Cosmo

The Porn Boys

It was widely acknowledged to be the most polished boyporn ever produced. Clearly, those videos were porn of the highest caliber, oozing refinement in everything from the quality of the recording to the beauty of the young boys that appeared in them. Though it was a good few months since I had seen the videos, I could clearly recall that all the boys in those videos were exceptionally pretty. That was one of the things that made those videos so remarkable – all the boys were handsome beyond belief, no doubt especially selected for their cuteness and good looks. And despite their tender years, they all had amazing little bodies – still smooth and hairless, slim, tight and well-proportioned, with such excellent musculature that they were almost athletic-looking, and they had such clear complexions. A boylover's dream, every one of them. And those boys could perform too. Their propensity to act out such explicit sexualized behavior in front of the camera, and to do it so well, with the most incredible enthusiasm and passion, was all the more shocking because they were so young. Yet, their capacity to take cock was mind-blowing and their ability to swallow cum legendary. My god, they had the stiffest little dicks. They could fuck like nothing I had ever seen before, with an almost infinite energy and stamina, and some of them could shoot voluminous quantities of spunk in the most explosive and spectacular way.

Of course, when my boss had called me into his office and told me I had been assigned to two weeks close protection to a young Russian boy, he neglected to tell me that it was going to be one of the boys in the videos. The truth is, I never really wanted the assignment. In fact, my heart sank when he told me. I had been given close protection assignments before, with clients on the witness protection program, that was not unusual. But here I was, a police officer with nearly twenty years service, reduced to wet nursing a ten year old kid. At any rate, that was what I had envisaged. I had initially expected that it would be more of a diplomatic assignment – after all the Russians were our allies now. We had already agreed to offer our experience and training to help them deal with the rise in organized crime that threatened to overwhelm them. So when the Moscow police asked for our assistance with Operation Ganymede, we were obliged to provide it. I wasn't told anything about the kid. I just knew that the powers that be had decided he needed to be protected and I had drawn the short straw. Their rationale was that I was the only one in our unit who spoke Russian. It was true, but my Russian was very basic. I wasn't sure if it was good enough to make me an obvious candidate for this assignment. The truth is, I didn't really want it. There were so many other exciting and rewarding projects they could have assigned me to. Instead I figured I was going to be engaged in what was basically a babysitting exercise. Well, I couldn't have been more wrong. I couldn't possibly have known then what it was going to lead to. I could never have anticipated that this assignment would turn out to be a very powerful and emotional experience and one that would have a profound and lasting effect on me for the rest of my life.

The first inkling I had that this wasn't going to be a straightforward assignment was at the airport. He was arriving on the overnight flight from Moscow accompanied by a chaperone. I didn't know who the chaperone was. Probably a social worker or perhaps a Family Liaison Officer from the Moscow Police. I was to meet them, take them to a safe location and remain with them to await further orders. I knew nothing about the boy. I had deliberately been told nothing. It was considered safer that way. It was not for me to question. I had been in the Police Department long enough to know that there were times when it was safer not to know – times when you did not ask questions. I would be told what I needed to know when the time was right. For now I just had to follow orders. So here I was at the airport, clutching a sign with the selected codeword: Ivan. They would know it was safe to approach. Of course I was curious about the kid, not having been given any information, and I wondered about his importance and why it was necessary to ensure his safety.

Eventually I spotted him. He emerged from the gate, with a look of bewilderment and hesitation. I knew from his demeanor that it was him. He was slim and small in stature, almost delicate looking. The female chaperone was trailing along behind with the luggage cart. He was unusually pretty, with thick, dark, wavy hair that was almost too long and half covered his ears in little swept back waves, and was sprouting unruly little tails which were threatening to curl upwards at the back. My first, almost unconscious sentiment was that the kid could do with a haircut. He had a very clear complexion with classic features, and most of all, beneath that floppy fringe of black wavy hair, was a pair of piercingly blue eyes. At once they were his most prominent asset. It was difficult not to be struck by his beauty. The chaperone was very tall, slim and blonde, but still quite young, in her mid to late twenties, I guessed. She had that quintessential Russian look about her and her deportment was dignified and noble, but nonetheless looking weary from the flight. I held up my sign and they spotted me. They meandered through the crowd towards me.

As they neared, I could see the apprehension in the boy's face. It was then that I first thought I recognized him. When I first set eyes on the kid close up, somehow his face looked familiar. Where had I seen that face before? Those eyes were certainly distinctive – an almost supernatural shade of blue that would persistently remain in your memory. Then a stab of shock zapped right through me – it was Yura! I had to look a little closer, and secretly caught my breath for a moment, almost gasping to myself. Was it possible that this kid was the same one I had seen in those boyporn videos, his naked prepubescent body sucking and fucking with a gusto that was almost legendary for a kid of his age? Being in the vice squad, of course I had watched those videos – highly illicit and with content that surpassed anything I had seen in my entire career, both in explicitness and depravity. Looking again at the boy now, I was more certain. It was Yura alright. I would recognize that face anywhere – those big, blue, almond-shaped eyes, that oval face with the aquiline features – the pretty young face I had seen streaked with spunk and soaked with piss, the small round ruby lips which I could picture even now stretched full of fat cocks depositing their copious loads into him. It was obviously the same boy. There was no mistaking him. Yura's name was well known and his pictures were all over the Internet. He had acquired quite a reputation in the underworld for those videos which, as I have already said, were generally acknowledged as being the most polished boyporn ever produced. Certainly the most explicit.

I knew so much more than I wanted to at this moment, but the immediacy of the situation prevented my mind from wandering and remembering too many of the details. At this point I knew I had to be careful. A million questions all crowded into my mind at once. My commander had only selected me for this assignment because I spoke Russian. Perhaps he was even aware that I had seen those videos. So, what was Yura doing here? And why had I been assigned to protect him? What exactly was I getting into?

As it turned out neither the boy nor the chaperone spoke much English. I struggled at first with my Russian, but soon found we were able to get by quite easily. We greeted each other with a few brief formalities. The boy was introduced to me as Ivan (they pronounced it Ee-van), which certainly explained the codeword, although I knew that wasn't his real name. Perhaps they had considered it safer to change his name. I knew him as Yura and it was difficult for me to think of him by any other name. The chaperone was called Elena. I introduced myself as Mark. I shook each of them by the hand, took their luggage, and ushered them out of the terminal to the car.

We emerged from the underground parking lot, and I drove the big black SUV up the exit ramp. I could see Yura in the back looking around admiring the leather interior of the car as we pulled away. He studied the controls, scanning the rows of little buttons and switches, and the digital instruments which were all lit up like a little flight deck.

"What kind of car is this?" he asked, in Russian.

"It's a Chrysler Constellation," I told him.

"Is it new?"

"Fairly new," I said, "You like it?"

"Yeh, it's great," he replied.

He seemed very impressed and raised his eyebrows in appreciation. I didn't tell him the car was armor-plated and bulletproof.

That was the only conversation we exchanged in practically the entire trip. On the drive back from the airport they slept most of the way, no doubt exhausted by the flight. I could see Yura in the rear view mirror, his head nestled on Elena's shoulder, lips slightly parted, eyes innocently closed.

As the big car swallowed up the miles on the freeway, I contemplated my two passengers. It was difficult to believe that this was the same boy who had been rescued from a vice ring that was notorious for the explicitness of their pornographic videos and for the brutality of their regime. I had heard accounts of when he was found, and seen the photographs. God what a scene! Yura was found bruised and bleeding, his body abused almost beyond imagination. His boyhole ripped, his face pulped, with bruises, burns and lacerations all over his body, stained almost from head to toe with blood and piss and cum. He had been more or less left for dead, and was rescued just in time to save his young life. I could vaguely recall there was something in the press about it, and that was how I first heard about Operation Ganymede.

Operation Ganymede was the Moscow Police's name for their investigation into that boyporn ring, and their attempts to shut it down, to rescue the boys and bring the pornographers to justice. It struck me as a rather curious, and not altogether appropriate name. After all, Ganymede was certainly known in Greek mythology as the beautiful Trojan youth who was abducted by Zeus and became cup bearer to the gods. Some believe he became Zeus's lover. I could see the connection with Ganymede and his beauty. But I wasn't sure of the wisdom of it insofar as Ganymede was actually granted immortality, whereas most of the boys at the centre of this investigation were now dead. That struck me as something of a glaring inconsistency. According to the Moscow Police, most of the other young boys had all been found dead. All except one, who I think was still missing. Only Yura was found alive, and I guessed was now a key witness at the centre of an intensive investigation involving one of the darkest and most oppressive vice rings ever uncovered. It was an operation that had already been in progress for over six months with very little headway. Thinking this over as we drove back from the airport, I realized that I already knew quite a lot about this little boy.

Looking at Yura again in the mirror, he had recovered from his injuries very well, I thought. In fact he looked quite healthy – still slightly delicate, but nevertheless well cared for. Elena still had her coat on, with a fake fur collar, her head tilted back against the head restraint, both of them rocking gently in unison in the back seat as the big SUV rode over the bumps on the freeway. We drove for miles in silence. Then the next time I looked in the rear view mirror, Yura was wide awake and staring at me inquisitively, catching my eye in the mirror. I could see the silhouette of his head in the reflection, and as I caught his gaze in the mirror he did not falter once – just carried on staring. He had something on his mind, but didn't speak. The next time I looked he had drifted off to sleep again. I could tell this was going to be a most challenging assignment.

