I resolved not to do it to him. These were troubled times and I knew we all just had to do what we needed to do to survive.

"What are you going to do with it?" was all I could think to ask.

"That lil bundle o' treasure is gonna be my ticket outta here," he said, "I'm gonna sell it on the black market and buy a seat on that transporter. Then I'll be outta this hell-hole for good."

"Will you go back to Kansas?" I asked.

"Yup. I've got it all worked out," he enthused, leaning towards me, "I'm gonna get that transporter to the Incirlik airbase in Turkey, then I'll buy myself a seat on a regular scheduled flight back to the US."

As his enthusiasm trailed off, there was silence. He watched me for a few seconds, cocking his head admiringly as we both assimilated what he had just said.

"Does that shock you lil man?"

"A little," I said, "But I know how it is."

He looked reassured.

"Sure you do," he said, and he stroked my head in a very affectionate and sympathetic way.

I noticed how he rested his arm along the back of my chair, almost as though he was placing it protectively around me, and as he sat next to me he stared at me quite intensely. It was exactly the same look he had given me when we stepped out of the shower last night.

"What?" I said, a little unnerved by his staring at such close proximity.

"I dunno Cloud," he said, "When I look at you, it just makes me wanna…"

I waited.

"Wanna what?"

"…do things to you," he concluded.

We both burst out laughing. It was meant as a compliment, but it was easy to see the irony of his remark, bearing in mind he was impotent. Actually, I thought it was quite quaint that he was able to laugh about it. We both allowed ourselves a gentle, rolling laughter that went on for a good few minutes, and when it was over, he turned to me again and put a hand under my chin, turning my face towards him.

"Y' know Cloud, I've lost count of the number of times you've made me laugh today."

I stared up at him, genuinely touched, and there was a moment of seriousness where our eyes met and I saw, just for a split second, right into this young man's soul. I saw him for what he really was – just a very nice guy – and I remember thinking that it was one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to me.

There were lots of moments like that on the day I spent with Ciggy. The nicest was when he took me out into the surrounding countryside and brought a picnic along. Before we left the café, Ciggy had the proprietor prepare a little package of goodies for our lunch, and he carefully placed the wrapped bundle in the back of the Jeep. Then we drove for ages, through narrow winding rural roads where we hardly encountered another vehicle. We were so far out into the countryside there was nothing but endless fields, trees and hedgerows. Our journey down these deserted little roads was punctuated only by the odd hare darting across the road.

Ciggy eventually pulled the Jeep off the road and into a meadow, and we were both jiggled about in our seats as the car negotiated the bumps in the terrain. He halted the car under the shade of a copse that was well away from the road. Here, he decided we would stop for lunch. Totally in his care, I watched him as he unloaded everything from the car. He spread out a little tarpaulin on the ground and set about placing the food at the center. He had even thought to bring plates and cutlery, which he had borrowed from the café. There was plenty of food and even a bottle of red wine. The café proprietor had thoughtfully uncorked it and stuck the cork back into the bottle for him.

When everything was laid out temptingly on the tarpaulin, Ciggy looked at me expectantly.

"It's ready," he announced.

I looked at him, not sure what to do.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It's a picnic," he replied.

"Oh," I said.

"Don't tell me, you've READ about them?" he laughed, alluding to my relative unworldliness in such matters.

I smiled sheepishly. He wasn't far from the truth. I had never had a picnic.

So we both sat cross-legged on the tarpaulin and he served me with a piece of chicken breast that looked like it had been flavored with something that made it look reddish-brown. There was also a salad with a mayonnaise dressing. He had even poured me a little red wine into a small tumbler.

"What is this?" I asked.

"Paprika chicken and Russian salad," he said, "It's mixing nationalities a bit, but I've kept it European."

I didn't know what he was talking about. I only knew the chicken tasted good.

I ate a lot that afternoon. The food was delicious. And I'm pretty sure I had more than one tumbler of wine. It was difficult to tell because Ciggy kept topping it up. Later, when I was sated and happy, and slightly tipsy from the wine, I stretched out on the grass enjoying the sunshine, appreciating the silence and the solitude. Here we were in the middle of nowhere, the noise and smoke and oppressively hot atmosphere of the Club behind us, nothing but birdsong to break the silence. There were no reminders of the war. It all seemed so far away it could almost have been a different country.

When Ciggy had finished clearing away the remnants of our picnic, he came to lie down with me on the cool grass. He had taken his shirt off, so that he was sitting there in just his tight black pants, no doubt eager to soak up some sunshine. Because of that, to lend some solidarity to his gesture, I decided to take my shirt off too. It was such a warm, sunny day, I wanted to get the full effect. I was so used to being inside, it would be good to feel the sun on my skin. This was the first time in ages that I had ventured beyond the walls of the hotel, and I was determined to exploit my good fortune.