We drove to a police safe house outside the city – a sprawling residence with eight bedrooms and five bathrooms; well kept grounds with a pool and terraces front and rear. There was even a level below ground, a sort of basement with a games room, a gym and a cocktail bar. It had high walls and an electronic gate, with surveillance cameras. It was the perfect location for a police safe house. With the car safely ensconced in the garage, Yura and Elena went inside with a minimum of formality. She barely managed to kick off her shoes and instantly poured herself a stiff drink – vodka of course – and was immediately on the phone as though she had just checked into some swanky hotel. She retired to the voluminous sofa in the drawing room, and was deep in conversation with someone whom I could only surmise was a relative. I wondered why she was making herself so at home. She wasn't even staying with us. Yura, on the other hand, was more ill at ease. Apart from his brief exchange when we first left the airport, he had said nothing else for the entire journey. When we arrived, he came in and looked around, distinctly unimpressed. I could tell he didn't want to be here. He immediately ran off to explore the rest of the house, without even taking off his jacket, Elena interrupting her telephone conversation to call after him, telling him to slow down and not be any trouble.

The rest of the day was hectic and taken up with formalities. We managed to communicate quite well. They knew quite a lot of broken English, and in the event my Russian wasn't as rusty as I thought. Yura was quiet and withdrawn most of the time, and kept largely out of sight. Occasionally the phone rang, mostly concerning routine stuff from my unit that needed to be dealt with. It was just to confirm we had arrived safely and to remind me to sit tight. I was to wait until I received further instructions from my unit. I was given no idea when that was likely to be. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. I didn't question anything, just did as I was told. The rest of the time Elena was chatting animatedly on the phone with relatives and officials from the Moscow police. The Moscow police were pretty much calling the shots in this operation, and we had to be compliant. We needed their cooperation as much as they needed ours.

Later in the afternoon Elena took her leave. They had arranged accommodation for her elsewhere and a car came to pick her up. Although she was not staying with us, she would continue to be involved in Yura's case as long as he was here. She briefed me fully before she left. Once she was gone, I had sole responsibility for Yura. My duties extended to not only protecting his life, but to also looking after his everyday needs while he was in my care.

Aware that I was now alone with Yura, I did a quick inspection of the rest of the house to see what had been prepared for our arrival. There was plenty of food, and new clothes for Yura hanging up in the closets. Satisfied that all our needs would be catered for as long as we had to stay in this house, I went to check on Yura. I found him upstairs in the bedroom at the end of the hallway, where I had taken his battered little suitcase when we first arrived. The suitcase was still sitting upright on the floor untouched. Yura was asleep on the bed. He was lying face down, with his head turned to one side and his mouth slightly open. He was still fully clothed except for his sneakers which he had discarded unceremoniously at the foot of the bed. His loose jeans and a baggy sweatshirt looked almost too big for him, making him look quite frail. I watched him for a few minutes, concluding that he must have fallen asleep almost as soon as he hit the pillow because the bed was otherwise undisturbed. I contemplated his prone little body, lying there so innocently, and concluded that, whatever this little boy had been through, it was good that he was now safe. Reassured that he was okay, I withdrew back downstairs to the far end of the drawing room where there was a gaming table. There was a very ornate chess set laid out, so I sat down to amuse myself for a bit. There was no knowing how long we were going to be here and waiting was an occupational hazard in my job.

I had been at the chess game for just over an hour when Yura peered around the door. He scanned the room briefly, and spotted me sitting at the chess table. Tentatively, he came in, still in his loose jeans and socked feet, and now shirtless. He had evidently discarded the sweatshirt and seemed more comfortable that way. I could tell immediately that walking around shirtless was his default mode. I relished the prospect of being able to admire his little body so freely. Seeing the chess set, he approached, padding softly across the parquet floor, and plopped down in the armchair opposite me, still expressionless. His big blue eyes shone out from beneath his thick black head of hair, which was slightly mussed up from his sleep. I sat back, distracted by his naked boyishness, and waited to see what he would do. He took one all-encompassing look at the chessboard, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. As he was busy surveying the chessboard, I took the opportunity to check out his little body. He had a beautiful tight little torso. It was perfectly proportioned with a trim, flat stomach and good definition. He had silky, flawless skin on his smooth boy chest and flat, pink little nipples. I could see traces of fine downy hairs on his forearms, which looked almost translucent. As I was admiring his physique, he reached out and made a move with the opposing pieces, then looked up at me with a smug look. He caught me looking at him, and I was sure he knew I was checking him out. I was stunned, not only by his beauty, but also by his astuteness and quick-wittedness. It was a good move. I smiled, not only to acknowledge his cleverness but also to acknowledge that it was the first time he had chosen to interact with me since coming into the house. He was good for a couple more moves, to the point where I thought we might get a decent game going, but he quickly lost interest. I could see in his eyes that his heart really wasn't in it, but I admired his effort just the same.

Yura got up and went over to the French windows as though distracted by something outside. The drawing room opened out onto a ground floor terrace, beyond which was the swimming pool. Through the windows the garden furniture looked quite solitary and abandoned. Standing there shirtless, in his socks and blue jeans, his diminutive figure looked quite vulnerable and forlorn. For a long time he was very still and quiet and I wondered what was going through his mind. I got up and followed him over to the window and stood just behind him, a little to one side, staring out of the window above his head. At the same time I couldn't help admiring his shirtless little body. His jeans were hanging slightly down below his hips, as seemed to be fashionable these days, and the waistband of his black underwear was clearly visible. I must admit, it looked quite rakish on him and seemed to accentuate his boyish physique. I admired the curvature of his bare back, his little shoulder blades jutting out at the top and the way his torso tapered down to his slim little waist and disappeared tantalizingly into the exposed waistband of his underwear. I noted that his small stature barely reached chest height next to my six foot two frame. I was curious to know what he was thinking.

I was first to break the silence.

"Would you like me to help you unpack?" I offered.

He turned to face me, looking up at me with his hands dug firmly into his pockets and shrugged indifferently. It was more acceptance than affirmation, but that was probably as much as I could hope for at this point.

I gently took his elbow and offered to lead the way. He turned and followed me readily enough.

We went upstairs to the bedroom at the end of the hallway. I had picked this bedroom because it was one of the biggest. It had an ensuite bathroom and a window which overlooked the pool. I thought it would be ideal for him. He was distinctly unimpressed however. He was out of sorts, probably still a little disoriented and still looked very scared.

He sat down tentatively on the bed, looking to me for guidance on what he should do now. I lifted his battered little suitcase onto the bed and he watched me open it. He looked almost ashamed when I slipped the latches and flipped open the lid. There was very little in it, and what clothes he had were in a very sorry state. His jeans were tattered and torn at the bottom. His t-shirts were faded and looked a little too small for him. His socks and underwear had holes in them. Even his few personal effects looked cruddy and soiled. He had a toothbrush with worn-out bristles that was obviously past its useful life. Inwardly, I almost cursed the Moscow Police. Couldn't they even have bought the kid a decent toothbrush? Looking at his pitiful array of stuff, I felt so sorry for him. It was incredibly sad because it was the first tangible evidence I had that there really was no one looking out for this kid.

"Don't worry," I said, reassuring him, "We've got lots of new things for you."

I opened the drawers and showed him the brand new, neatly folded clothes that had been so carefully put away. The closet also had stuff hanging up, most of it with the labels still attached.

"There's a new toothbrush and everything you need in the bathroom."

He continued sitting on the bed and gazed down at his feet, hunched over protectively, his bare back curved over, his arms pulled into his lap. He looked up at me briefly, as though to seek the reassurance that I was still there, and for a moment it appeared as though there was something he wanted to say. But he didn't. Either he didn't know how, or wasn't sure whether he should. His silence worried me. I recognized the signs. Elena had warned me that he had been rather reticent and stoical on the journey from Moscow. He had not said much, and had hidden his distress very well so far. It was likely he would not hang onto his sadness in silence for much longer. He was still deeply traumatized. Knowing the nature of what this boy had been through was enough to understand a little of his pain. At some point it was going to well up and overwhelm him, and I was very good at recognizing the signs.

The only reason I had chosen the vice squad was because of my involvement with young street kids before I joined the Police Department. That was what made me decide to become a police officer. I knew exactly what gritty, chaotic, disjointed lives those kids led, and was all too familiar with the violent, sordid and dangerous world they inhabited. I should do: I was once one of them, before John picked me up out of the gutter and taught me how to be a proper human being. Alas, John was long gone now, but his legacy was still with me. I later went on to help hundreds of those kids, and in the process acquired a knack for being able to relate to young, damaged, directionless little boys. I owed it all to John. He was motivated by an almost obsessive interest in helping those lost boys. His enthusiasm for it was, I think, compounded by the indifference of the world around us; the casual acceptance that this was just the way it was, and that angered him. He despaired at the way those kids were so readily consigned to the trashcan of society. But he taught me that they were not completely feckless and without hope. I was living proof of that. There was love and rewards there if you looked for it. For me, there had always been affection and fulfillment amongst all the filth and disenfranchisement. That was how I knew how to recognize the signs. There was a certain look those boys carried around with them – a hungry, needy, haunted look that was ever-present in their eyes. Perhaps that was what John had seen in me: the look of fear, insecurity and disorientation, the mirror that reflected the certain knowledge that you were surplus to requirements, that no one really wanted you, that you had grown up never having known real love and affection. That damage, that scarring, that brokenness was always easy to spot. If you saw it enough times, you recognized it much as you might recognize an old enemy – the enemy that, even now as a police officer, twenty years later, I still battled with every day on the streets of our city. What worried me was that I now recognized that same look in Yura's eyes. Beautiful though they were, Yura's eyes betrayed that sadness and neediness, that absence of real affection. He was not a street kid, but I could still see the irrefutable evidence that he had suffered deeply, in the same way that I had suffered, and that he had been left profoundly damaged and hurt, physically and emotionally. I knew what it was like to carry that pain and suffering around with you for so long, and to know that it was so deeply ingrained in your soul that it became almost as familiar to you as your own shadow.