Ciggy affectionately scooted closer to me, seeing I was now shirtless, and he smiled. I knew he liked looking at me. I liked him looking at me. His eyes roved over every contour of my body, as though he was appreciating a fine piece of art, and that made me feel good. He ran an admiring hand over my chest and tummy as I was lying there. His palms stroked my bare skin in a warm and appreciative way, and I knew he was enjoying the feel of me, just like last night when I had played with his dick and he still had the impetus to feel me up, even though he didn't have a hard-on. It felt good. I liked being felt up like that. Then he leaned over and planted a single little kiss right in the centre of my tummy, a short and sweet token of his affection. He scooted down, so that he could lie next to me and rested his head on my tummy. I found that extremely arousing.

You can probably guess what happened next. Yup, Little Cloud stood up to attention. My irrepressible little dick was hard and trying to poke through my cargo shorts, begging for attention. Ciggy's head was right down there, blocking my view, and his big mop of black curls felt soft and downy on my skin. Without warning, and completely unbidden by me, he softly laid a palm over my aching erection, and pressed slowly and sensuously, sending little volts of electricity all through me. The first feeling of pressure against an unbridled erection was heavenly. I moaned softly and squirmed about a bit in the grass. Ciggy squeezed my dick through the fabric of my shorts and, without saying anything, popped the button and opened the front of my pants. Burrowing his hands under the elastic of my boxer briefs, he took out my stiff little dick. I laid there staring up at the sky, and let him do what he wanted. He played with my dick for ages, gently rolling the skin up and down, pinching the head lightly, jacking it softly in his fingertips. It was all just foreplay. I was so horned up I desperately wanted him to jerk it so I could feel the exquisite pleasure of being able to shed my load at someone else's expense. It was always nicer to have somebody else's hand around it.

Ciggy did better than that. With his black hair still brushing my tummy, he closed in and I felt him envelop my little dick in his mouth. I melted with pleasure, and instinctively held onto his head as he sucked. He knew what he was doing. I could feel him pursing his lips around my shaft, bobbing his head on it, and at the same time using his tongue to bring me off. I could feel the slight roughness of his tongue flicking across the sensitive head of my dick, held in place by his lips, captive to the ecstasy being infused into it. I was aware that this act was for me and me alone. It was for my pleasure that he was sacrificing this moment. That made it not only infinitely satisfying – that it was my own dick being pleasured for a change – but also that he wanted to do this for me, and was willingly sucking my dick and balls into his pretty mouth. It was a beautiful moment, because I knew his little blowjob was a token of his affection for me.

It only took a couple of minutes of this almost unbearable pleasure and I was ready to blow. My breaths quickened, and so did his bobbing on my shaft. As I neared orgasm, he tightened the seal in his mouth, creating a vacuum of warm, wetness for my dick, and I knew I was crossing the Rubicon. I was on a collision course with the ultimate pleasure. When my orgasm hit, I couldn't feel my dick. It was buried deep in Ciggy's head. I doubled up in pleasure and pain, and my dick exploded in the most uncompromising way, powerfully pumping my kiddiespunk into Ciggy's willing mouth. He gnawed on it roughly even whilst it was urgently spitting out my meager little load, and he sucked down every drop. It felt like he was drawing the spunkload right out of me, as though his powerful suction was siphoning it from way down in my little hairless balls and for a long few seconds I floated about in a sea of pure bliss. Fuck, it was fantastic.

As I came down from that cum, spent and breathless, Ciggy let my dick go, abandoning my now yielding and slightly wounded little soldier. It fell limply back against my abdomen, wet with his spit, and feeling a little sensitive. He raised his head and slowly turned to look at me, a mischievous smile spreading across his face. I smiled back in gratitude and contentment.

With Ciggy close to me, my libido for the moment sated, I felt safe and happy. The afternoon heat and the wine made me very drowsy. I was so at peace, I felt like going to sleep. I closed my eyes and I think I fell into a really deep sleep, the kind of sleep that was restful and carefree, unfettered by the usual rigors and obligations of my life, and was characterized instead by a feeling of being totally trouble free. With Ciggy right there next to me, I think I slept more peacefully that afternoon than I had done in years.

When I woke up again, I found we were both lying in the grass, staring up at the blue sky. We were enjoying an idyllic moment, when suddenly something caught my eye in the distance. It was the dark silhouette of an aircraft flying very low and very fast just above the horizon.

"Tankbuster!" I announced.

Ciggy looked up, from where his head had been lying on my bare tummy, and he flashed me a somewhat bemused expression.

"Tankbuster," I said again, pointing towards the horizon.

Ciggy looked and he just caught sight of the jet as it came closer.

"A10 Thunderbolt," I said.

Ciggy turned back to me, with a hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun.

"You sure?" he asked.

"Of course," I replied, "I see them all the time."