That was when it happened. I turned around to say something to him, having just put some of his things away in the closet, and I saw that Yura was not where I expected him to be. He had moved, and was now curled up on the bed. He had thrown himself across the middle of the bed awkwardly, his face buried into the comforter, and was sobbing silently. His diminutive little body was drawn up, his hands clutched into fists, pulled up tight to his chest, and his little body was shuddering violently with stifled grief as he lay there. It had finally hit him.

I took a deep breath and tried to fight back my own emotions. My fleeting memories of John faded and were soon forgotten altogether. I went and sat down, sinking onto the bed next to Yura. There was no certain way of knowing how he would react to my touch, but I reached out a tentative hand anyway.

"Hey little buddy 3;" I said softly, touching him on his bare shoulder.

His little sobs were muffled by the comforter, and I knew that he was already so deep into his grief that he couldn't stop now if he wanted to.

I scooted across the bed and pulled him up. He did not resist. He allowed me to pull him towards me. I gently and ever so carefully maneuvered this little bundle of grief onto my lap, and comforted him like a baby. He was surprisingly receptive and snuggled into me and cried onto my chest. His eyes were awash with tears. Seeing those beautiful blue eyes glazed with tears, and his diminutive little body shuddering with his sobs was strangely unsettling. In the back of the car on the way back from the airport earlier he had been innocent and curious. Now he just looked fragile and dejected. I suddenly realized just how much I genuinely cared about this little boy, and it actually shook me deeply to see him in distress.

"Don't cry little buddy," I reassured him, in low, whispered tones, "Everything's going to be alright."

I rocked him comfortingly for a while and he responded to that by hugging me. I stroked his bare back. His skin had turned cold and clammy to the touch, and he clung to me tightly, shivering slightly as he sobbed. I hugged his little body and sat with him for a good few minutes. Feeling his bare little torso against my clothes, I could sense how frightened and vulnerable he was. From what I had already pieced together myself, and from what Elena had told me, it all started to crystallize in my mind. This was a manifestation of the fear and trepidation he felt from this drastic and sudden change in his life. Probably for the first time the full magnitude of Yura's situation hit me with a clarity which I found at once dizzying and scary. Here was a little boy who had suffered terrible abuse, abduction and rape. He had been held captive, then rescued in the most dramatic circumstances. And now he had been taken away from everything that was familiar to him, flown halfway around the world to a strange country because there were people out there wanting to kill him. This little boy was now a key element in a major international police investigation which involved the police forces of two of the most powerful countries in the world. An investigation which centered on a vice ring that was evil and deadly, whose activities were extensive and all-encompassing, and involved drugs, pornography, prostitution and homicide, and which had produced the darkest, most depraved and explicit pornography ever conceived. It frightened the hell out of me, and I was a seasoned police officer with nearly twenty years service. So as I sat there on the edge of the bed, with this stricken little boy trembling in my arms, I couldn't begin to imagine how he must have felt at this moment.

I sat there patiently and let him cry himself out, all the time stroking his smooth back and nuzzling his sweet head. His sobs were quiet and stifled, and his little body heaved with grief. Every now and then his shoulders would shudder involuntarily, until the tears subsided and eventually stopped altogether. He stayed curled up in my arms, for the moment safe and comforted. As the streaks of his tears dried on his face, I wiped the hot, salty liquid away with my thumbs, and he brightened up a little. Silently, he stayed like that, totally immobile on my lap, for a good long time.

We were both deep in our own thoughts, for the moment not feeling the need to say anything. Eventually, he stirred, shifting sluggishly in my lap, and looked up as though trying to read my thoughts. I smiled down at him comfortingly. He bravely attempted a smile, and I knew the worst was over. At that moment, in such close proximity to him, I was profoundly overawed by his beauty. I noticed how clear and smooth his complexion was. It almost had the texture of porcelain – a stark contrast to his raven-black hair and those cobalt-blue eyes. He was an exceptionally good looking boy. I felt very drawn to him, quite protective of him, and really wanted to know what was in his heart. In fact, there were so many things I wanted to know about him – so many questions I wanted to ask about what he had been through, why he was here. I hoped that during the course of this assignment I would have all those questions answered. As he was looking up at me, his big blue eyes were almost supernatural, still awash with the remnants of his tears, they were like little glazed crystals, glinting transparently as they caught the light from the window. There was a lot of mystery and wonder in those eyes. He was a complex little boy for sure.

As he quieted, and his grief ebbed away, I sensed that he was aware of me surveying his features with more than a passing interest. He looked up at me again curiously, as though trying to gauge my expression, his eyes still moist with tears, then he did something which I shall never forget: he reached down and dug his hand under his thighs, beneath where he was sitting on my lap, and gently put his little hand over my crotch. Then he left it there, resting warmly on the neat soft bulge in my jeans. He didn't press, or squeeze or explore. He just left his little hand there on my crotch and looked up at me meaningfully. He licked his lips with a lean and hungry stare, allowing the briefest glimpse of his pink little tongue, and he closed his eyes, resting his head against my chest. I had seen that look many times before. I recognized it from the faces of the street kids I had been involved with, and instantly knew what it signified. He said nothing. He just carried on staring into my eyes with a deep and thoughtful expression. Then, quite unexpectedly, I saw a small smile creep across his lips and he snuggled deeper into my embrace, for now comforted and enjoying the closeness of our valuable little intimate moment. That really melted my heart. He had a beautiful smile. I smiled back reassuringly, feeling that a connection had been made. It was what I like to call a perfect boymoment – one of those rare moments of tenderness that sometimes pass between men and the young boys they are close to. At that moment, I was sure that we were going to hit it off. I started to relish the prospect of getting to know this wonderful little boy and I knew that this assignment wasn't going to be so bad after all.

Pushing open the door of Yura's room the next morning, I was confronted by an empty bed. The pale blue bedclothes had been peeled right back to the foot of Yura's bed, but he was not in it. Yura himself was slumped in the corner of the room, on the floor, wearing only a pair of SpongeBob pajama bottoms. His half naked little body was awkwardly huddled up against the wall clutching a single pillow. He was awake, but he had been crying. Then I spotted the problem and everything made sense. There in the center of the bed was the tell-tale dark stain of wetness. Yura hung his head against the wall, ashamedly hugging that pillow as though trying to protect himself from the awful truth to which the evidence clearly testified.

So Yura had wet the bed. I sighed with relief, thankful that it was nothing more serious than that. Putting on an encouraging and reassuring grin, I went over to Yura in the corner. He watched me approach, his blue eyes looking out to the side while his head was turned against the wall, as though wary of what I might to do. I wondered just how long he had been like that.

"C'mere little buddy," I said, holding out a hand, "It's okay, really."

He turned his head towards me, unsure of my reaction. I nodded positively, pursing my lips encouragingly.

"It's okay really," I said again, extending a conciliatory hand, offering to pull him to his feet, "It's not a problem, I promise."

Still unsure, he uncurled himself and got up, leaving the pillow crumpled in the corner and wiped his eyes childishly with his fists. I realized he was still wearing the same pajama bottoms that he had wet himself in, and they were still damp and clinging to his legs.

"C'mon," I said softly, "Let's get you out of those wet things," and I took his little hand, leading him into the bathroom.

In the bathroom I stood him in the shower and peeled the wet pajamas free of his legs. He let me, steadying himself on my shoulders as he lifted first one foot and then the other, and I tossed the heavy, wet pajamas aside. Now naked, he stood there hesitantly with his fists firmly dug under his chin, and he was looking down at me between his elbows, shivering slightly. But at least he had stopped crying. He seemed surprisingly relaxed about his body, but I knew that it was entirely consistent with what this boy had suffered. Lack of shyness was a sign of abuse, just as bedwetting was a sign of trauma.

Gently and reassuringly, I took the shower attachment and ran the water until it was warm. I took a washcloth and washed his legs and groin. He was remarkably compliant. He even allowed me to wash his hairless little crotch, around his floppy little boydick, between his slender thighs and under his perfect little butt, rinsing away with the shower head. As I did so, I looked up at him. He was still looking down with his arms pressed into his chest, watching me studiously. Our eyes met briefly and he had a look of slight incredulity in his face, with a little furrow in the space between his eyebrows. It was as though he was wondering why this guy was bothering with him, not quite able to believe that this six foot two [1.88 m] police officer was at this moment on his knees washing this tiny boy in his most intimate places. It did strike me as a rather odd juxtaposition.

But it wasn't exactly unfamiliar to me. Finding Yura like that, slumped on the floor dejectedly, and then taking him into the bathroom to wash him was reminiscent of the day that I met John. It must have been exactly like that for John when he found me. I was collapsed on the floor of the public restroom. I was curled up on the cold concrete floor, huddled into the corner of one of the dank and dingy cubicles with my underwear tangled around my ankles. I remember I was crying. Worse than that I was bleeding. I was shaking with fear and shock. What had been done to me rocked my sensitivity so profoundly that I knew the world had changed for me that day. That man had hurt me. He had used my little body. He had selfishly and violently thrust his load into me and then promptly discarded me on the floor, like so much soiled meat, traumatized and alone. I still remember the way he threw those two crumpled banknotes down onto me as he hastily did up his belt and left. I don't know how long I lay there, distressed and disorientated, and in a lot of pain. When John found me, and squatted down to help me to my feet, I was still clutching the two crinkled banknotes in my trembling little fists. He scooped me up in his arms, leaving a little smear of the thick slimy blood that had trickled from my ruptured boyhole, down my skinny naked little ass onto the filthy concrete floor.

John set me down on the row of basins and removed my little sneakers. Then he carefully disentangled my pants and underwear. Leaning me back against the grimy mirror, he lifted one of my legs, holding it up just under my knee, and gently dabbed away the blood from between my legs with a wad of wet toilet paper. I still remember the way my leg hung there, swinging uselessly in his big paw. Then he splashed my face with cool water. Still dazed, I could do nothing but collapse forward onto him as though I had lost the use of my arms. He gently pushed me back up, propping me upright, and looked into my face, smiling sympathetically. I remember thinking he had such a friendly face with very kindly eyes. He took my little hands and looked at them, turning my palms over in his big hands. My hands were so small compared to his.

"Christ, you're just a little kid," he said, vehemently.

He seemed angry. He looked at my grimy little hands, the fingernails ingrained with black dirt – the dirt of the street – and saw how small and delicate they were. John squeezed my little hands, massaging them between his soft, warm palms. Those were the same hands I used to jerk off my clients, the same delicate little fingers that very often had their immoral spunk dribbling over my pale little knuckles.

"Just a little kid," he said again.

John was not like the other men, I soon discovered. John finding me like that was a strange counterpoint to what normally happened. He didn't want to stick his dick into me and hurt me. He was gentle and reassuring. He spoke to me, and didn't just utter monosyllabic grunts or bark obscenities at me like my tricks. He was kind and generous and considerate. He actually made eye contact and treated me as though he was genuinely interested in me and listened to everything I had to say. Of course, I had never met anybody like that. I was lucky. I was barely twelve years old when John found me, only a little older than Yura was now. I had learned how to jerk off clients for cash, but in a couple of years I would have been turning tricks just for the cost of my next fix, like a lot of the other street kids I knew. But John found me. John found me and saved me from all that.

You could never have known a nicer man than John. Big John, everybody called him. A big man with a big heart. He was well known to the street kids. I was privileged. John took me home and he became my best friend. He was not only my savior, he became my mentor. He was my teacher, my companion, my lover and my father – the father I never had. He admitted to me later that I was not the first street kid he had brought home. There had been others, but they were so far advanced along the path of their own destruction that all they ever did was cheat and lie and steal from him. I was different. I at least had a semblance of recognition in me: the recognition that I was being given an opportunity to change my destiny and avoid going down that path, and thankfully I had the good sense to take it.

That was a long time ago now. Many years had passed since the day John found me in that restroom. I was no longer the skinny little kid that he picked up off the floor. I was a strapping six foot two [1.88 m] police officer now. It was a shame that John never knew how my life turned out. Good old John. I owed my life to that man. Sometimes I still missed him terribly.

I had received a call that there was a big case conference and strategy meeting later that day, and I was required to get Yura ready and over to my HQ. Hopefully I would receive further instructions on what to do next, and maybe some indication of just how long I was going to be on this assignment. When we were ready to leave, Yura had got showered and dressed, and came into the garage looking fresh and vibrant. He had put on some of the new clothes, a bright loose t-shirt and a pair of stone-colored slacks. He smelled of a mildly scented soap. He had even had a go at spiking his hair. He looked good, I thought, more like a regular kid. He could have passed for a typical all-American boy who was loved and well cared for. He was much more composed, a stark contrast to his earlier distress. The bed wetting episode seemed to be forgotten. I had quietly changed his bedding and said no more about it. As we got into the car, I told him he could ride up front with me if he wanted, and he naturally agreed. This was the first time we had left the house since his arrival, so it was a good opportunity for him to observe the mysteries and curiosities of this strange and unfamiliar country first hand.

I opened the garage door with the controller and pressed the ignition. The big engine roared into life. Yura snuggled into the passenger seat next to me, almost dwarfed by the sheer size of the big leather seat. I leaned across him to grab the seatbelt from the door pillar, and as I did so I could see him studying me close up, his big blue eyes focusing on my features. I loved the way he watched me as I did things for him. It was as though he enjoyed the closeness and the attention. I connected the belt clip for him and pushed it home with a satisfying click. Looking up, I adjusted the webbing of the belt across his chest and our eyes met. He smiled. I had a fleeting vision of when I was washing him down in the shower that morning, recalling the way he had been so compliant and comfortable in his nakedness. My cock almost hardened at the thought of it. It was a brief, heartwarming little boymoment. I flashed him an affectionate smile and then turned to take the controls.

We travelled along the freeway towards downtown. Yura was turning his head this way and that, taking in all the sights of this big city. He looked at the buildings and the hoardings and the cars. He was a lot more alert than on the ride back from the airport yesterday. It must have seemed a million miles away from what he was used to. I hoped that this was perhaps starting to feel like more of a vacation for him.

At some point during the journey I became aware of a silver grey Dodge Trader on our tail. It followed us for some time, having made its way from several cars back, and gradually edged up so that it was directly behind us. I moved over into the slow lane, allowing plenty of opportunity for it to pass, but it didn't. It just slowed down and sat behind us, patiently biding its time. Various scenarios quickly played through my mind. At this point I had no reason to panic. I glanced at the GPS locator on the ceiling console. It was on. We could easily be tracked, so I wasn't unduly concerned. I was trained in defensive driving and I knew that the Constellation was a fast, powerful, robust car. We were well protected. I decided to try one more maneuver to test the water. I quickly moved out into the faster traffic and accelerated away. The Trader moved out as well, falling back but still shadowing us from a distance. I was relieved when it did not attempt to catch us up. I noted the incident, but decided to remain silent for the moment. It wasn't significant enough to cause me concern.

The freeway brought us quickly to our destination, and as we rounded the crest of the downtown exit ramp, I pointed out to Yura the fantastic concrete and glass skyscraper which housed my HQ. I could see him wide-eyed and overawed by the sight of the downtown skyline, bristling with skyscrapers of all descriptions.

In the lobby, I took care of the formalities, issuing a visitors pass and so on, and then took Yura up in the elevator, a stomach-churningly fast vertical ride which took all of thirty seconds. On the way up, Yura was turning around curiously, admiring the plush interior of the elevator car, and I noticed his new slacks still had the little manufacturers tag dangling from the back pocket. I smiled to myself. I reached around and snapped it off, holding up the evidence. He grinned guiltily and we both giggled, realizing in unison that he had just walked through the lobby like that. It was a seminal moment. I remember it very well because it was the first time I had seen this lovely little boy actually laugh.

When we got out of the elevator we were greeted by Nikolayev. He stepped forward and welcomed me with his usual vigorous handshake, then greeted Yura enthusiastically in Russian and shook his hand. I liked Nikolayev very much. He was an amiable, easy going type, young and good looking, with sharp features and a good head of hair. He was always neat and well-dressed in expensive bespoke suits and he always looked immaculate. Nikolayev was the Russian Liaison Officer for Operation Ganymede and was responsible for all communications and the relaying of information between the Moscow police and my unit. All my orders usually came through Nikolayev.

With his usual air of efficiency, Nikolayev led us to the conference room where already a raft of unfamiliar faces were assembling around a big long conference table. The big room was light and airy, and the air conditioning was just slightly on the chilly side. There was a lot of murmuring and shuffling, as spontaneous exchanges broke out amongst the assembling individuals, some standing, some leaning on the table, and all huddled in various little groups throughout the room. There was an air of hushed expectation hanging in the atmosphere. There were briefcases, cellphones, PDA's and documents all over the broad table, mingling with the usual paraphernalia of coffee cups, notepads and water jugs. Walking into that room was slightly unnerving for me, so I felt apprehensive for Yura. It must have seemed all the more perturbing for him. It would have been overwhelming for any boy of his age. For my part, I thought he was terribly brave.

Elena was there, which must have been the only face familiar to Yura. She seemed genuinely pleased to see him, so he went and took a seat next to her at the far end of the table. I sat opposite him, feeling I wanted to be close to him. I sensed his slight disorientation at just how many people were in this room. I counted. Including me, there were fifteen people gathered around that table. On the other side of Yura was an interpreter, who kindly introduced herself and was talking quietly into his ear as the conference assembled.

Nikolayev shut the door and greeted everybody. The murmurs quieted to a hush as everybody assembled around the table and took their seats. Nikolayev started talking, addressing everybody from the far end of the table. He thanked everyone for coming and introduced himself and, I suppose to save time, also briefly introduced everybody one by one. Apart from Nikolayev, there were others from my unit and from the Moscow police, distinctive in their formal, almost military-style uniforms, their peaked caps neatly placed on the table in front of them. There was an official from the Russian Embassy in Washington DC, who were handling all the immigration issues for Yura and were taking a great interest in the publicity that his case had caused. There was a child psychotherapist, people from Children's Services, and there was also a representative from the Exploited Children Division of the NCMEC, the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. They were also taking a great interest in the case and had been instrumental in assisting the Moscow police with Operation Ganymede. All these people, all these experts and officials, and at the center of it all just a little ten year old boy. As Nikolayev completed the introductions, I watched Yura and he happened to gaze over at me. I smiled encouragingly. I was delighted when he smiled back.

Nikolayev outlined the current status of Operation Ganymede, and in particular the success of Codeword Ivan. Codeword Ivan had been the decision to bring Yura here, to fly him out of Moscow and bring him under our protection, hence my small role in the overall operation. Nikolayev confirmed for all assembled that Ivan was not his real name, and yet continued to call him that. That was difficult to get used to. He also confirmed that it was true that he was the same boy that appeared in a series of very explicit videos we had encountered in an investigation some six months earlier. That too had been in collaboration with the Moscow police. They had approached us because we were in possession of the technology which helped them to locate and infiltrate a particularly pernicious internet porn operation, which had led them to the source of some of the material. They were struggling to stem the tide of the overwhelming child porn on the internet in Russia at that time. Nikolayev also confirmed that Yura had indeed been abducted and held captive by those involved in this child porn ring, and had participated in the making of those videos. Someone asked Nikolayev what was in those videos. Of course, not everyone present would have been party to them – they were considered too graphic. Nikolayev looked around the room gravely and I could see his Adam's apple bob up and down a few times as he swallowed hard, and his voice wavered slightly. He said he was well aware of the extremely explicit and depraved nature of their content, and that they were generally accepted as being possibly the most extreme child porn material we had ever encountered. Their reputation was legendary and they were highly sought after on the black market. I could see Yura squirming in his seat uncomfortably. Poor kid.