I did too. I recognized all the coalition aircraft, and most of the rebel ones as well. The A10 was quite unique, with its squared wingtips, double tailfins and those particularly distinctive rear-mounted engines.

"Then it's one of ours," he said, "Probably enforcing the no-fly zone."

He was right. It had US Air Force markings. We both watched it for a few moments, both of us tracking it as it zipped across our horizon at great speed and disappeared into the distance. Then when it was gone, Ciggy looked back at me.

"Y' know, you're quite a clever kid," he said.

Ordinarily, I didn't like being called a kid. Usually it was a word people used to belittle me, to emphasize my unworldliness and make me feel small. But it was different when Ciggy said it. When Ciggy said it, it was a compliment and a term of affection.

"You remind me so much of Allie."

"Who's Allie?"

Ciggy looked at me, but made no attempt to reply, almost as though he hadn't anticipated that I would ask him that.

"Allie was my lil brother," he said, and he turned away, looking down, as though it touched off some painful recollection.

He sighed gently, staring down at the grass for a bit, and then looked back up at me.

"Allie is no longer with us," he said, sadly.

"What happened to him?" I asked.

"He drowned," said Ciggy, plainly.

I thought he was going to leave it there and say no more. But he didn't. He continued.

"It was about two years ago now. Just before the war kicked off. I took him to the lake one day. We did that a lot. Camping out under the stars, just Allie and me. He was a great kid. We were very close. We had a great day shooting and fishing, like we always did. I was cooking over the campfire, and Allie decided he wanted to go swimming. He loved diving down under the surface, fishing for stones. He was a really good diver too. He was always showing off for me. I could watch Allie for hours. But he was diving down amongst the rocks and got his foot caught. I couldn't save him. I tried and tried, but his foot was stuck and by the time I managed to pull him free he was gone. I laid him down on the edge of the lake and he was lifeless. I can still remember his perfect body, lying there looking so peaceful. Like he was asleep. Just like he was asleep. But I couldn't revive him. I tried. He was a beautiful kid too. Just lying there, looking like he was gonna wake up any minute. But he never did."

Ciggy's words trailed off and he looked at me. I wondered how much this young man must have trusted me to share something so personal with me. His story touched something deep inside me, the way he said it, the way he talked so wistfully of this little boy who was his brother. I looked at him and I actually didn't mind letting him see the tears in my eyes. He smiled sympathetically.

"Its okay Cloud," he said softly, "Don't cry lil man."

And with that he leaned over and hugged me. He sniffed too, and I could detect that even he was having trouble holding back the tears. In that moment, as he held me in his embrace, comforting me, it struck me that I had never been held like that by a guy before – being hugged with real affection and in a non-sexual way. It was odd. Odd, but nice.

"Funny," he said, as he held me tightly against him, his chin on my shoulder, "That's what I used to call Allie. Lil man."

Then he broke his embrace and leaned back, still holding onto me, but looking earnestly into my eyes.

"You're my lil man now," he said, with a smile.

I thought that was nice – not that he was thinking of me as a replacement for his dead little brother – but that he should think me worthy of that very same term of endearment.

"He would have been your age now if he was still alive. Heh, I think you'd have liked him. You and Allie would have been great friends."

The way he talked about Allie, made him seem so real, it was almost as though I knew him. I pondered for a few moments about this little brother of his and I was curious about their relationship and how much they shared together, and I was suddenly very intrigued. I was tempted to ask him, at the risk of perhaps sounding impertinent.

"Ciggy?"

"Hmm?"

"What went on between you and Allie?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well," I said, "You obviously loved him…"

"Yeah?"

"And I know you like shota boys…" I went on.

He interrupted me with a laugh.

"You wanna know if he put out for me?" he interjected, amused, "Sure he did. All the time. Allie and I were at it like rabbits. In fact, that was the last time I ever… well, you know."

"So that's it!" I announced triumphantly, as the mystery of this young man gradually began to resolve itself in my mind.

Ciggy was nodding slowly.

"Yeah, it's true," he conceded, "I've never been able to get it up since the accident. I guess I blamed myself."

"It wasn't your fault," I said, aware that I was stating the obvious, "You didn't know that was gonna happen."

"I know," he conceded, "But it still felt like I'd killed him. I took Allie to the lake, and I wasn't able to save him. Pity. He was the best thing in my life. The only good thing in my life. I damn near went off the rails after Allie died. I just couldn't take it. That was why I left. They must have hated me."

"Who?"

"My folks," he said, "Haven't spoken to them in two years. Maybe if I go back with something to show for it, they'll take me back. The prodigal son returns. "Cept I doubt they'll kill the fattened calf for me."

"Trying to buy their forgiveness?" I remarked.

He stared at me a little taken aback. It was a quote I read somewhere.