Someone else asked Nikolayev if it was true whether the other boys who appeared in those videos were now dead. He said there were five boys involved, including Yura, and they had been abducted and held over a period of about eighteen months, around the time it was thought those videos were made. All five boys appeared in the videos in various permutations. Two of them, Sasha and Andrei, were brothers. They were found dead. Of the other two, Kolya was also found dead, but the fourth boy, Vladik, was not there at the time that the premises were raided. He was still unaccounted for. Yura was the only one found alive. The raid was well documented. But there were still many questions to be answered. The men involved had never been apprehended. Surprisingly, very little evidence had been found at the scene. Yura's captivity had come to an end, but it had made very little impact on the overall investigation.

While all this was going on, I watched Yura from across the table. The interpreter was still talking quietly into his ear, but Yura was slumped over with his elbow on the table, his little fist propping up his head, and wore a distinctly bored expression. He was a little detached from the proceedings and seemed to vacillate between distraction and sleepiness. He seemed to sit up and pay attention when Nikolayev mentioned Vladik, and he looked like he wanted to ask a question. I interrupted Nikolayev and said that Yura – sorry Ivan – wanted to say something.

Nikolayev stopped and looked at Yura expectantly. All heads turned to him. I was quite proud of the way that Yura clearly and confidently put his question to Nikolayev, addressing him quite intelligently in Russian. He asked what had happened to Vladik.

Alas, no one knew what happened to Vladik, Nikolayev explained. His body was never found and officially he was still missing. There was a remote chance that Vladik was still alive, but he could not confirm that at this time. Yura looked as though he expected more. That evidently was not the answer he wanted. He watched Nikolayev for a moment, and when he realized there was no more, nodded his head and went back to slumping on his elbow.

Nikolayev continued. He said that the Moscow police had gone from investigating a child porn ring to investigating a multiple child homicide, and there was a great deal of publicity about it in Russia. The unprecedented media interest had hampered their progress, particularly as Yura's face was all over the TV and the press. He added that it did not help that Yura's good looks had endeared many people to his story and, although a face like that made for a good media story, the publicity also resulted in them being unable to protect him. It was clear that Yura was at the center of their investigation. It was even conceivable that he was still in possession of information that could be pivotal to the investigation. It was little wonder that his life was in danger. The Russian crime lords who had controlled the vice ring from which Yura was rescued, were very powerful, desperate and unscrupulous people, and had already proved that they considered these boys expendable. It would not be outside of their means to threaten Yura's life and the lives of everyone connected with the investigation. Yura had been virtually confined indoors for the last few months. It was not considered safe for him to go out in public and he had to be guarded around the clock. For this reason, the Moscow police had once again approached us for assistance. That was the main reason for Yura coming here, to keep him out of danger. I then understood why all the secrecy was necessary, why his name had been changed and why I had been assigned to protect him. Nikolayev said they had acted on a tip-off that Yura was about to be assassinated, and that was why the arrangements to fly him to safety had been sudden and hasty. They had to leave Moscow in a great hurry, without much notice, and as a result had not had the opportunity to properly prepare. That was apparent, I mused, from the pitiful state of the stuff that was in his suitcase yesterday.

Yura had already been interviewed at length about his ordeal, but the Moscow police had to protect him because his evidence was going to be pivotal if ever they were able to bring a case to trial. That was why his life was in danger and why the Russian crime lords wanted to silence him. So far, the Moscow police had been unable to make any progress and their investigation had stalled. But public interest in the case had not diminished, and they were under increasing pressure to produce results. Meanwhile, the pornographers were still at large and, although production of those videos had ceased, three young boys still lay dead, with one still missing, and no one had been arrested or charged.

As the meeting concluded, Nikolayev agreed that for the moment we would give Yura time to settle in and within the next few days would decide what to do next. I asked how long Yura was likely to stay. He said that the original intention had been to fly him here until the danger had passed, and return him to Moscow when it was considered safe to do so. The problem was that the threat was not likely to go away any time soon. At the moment his stay in the country was open ended. He intimated that there were moves to possibly grant him permanent residency, and the Russian embassy were coordinating the immigration side of things. Permanent residency had not been ruled out, in case it proved impossible or unwise for him ever to go home. Perhaps when some arrests had been made, the danger would diminish, but Nikolayev was careful to point out that even if they were successful in convicting anybody in this case, it still might not eliminate the threat altogether. It was conceivable that Yura's life would still be in danger.

When the meeting finished, the assembled individuals got up and gathered their things, breaking into spontaneous exchanges. I noticed many of the attendees gravitating towards Yura, wanting to chat informally with him, surrounding him like circling vultures, eager to meet the little boy who was at the center of this operation, the little boy they had so far only heard about. Elena and the interpreter sort of hemmed him in by the table, and there was a huddle of people clamoring to speak with him, including the Moscow police officers. He was introduced to a confusing succession of people within a very short time, almost as though he was something of a celebrity. But I could see that he did not enjoy the attention. He stood and chatted politely for a bit, but was really trying to move away. He was growing increasingly uncomfortable, shuffling his feet, with one arm across his chest grabbing the other arm defensively. He looked around as though seeking my presence to get him out of there, with some alarm in his eyes. Couldn't these people see that the kid was overwhelmed? He didn't appreciate everyone focusing on him like that. I went around and pushed my way through the gaggle of people that confined him. It was the kind of situation where being six foot two [1.88 m] was a distinct advantage. He was dwarfed at the centre of this knot of attention, and I just reached in and pulled him out of the scrum. I held him closely against me, protectively putting an arm around his shoulders, and escorted him away. There were a few gasps of incredulity and some people remarked that I was being rude. I didn't care. I thought they were being rude by their lack of consideration for this unassuming little boy. I just wanted to get him out of there. Nikolayev watched as I escorted Yura to the door and steered him by his shoulders back towards the elevator. Nikolayev's expression betrayed more than a note of concern about my abruptness, but he didn't say anything. What could he say? I was just doing my job.

After the meeting Yura and I took the car through the downtown traffic, heading back towards the freeway, and he settled once again into the passenger seat next to me. He seemed fairly quiet and subdued, and a little downbeat. In fact, he was quite distant, somewhat thoughtful and introspective. I glanced at him quickly, trying to keep my eyes on the road, and he sat there staring straight ahead. He was silent for a very long time.

"What's on your mind little buddy?" I asked him, breaking the silence.

"Just thinking," he said, and wouldn't elaborate any further.

"You can talk to me, you know," I reassured him, inviting him to say more.

He turned to look at me and hesitated for a moment, as though thinking it over.

"I know," he said, as though he really believed it, "but I don't feel like it right now."

It was an extraordinarily candid reply. I was almost taken aback by the maturity of it. I was starting to realize that this little boy had quite an acute awareness, more than people gave him credit for. At least it wasn't an outright refusal and I took it as a positive sign.

We drove on for a while longer without saying much, and I could sense Yura deep in thought next to me.

"Mark?"

"Hmm?"

"Why didn't they find Vladik?" he asked, at last.

"Vladik?"

"He was my best friend," Yura went on, "We made a lot of videos together."

That was the second time he had mentioned Vladik this afternoon. I recalled him asking Nikolayev about him at the meeting. Clearly, Vladik held some importance to him.

"Officially he's still missing," I said, as though that was some kind of consolation.

"Vladik was a nice boy," Yura said, wistfully, "I hope they find him. I would love to see Vladik again."

Then he fell silent again, and another long pause followed. He was musing over Vladik. Silently I was quite jubilant, because I could already sense that Yura was opening up to me. He was comfortable with me. He trusted me and I felt we had established a nice little rapport. I was really starting to like this wonderful little boy, and I think he liked me too.

To cheer him up, and provide a welcome distraction from the trials of the last two days, I wanted to give Yura a little treat. So, on the way home I suggested we stop and take a walk through the mall, maybe get some ice cream and just relax for a bit. Yura loved the idea. We parked the car and entered the mall through one of the side doors. It was unusually busy, with endless streams of shoppers and hangers-on creating a buzz of activity. The crowds actually made me a little nervous. It probably wasn't a good idea for Yura to be out in public. There was always an outside chance of him being recognized. In my mind, I imagined scenarios similar to my reaction at the airport, when I first set eyes on him. Doubtless there were others who might recognize him in the same way as I did. Like I said, his pictures were all over the internet. But, he had been so isolated recently that as soon as we got into the mall, it was heartening to see him start skipping with joy. He was waving his arms around and jumping about excitedly as we walked. People were looking, but he was oblivious. This poor boy had been confined for so long, it was clear to see that this new sense of freedom, and the sheer delight of being able to just mix with ordinary people, was making him feel hyper and elated. He ran from shop window to shop window, like some demented butterfly, settling on anything that grabbed his attention, pointing out things in the most childishly exuberant way as though he was seeing all this for the first time. I could only marvel at his energy and his enthusiasm. I realized that, although to me this was quite a normal and unremarkable pursuit, it was easy to forget that Yura had not had the same experiences as most boys his age. He probably had never enjoyed these simple activities, so in many ways, it was a pleasure to see him just behaving like the ten year old boy he really was. It was certainly a stark contrast from the frightened, tearful, half naked little boy I had found cowering in the corner of his room that morning.

We stopped for ice cream at the food court, and I sat opposite Yura at one of the little round polished metal tables, just out of the passing stream of shoppers. When it came, his sundae was a work of art. It was enormous, with hot fudge sauce, whipped cream, chopped nuts, chocolate sprinkles, vanilla wafers and a maraschino cherry. When it was set down in front of him his eyes widened in such a way that it thrilled me to see how such a simple thing could induce so much pleasure. Yura sat there admiring it for a good few moments, his face obscured by the towering object before him. I seriously doubted he would finish it. I should never have doubted him. He polished off the lot in next to no time. I wondered how long it had been since this little boy had been able to indulge in such things, and how much this kid had missed out on the type of things that other kids just took for granted. I was only too happy that I was able to do this simple thing for him. I don't think I had ever derived so much pleasure from watching someone else eat.

When we moved off again, I took Yura towards the big glass atrium at the centre of the mall where all the aisles converged, just so he could appreciate the sheer scale of the place. There were escalators crisscrossing in all directions, leading up to all the above ground levels. When we reached them, Yura stopped right in the centre of the atrium and looked straight up. You could see the sky through the cavernous glass roof, which was as high as a cathedral, and if you looked straight up at the glass dome, all you could see was sky surrounded by moving escalators. It was an impressive sight. I stood with Yura for a few minutes and looked up with him, my head tilted right back, taking in the sheer size and wonder of the structure high above us. He commented at what an awesome sight it was and stared up for ages, putting a hand up to shield his eyes from the sunlight. You got dizzy if you looked up for too long. We perhaps stood there a few minutes longer than we should, and when I looked down again Yura was gone!

I looked around and Yura was not where I expected him to be. Nor was he behind me, or anywhere in my line of sight. All my internal organs suddenly turned to jelly. A stab of shock zapped right through me. I looked around again, this time with more care, but Yura was nowhere. He had just disappeared! I panicked – me, six foot two [1.88 m], twenty years service, trained in defensive driving, hand to hand combat and close protection, eternally the coolest person to have around in an emergency, and suddenly all my faculties were useless. I realized that no amount of training or experience could prepare me for something like this. For a moment I was frozen in fear. Not the fear of losing my job, which could be a real consequence if anything happened to Yura, but more the thought that he should come to any harm. What I feared most was almost too awful to contemplate. A surge of adrenalin sent my heart thumping heavily in my chest. I dashed to the start of the nearest aisle, where the crowds were marching to and fro and I shouted out to him. People were looking at me, not responding to the urgency in my voice, impervious to my desperation as I zigzagged awkwardly between the passing streams of shoppers. There was no sign of him. I ran back the opposite way and called out again, desperately trying to search him out amongst the endless array of strangers. No sign. I started stopping random passers by, asking of they had seen a small blue-eyed boy, focusing on perhaps the one thing they would notice about him, the first thing anybody noticed when they saw him. But I succeeded in attracting nothing but stares of confusion and hostility.

I turned once more, frantic to find Yura, and finally I caught sight of him. He was straight ahead of me, way over the other side of the atrium. I saw his slim, slight, diminutive little figure between gaps in the passing crowds. He was standing with his back to me staring into a shop window, his hands in his pockets, apparently oblivious to my panic. I sprinted over to him, calling out his name in a tone which must have scared him. He spun around just as I reached him, and I only caught sight of a brief flash of confusion and fright in his face, induced only by the urgency in my voice, and a second later I was upon him. I jumped on him with such desperation that I nearly knocked him over, and I gave him the tightest embrace my arms could manage.

"I thought I'd lost you little buddy!"

My relief was tangible. I was breathless with fright as I hugged him close. He was strangely stiff and unresponsive in my arms, probably completely unaware of the panic he had caused. I hugged him tightly for perhaps a second longer than would be expected, and he squirmed a little, becoming uncomfortable in my strong arms. He loosened himself from me and looked up with a questioning, almost worried look.

"I thought I'd lost you," I was saying, over and over, "I thought I'd lost you."

He stared at me with a mixture of fear and confusion, evidently not understanding the reasons for my behavior, and I realized that what he was most fazed by was the fact that I had tears in my eyes.

"Why did you walk off like that?" I demanded angrily, "You scared me!"

He was taken aback my flash of anger. It took him a few moments to assimilate the full magnitude of what had just happened. I think he was able to appreciate it when he coupled together my reaction with his relative unworldliness, and eventually he realized exactly what he'd done. Then I could see tears welling up in his eyes and I instantly regretted shouting at him. My anger had frightened him.

"I 3; I 3;" he stammered, his voice wavering with fright, "I didn't mean to, okay!"

Now it was his turn to be angry. Angry at me for scaring him.

I hugged him again, and this time he hugged me back. I nuzzled his sweet head into my chest and couldn't help kissing the top of his head, thankful that he was alright and there was no harm done.

"I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you," I whispered to him.

He held onto me for a few moments more, and relaxed. This time he allowed me to pull his little body right into me, perhaps sensing my relief, and his lithe, boyish frame softened against me, yielding completely to my protective embrace. To hold him so close, and to feel his warm body, so malleable, so compliant, against mine, was a stolen pleasure. But at least I knew then that everything was alright again.

In the car on the way home Yura was very quiet and reserved. We drove most of the way without conversation. He sat in the passenger seat, apparently lost in his own thoughts. Then, after a long silence, he spoke.

"I'm sorry I scared you," he said solicitously.

He was still staring down into his lap as he said it, but his apology was profoundly heartfelt. I knew straight away that he had deliberated over it for a long time before finding the courage to annunciate it. Apparently he had been mulling over the incident in his mind. But I appreciated his courage and his honesty, and having the presence of mind to settle the matter with me.

"I'm sorry I shouted at you," I said, feeling that he too deserved an apology.

I think it was mostly my reaction that I was apologizing for. I must have really scared him. He hadn't expected my anger – or my concern. I almost felt guilty for my behavior. Recalling that awful moment when I realized Yura was gone was a very unwelcome memory and left an enduring feeling of horror and panic. I could never have anticipated that the thought of him going missing would fill me with so much dread – and emotion. That shook me because I could see no justification for my overreaction. With hindsight, analyzing the incident now in the relative calmness of the car on the way home, perhaps my response was emotionally disproportionate. But there was also something else going on here, and that frightened me a little. It frightened me because I could not understand how this little ten year old boy could evoke so much emotion in me. For the first time I realized that my feelings for this little boy were much stronger than I ever thought possible. There was something about his presence, his proximity, his very existence, which gave me a wonderful warm feeling inside and caused me to smile to myself as I was driving. I looked over at the diminutive little figure in the car next to me, and he looked up at me and smiled back. It was a look of reassurance, to let me know there were no hard feelings and that all was okay between us. It was such a pleasure to see him smile, and as he did so, it was as though he caused an invisible fist around my heart to squeeze tightly, cracking a tiny flask at its center, saturating it with love for him.

At bed time, I ensured that Yura had everything he needed. I drew a bath for him in the ensuite bathroom of his room, and I retired to my room on the other side of the hallway. I kept my bedroom door open so I could keep an eye on him, and in case he needed anything before he went to sleep. I left his freshly laundered SpongeBob pajamas folded neatly on the edge of the bed. From the small writing desk in my room, I could see straight across the hallway into his room, and that was when I observed through the open doorway, Yura emerging from the steamy bathroom. He was enrobed in a large bath towel which he was wearing like a cape, and proceeded to dry himself off. He was humming away to himself, half whispering some obscure Russian lyrics and half humming the tune under his breath, and he alternated between the two as he dried himself. It was heartening to see him so cheerful and relaxed. He spotted the magazines I had left for him on the bed, next to the pajamas, and to my delight he stopped humming for a moment. He seemed to brighten, and was instantly drawn to them. They were only some past editions of prestige sports car magazines and the like, an interest I thought he might share. I figured it was perhaps a way of connecting with him. He seemed to like the magazines. I watched him for a while, from my room directly across the hallway, and saw how innocently and obliviously he went about his business, in that preoccupied way that all children have, for the moment his deeper fears and concerns all but forgotten. Unaware that I was watching him, he settled himself on the bed, his legs drawn up to one side, and the towel still draped across his shoulders. His hair was all ruffled, still a little wet and sticking up in uneven spikes all over his head. He propped himself up on one arm, his shoulder taking most of the weight, and started leafing through one of the magazines. That made me smile to myself as I watched. He was still humming away to himself, and at the same time absently fondling his hairless little dick and balls in between turning the pages.

Pretty soon, it was his boydick that became the focus of his attention. As he continued to grope himself, the magazines were soon forgotten, and so was the fact that he was supposed to be getting ready for bed. He stopped humming altogether and his interest moved to stimulating himself. I could see his little hand touching himself, tentatively at first, and then with more purpose. His hand clenched tightly around his stiff little organ, which was clearly hardening in his grip. Slowly, he pulled on his boydick, manipulating the soft, elastic skin up and down over the hardness beneath. Gradually, he picked up the pace and eventually settled into a speedy rhythm with increased urgency, his fist hammering away at his crotch with some vigor. As he did so, the towel slid off his shoulders, so that he was sitting there naked. He started to pant, screwing up his eyes and occasionally throwing his head back in an effort to induce the ecstasy he craved.

I felt I should not be watching, but I couldn't turn away. If he had looked up and focused any further than the door of his room, he would have spotted me, but he was too deeply into his pursuit, lost in the reverie of pleasuring himself, indulging the age-old compulsion that every boy eventually comes to know. Fascinated, I stared at the compact little figure, huddled neatly on that big bed, his arm working himself up into a frenzy, all his efforts centered on that little iron pole of hardness that was giving him so much pleasure, extending from his hairless crotch like some wayward accoutrement. He was engaged in the solitary pursuit of that elusive place we all reserved in our minds – that special place we could all go where only sex exists. It didn't take him long. His pace reached such a pitch that he was stroking his little pole with almost painful abandon. Suddenly he stiffened. His little body shuddered violently and he elicited a single involuntary high-pitched cry, which echoed off the walls of his room. He clutched his little dick spastically as his head dropped forward. He stayed like that for a moment, hunched over, then raised his head, opening his eyes, and he let go of his little dick. He was panting softly. Bringing his hand up to his face, his fingers still clenched in a loose fist, he looked at it closely for a moment, studying the liquid dripping over his knuckles with a curious fascination. Then, tentatively, he put his little hand to his mouth and licked it.