"If you wanna call it that," he acceded, "All I know is I gotta have enough to set myself up when I get back. Otherwise, what's the point of all this?"

I didn't say anything. I was still a little ambivalent about his revelations.

"I just can't wait to be on that transporter," he said, alluding back to the plans he had espoused earlier.

Then he paused and thought for a moment, taking on a more hopeful expression.

"Come with me Cloud," he said suddenly.

It was quite unexpected.

"What?"

"Come with me," he said again.

I was completely unprepared for this.

"Come on Cloud, what are you doing here? Let me take you away from all this."

"All what? A place where I'm looked after, have enough to eat and a roof over my head?"

"But why settle for the bare minimum? There's more to life than this," and as he said it, he held his arms out and made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the imagined devastation around us.

I had to admit, it didn't seem like much when he put it in those terms.

He tried appealing to me.

"Are you worried about putting out? Gonna miss getting your ass rooted every night? You wanna get fucked that bad? Okay, I'll see a doctor. I'll pay for the best damn cock-doc money can buy. I'll get my cock fixed just for you."

I could see from his expression that he was serious too. I looked into his warm brown eyes and I could see, in that one instance, despite the horrors and complications inherent in this young man, that he was in fact offering me a lifeline. More than that, he was extending a hand of friendship and of love. Tell the truth, as we sat there in that meadow, with the remnants of our picnic on the grass, I saw a spark of possibility in his proposal. In that one instance, I had no doubt that he could be a worthy and benevolent lover, and one that I could definitely see myself falling for in quite an unequivocal way.

"But this is where my friends are. Everyone that loves me is here," I said.

"They don't love you!" he scoffed, "The only thing they love is that god-given ass of yours."

"So?" I remarked, dismissively, "It works for me."

"But for how long? You know that the UN is gonna pull outta here any day now. When the UN boys go, Verolino is gonna become a hell hole like the rest of Europe. You think anyone is gonna PAY to fuck your pretty lil butt then? You'll be fair game for anybody with a dick. They'll rip your lil ass to shreds soon as look at you."

"What about the ceasefire?" I asked him, with a ray of hope.

"Ceasefire!" he sneered, "What ceasefire? It never lasts. It's been broken so many times it's become a running joke."

It was a compelling argument. We all knew Verolino was doomed. We were all on borrowed time.

"But it's gotta get better some time," I pleaded, hoping to inject a note of optimism.

"Why?" he demanded, "Why has it gotta get better? Don't you see what's going on around you? They don't want peace. They just wanna destroy each other. They wanna wipe each other out and they don't care if the rest of the world burns down while they do it."

"Yeah, but what would they want with me?"

He regarded me with a scowl.

"You really want me to answer that?" he said.

He took a deep breath.

"This is no way to survive," he went on, "You're still young Cloud. What about the rest of your life? What about the future?"

Sitting there in that meadow, not at all sure where we were, totally in Ciggy's hands, I looked around, and wondered just how much longer all this was going to be here. Was it really possible that the UN were going to pull out and leave us all to the mercy of the KAPO's and the other rebel militias? What would become of us all if they did?

Needless to say, I left Ciggy's invitation hanging in the air. He didn't press me. He put it out there and left it, and neither of us said any more about it. We just enjoyed what was left of our time together and we chatted amiably for the rest of the afternoon. Then Ciggy said we had to leave before it got dark. There was a curfew at nightfall and it wouldn't do for us to be stopped by UNVERO.

Later, when he dropped me off outside the club, Ciggy gathered me in his arms and kissed me ever so lovingly on the lips. I was starting to get used to his gestures of affection. He stood in the dim light of the parking lot and looked down into my eyes, his arms clutching me to him tightly and he giggled, vaguely amused by some thought that had just come into his head.

"What?" I asked, curious.

"Cloud Nine," he laughed, remembering my joke of last night.

I smiled sheepishly. Last night seemed such a long time ago now.

"Did you enjoy yourself today Cloud Nine?"

I nodded, closing my eyes contentedly.

"Good," he said, "So did I. Thank you for spending the day with me."

Then he kissed me once more on the forehead, and released me. He left me standing by the side door of the club, the music already thudding away inside, and he jumped back into the Jeep and started it up. He spun the wheels as he drove off, sending a little cloud of dust up into the air, and then just as the Jeep exited the gate he called out to me, without looking back.

"I love you Cloud Nine!"

His words echoed out into the night, over the roar of the Jeep, and he was gone.

Elated, but already missing him, I went back into the club. But I wasn't going to work this evening. I didn't want to spoil the memory of my wonderful day. I wanted to preserve it intact. So I went upstairs to my room, hoping to get an early night. After my wonderfully exhausting day with Ciggy, I realized there was still so much more for me to see in this world – so much more to see and experience. Maybe Ciggy COULD take me away from all this. Maybe I SHOULD grasp his offer and get on that transporter with him.