I moved out of the line of sight of the door and gasped inwardly. I realized I had a hard-on. There was no doubt that Yura was a good looking boy with an incredibly attractive body, and I had just witnessed him work his own little boy spunk out of himself. I was immediately turned on by the thought that he could actually ejaculate. He was a little young, but obviously was already producing cum. I felt breathless and slightly resentful, and I wasn't quite sure why. Memories of those boyporn videos flashed through my mind. I had to remind myself that this boy had seen and done things that most boys of his age rarely experienced. He was obviously very sexualized. He had to be, and had probably been sexually aware from a very early age. But he was still only ten years old, and I had not yet figured out what his feelings were towards me. No matter. I only had one rule when it came to young boys: the rule that John himself had instilled in me – never make the first move. If I had learned anything from being on the street, and later from helping those street kids, it was that all little boys had a dormant place in their hearts and minds that was reserved especially for older men. It just had to be activated. Once activated, it was permanent and irreversible. But they had to be agreeable, or at any rate acquiescent. Some boys would extend an invitation, and were openly willing to be shown the way. Some expressed an interest, others merely a passing curiosity. But it always had to come from the boy. If anything was going to happen, I would never be the one to initiate it. On that score, John had taught me well.

Slightly frustrated and confused by my own feelings, I waited until Yura was in bed. I tucked him in and switched off the light, closing his bedroom door softly. I then crept back into my bedroom to pick up the case file that I had been issued with when I was first briefed about Operation Ganymede. I still had the slim leather file containing all the paperwork, and there, in a little wallet inside the front cover of the file, was a DVD sleeve with a disc in it. It was an unabridged compilation of all Yura's videos. I shouldn't really have been tempted to watch it, but I figured it might help me to make sense of what I was feeling. I felt I needed to be reminded of what Operation Ganymede was all about. Perhaps I needed to reconnect with what my mission in this operation was supposed to be; to reassert my purpose for being stuck in this house with this wonderful little boy who was at once lovable and desirable, and who, perhaps without even intending to, was slowly worming his way into my affections. With the disc in my hand, I crept back down to the drawing room and switched on the big plasma TV. I fed the DVD into the machine and sat back on the sofa, fingering the remote.

The DVD was of exceptionally high quality. It may have been illicit, black market material, but it was the most polished I had ever seen. The indoor locations were tastefully conceived. The camerawork and lighting were utterly professional. The editing seamless. It was clear that the production crew obviously knew what they were doing, and had a clear objective in mind in terms of their finished product. Most of all, the boys themselves were stunningly beautiful. They appeared willing and enthusiastic, and infinitely capable of performing in front of the camera. They were slim and tight, their naked prepubescent bodies bursting with the vibrancy of youth, exuding the energy and vitality that only boys of that age could possess. But more than that, they were sexed up beyond belief, doing things which even I, as a consenting adult, would never have conceived of doing. It was mind-boggling porn. Porn of the highest caliber. Porn that was deliberately contrived to induce the utmost horniness in anyone who viewed it. It was just so beautifully done.

In one scene, Yura appeared with a little blond boy – perhaps that was Vladik, the boy he had spoken of earlier. He, too, was breathtakingly pretty. Yura was younger, perhaps more innocent looking, which I am sure was part of his appeal. He might have been only eight or nine when that video was made. The sequence began with both boys coupling amorously and falling onto the bed, their lips locked together in a lascivious embrace. Fully clothed, they became more and more intense, kissing, smiling, stripping each other, looking so lovingly into each other's eyes as they relieved each other of their clothing. They appeared to be really into it. There was not a hint of reluctance, or a sense of this being stage-managed or coerced in any way. They looked like they were really enjoying it. The soundtrack seemed genuine too, their little high pitched voices whispering encouragement, emitting little squeals and moans as they went along. God, it was good. The close ups revealed little hairless dicks, foreskins pulled back, their little cockheads shiny from each other's spit. Young, stiffly sprung little cocks, dueling each other, being pressed against tight, shiny little boyholes which they penetrated with consummate ease. They fucked each other with an almost reckless familiarity, inserting their hairless little dicks into one another's tiny boyholes with all the compatibility of a key in a lock. They were obviously well practiced. And yes 3; they were good together. Yura was bucking and hunching over the other boy, expertly stabbing his little boydick into him from behind, and appearing to be really engaged in it. He even looked into the lens and smiled as the roving camera insinuated its way all over every intimate part of the two boys' hairless bodies as they fucked. There was a kind of forbidden fascination to the whole thing, a kind of artistic perversity that was difficult to quantify. But it was beautiful, even if it was just the simple admiration of two gorgeous young boys eliciting such blissful pleasure from each other.

I fast forwarded the disc and stopped it randomly at various intervals. It was easy to trace a clear degeneration as the videos got more and more adventurous and depraved. At the beginning it was only the young boys together. There was a sequence where Yura and another brown haired boy, were busily inserting thin little dildos into each other's holes. In another sequence, two different boys were engaged in a sixty-nine. There was another where all five boys were together, sucking and fucking in various positions. One that caught my eye was a close up shot of Yura with a rather large speculum firmly lodged in his boyhole. He was up on all fours with his knees splayed open, and the blonde boy lying beneath him. Yura's little boydick was rigid with horniness and, without anybody even touching it, was loudly squealing in ecstasy and forcibly ejaculating little boy spunk onto the tight tummy of the pretty little blond boy beneath him.

But then, the videos became much more serious, with adult men appearing, and they seemed to go from eroticism to outright abuse. For example there was one scene where the blond boy was being spit roasted by two older men, their big fat cocks invading his little body with reckless force – one in his ass, one in his mouth. The one in his ass was obscenely stretching his little boyhole to the limit, while the one in his mouth was grabbing his head roughly, with his cock stuck so far into his mouth that it was almost as if he was fucking it down the boy's throat. The blond boy bore their assault with a resigned stoicism and bravery. In the next scene, Yura's sweet little face was being blasted by three big cocks, their copious spunk erupting with an almost unimaginable fury, drenching his pretty features in big gobs of cum. He seemed to flinch and was trying to pull away. In the next scene the blond boy was laying stretched out naked on a mat with a gag over his mouth, his arms and legs bound with leather straps, and two men standing over him, enthusiastically pissing on him. In the next, Yura was spread-eagled on a bed, a big hairy man covering him from behind, and forcing his big fat cock into Yura's tiny, hairless body. He was thrusting into him with such brutal force that Yura was rocking into the bed, and he was crying out with each thrust. They were cries of genuine pain. After one last, almighty lunge, the man pulled out, leaving Yura dazed and obviously traumatized. The camera focused on Yura's still dilated hole, stretched open by that fat cock. The man spread Yura's ass cheeks as the camera zoomed in. His ravaged little boyhole was leaking thick, pure white spunk, but it was also clearly smeared with dark red blood.

Breathless, I hit the stop button, and tossed the remote aside contemptuously. The screen went blank and silent. It was mind-blowing stuff, graphic in the extreme and shockingly explicit. And this was only the tip of the iceberg. I suddenly became aware of my own breathing. I was sitting there panting softly with a mixture of horror and confusion. Porn, like prostitution, was inevitable, John used to say, that's just the way things are. But how could I reconcile that with what Yura had suffered? When he was found, he had been beaten and abused so badly that he could have died. Most of the other boys in those videos were actually dead. Porn may be inevitable, but it was not worth someone's life. The thought of what that poor little boy had been through left me feeling utterly horrified, frustrated and confused. Confused by my own conflicting emotions. I got up, powered off the TV and decided to go to bed, not forgetting to take the disc with me.

***

The next morning, when I awoke, I realized that the door to my room was ajar. I usually slept with the blinds drawn, so when a single sliver of sunlight fell across the bed from the open door, it woke me up. It was the sunlight penetrating from the hallway. I thought it strange. I never would have left the bedroom door open, so I got up to investigate. I was still naked of course, and completely unprepared for the sight of this dark, imposing heap on the floor which automatically drew my eye. As I rose from the bed, I saw that the unfamiliar obstruction on the floor was Yura, asleep at the foot of my bed. He was lying on the floor shirtless, wearing only his SpongeBob pajama bottoms. He was curled into the embryo position, his head resting on one of his pillows, which he had evidently brought with him into my room. I stopped and stared at the sweet little bundle on my floor, momentarily confused and unable to work out quite what was going on.

My movement caused him to stir, and at that moment he started to wake up. I reached for my bathrobe and put it on, sitting down on the end of the bed, looking down at him. He twisted slightly, executing a long, slow-motion stretch, just like a cat, and opened his eyes. He spotted me straight away, sitting there above him, and seemed to smile.

"Good morning," I said.

He turned so that he was laying flat, and stretched his arms above his head, his eyes straining against the dull morning light.

"Morning," he said, contentedly.

"Sleep well?"

"Uh huh," he nodded, affirmatively.

"So what's going on?" I asked him.

I suspected he had wet the bed again.

He raised his head and looked around, probably to re-orientate himself and confirm where he was, and then collapsed back onto the pillow.

"I had a nightmare," he said, "I was scared, so I came in here to be close to you."

"You didn't wet the bed?"

"No," he said, with genuine honesty, smiling at the suggestion.

"So why didn't you just wake me up?"

He shrugged indifferently, even as he lay there at my feet.

"I didn't want to disturb you," he said, plainly.

I stared at him blankly for a few seconds trying to work out if this kid was for real. He had a nightmare and was scared, and he came into my room in the night because he wanted to be close to me, but was too considerate to wake me up? It was just too quaint. I wondered if perhaps the poor boy had feared my reaction if he woke me up.

"Really?" I asked, incredulous.

He shrugged again, apparently thinking it no big deal.

I reached out, extending a hand down to him.

"C'mon little buddy, get up. We can't have you sleeping on the floor."

He allowed me to grab his little fist in mine, and I pulled him up. He sprang up to a standing position in one swift movement. I took both his hands. He was incredibly cute as he stood there half naked before me. His flat little tummy tightened as he inhaled, the cute little innie belly button winking at me just above the waist of his pajama bottoms which hung loosely on his hips. I looked up at him, holding onto both his hands.

"Listen to me little buddy," I said, very distinctly, "Don't be afraid to wake me up. Next time you have a nightmare, just call me, or come right in. I promise I don't mind. Understood?"

His clear cobalt-blue eyes looked down at me, looking into each of my eyes in turn, and I could see he was thinking it over, trying to decide if I was serious or not. Evidently he decided that I was and, after a momentary hesitation of uncertainty, he nodded.

"Good," I said, letting go of his hands, "Now, why don't you go downstairs and watch some TV or something. I'll take a shower, and then fix us some breakfast."

He gave a series of nods, apparently reassured, and turned to go, even stooping to collect his pillow from the floor on the way out. Just as he reached the threshold, he opened the door, but paused and turned. He stood there clutching a corner of the pillow in one hand.

"I don't really like being on my own," he explained, very matter-of-factly, "They used to lock me in a room on my own. I still have nightmares about it."

"Who?" I asked.

"Oh, you know 3;"

"I see," I said, saving him any further explanation.

It was an extraordinarily candid statement, related in such an un-self-pitying manner. He seemed to think nothing of it, but to me it was a watershed statement. It was the first time Yura had shared anything quite so personal with me. He was already opening up to me and I felt quite flattered that he should trust me with such intensely personal revelations.

He shuffled off and I went into the bathroom, switching on the light, and stood in front of the mirror, musing over what had just happened. The thought of Yura waking up in the dark, frightened and lonely, and coming into my room in the night without waking me, was very moving. Was it really conceivable that this kid was so considerate, so acutely aware of other people, that even in his own moment of distress, he had the presence of mind to think of others? The sheer altruism of that simple act was almost beyond me – this kid was only ten years old and yet had a maturity and wisdom way beyond his years. God, he was so remarkable it simply took my breath away.

It turned out to be a day where we both found out a lot about each other. After breakfast I thought I would use some of my old bonding strategies. There were plenty of activities I had employed when working with the street kids, just to promote good relations with them, to get them to trust me, and most of all to offer them some guidance on just doing very ordinary, unremarkable things. Some of those street kids lacked even the most basic social skills, and when you took them out into the community they could not relate to people on even the most fundamental level. Not that Yura was like that. Yura actually had very good social skills. He was mature and thoughtful and considerate, and from what I could see was exceptionally astute and intelligent for his age. But I thought we would spend the day together and perhaps get to know each other better. The events of the morning had already set the tone for what followed, so I thought it appropriate somehow.

We spent the day engaged in various activities around the house. After breakfast we went down into the games room in the basement. The basement had a low ceiling, but was quite a large open space, with a small gym situated at one end, then a little walk-through lounge area with sofas and a cocktail bar in the middle. At the far end was a pool table and a darts board. It was an ideal place for hanging out or entertaining. We had not made much use of it so far. Yura asked if I would teach him how to play pool. Of course I agreed, although it was a frustrating if at times pleasurable experience. We circled the table, taking turns, chatting idly, and it allowed me to interact with him in a very intimate way. As we played, I showed him how to hold the cue and how to shoot the balls into the pockets. It allowed me to get up close to him, leaning in over his little body as he bent down and reached across the pool table with his cue. I positioned myself above him as he was stretched across the table beneath me and I covered him much as if I was fucking him. His thin t-shirt was stretched tightly across his boyish frame, and it separated from his jeans just enough to expose the waistband of his underwear and the small of his back. The hard little muscles at the base of his spine were just visible, sheathed beneath flawless young skin. I guided his hands on the cue, noting how beautiful his hands were, his graceful little fingers curled lightly around the polished wood. My crotch brushed gently against his neat, round little boy butt, that squishy firmness shielded by the tight stitched denim of his jeans. I had a view of the back of his head and watched him as he took his shot, and as he did so I closed my eyes in stolen pleasure. The heat of his little body was tangible as I pressed up close to him. I breathed deeply and caught a whiff of his smell, a clean, heady scent mixed up with his little boy odor, like warm milk. I was momentarily dizzy from the way he totally consumed all my senses, and I wondered how it was possible for me to be so totally awestruck by this wonderful little boy.

Later, I suggested we do some cooking. I knew that cooking was always a good bonding activity. It was reasonably safe and something we could do together without having to leave the house. I remember asking Yura if he liked tiramisu. He flashed me a puzzled expression and confessed that he didn't think he had ever tried it. Since tiramisu was my specialty, and didn't actually involve any cooking, I decided it would be the perfect recipe to get him involved. So it was that I found a rather nifty pair of aprons in the kitchen drawer: one had a Bart Simpson motif, which I gave to Yura. I took the other one which had Homer Simpson on it. I didn't particularly like Homer Simpson. I thought Homer Simpson was an asshole. But I wore it anyway because I thought the shared theme lent us a sense of unity.

We managed to get all the ingredients together and assembled them all on the central island of the cavernous kitchen. I loved cooking, so I was able to appreciate the advantages of having such a well-equipped and roomy kitchen in the house. Yura looked quite cute in his apron, which I drew up around his waist because it was a little too long, and tied it for him. He quickly fell into his role, taking the task in hand quite seriously and I could see he was determined to give it his best shot. He was so compliant, so cooperative and enthusiastic. Why couldn't all boys be like Yura?

Soon we set into a comfortable little rhythm as we worked, mixing the mascarpone and arranging the sponge fingers. I gave him the task of dipping the sponge fingers in the hot chocolate and arranging them into the bottom of the tray. I always used hot chocolate instead of coffee because it was infinitely more appealing to young boys. As we worked, we chatted idly. Yura was talking about Vladik. He liked talking about Vladik. His whole face brightened and he always sounded so happy when he was talking of Vladik.

"Oh yeh, we made a lot of videos together. That's why we became such good friends," Yura was saying, "I liked Vladik. He was funny. He always made me laugh. Sometimes we were locked in the room together and we talked about escaping. We made up stories about how we would run away and what we would do when we got out. We talked about going to a place where there were no adults, where we could live together, just us, in peace, where no one made us do things we didn't want to do, and where we were free to go out and play and just be ourselves. Vladik used to cuddle me in the night when I cried. He knew I was afraid of being alone. He looked after me."

I was stunned at how revealing that was. As I listened, I stirred the mascarpone mix, cradling the bowl. I slowed down and flashed him a pained, sympathetic look.

"Was Vladik more than just a friend?" I asked, probing a little.

He looked up, a freshly dipped sponge finger still suspended in his little hand.

"Sometimes," he said, cryptically, but didn't elaborate any further.

He was so sparing with some of his responses, that it was almost as though he deliberately censored himself from giving too much away. His pauses and his timing made his conversation quite dramatic. Talking to Yura felt quite theatrical at times.

He carried on arranging the sponge fingers in the tray, then drew a deep breath, maybe sensing that the conversation was getting a little heavy.

"What about you?" he asked, with a brighter tone in his voice, "Did you ever have a special friend?"

A special friend? I had never heard it put quite like that, but I think I knew what he meant.

"Yes," I nodded, "A very long time ago."

I put the mixing bowl down and pulled out the leather wallet which was in my back pocket. I flipped it open, and showed Yura the photo I still kept in there. He wiped his hands on his apron, smearing it with little smudges of chocolate, then he moved around the corner of the island to stand next to me. He grabbed my open wallet and pulled it towards him. He stared for a few seconds at the photo of John. It wasn't even a particularly good photo – but it was all I had. It was just a head and shoulders shot, taken on a trip to Europe. He was standing on some windswept bridge when I took it, squinting into the sun, and he was smiling a toothy smile, all trim blond beard and sunglasses.

"Oh cool," said Yura, "Who's that?"

"That's John," I said, introducing him as though he was in the room with us, "My best friend."

"Cool," Yura said again, sounding pleased for me, "Where is he now?"

"He died," I said, plainly, and sat down on one of the high wooden stools, my open wallet still in my hand.

Yura looked sad.

"I'm sorry," he said, genuinely solicitous.

We went on looking at the photo together for a while longer. I could sense Yura mulling things over in his mind.

"He was your lover wasn't he?"

It was such a perceptive and mature statement. Yura knew. He understood immediately, and I knew there was no point in avoidance or diversion.

"Yes," I said, honestly, "He was my lover, my father and my friend."

As I was sitting there, looking at the photograph, reminiscing over John, I will never forget what Yura did then. It is a moment that I will treasure and remember forever. He stood next to me for a few prolonged moments just looking at the photograph with me. Then, tentatively, he reached out and put his little palm on the back of my hand as it rested on the counter top, still holding the photo out in front of me. The warmth of his little hand on mine was strangely comforting. He looked at my face as he did so, as though watching for my reaction. He was so astute, so tuned-in to other people's feelings that he automatically sensed my emotions, and I took it as a gesture of his sympathy and solidarity. It was a touching little boymoment. It was an endless mystery to me that despite the wrongs this little boy had suffered, despite the awful hurt that had been done to him, he could be so capable of showing consideration to other people. I looked at him and smiled, and put my other hand over his, as though to thank him for his sensitivity and to acknowledge his gesture.

When the moment had passed, I put my wallet away in my back pocket and we carried on.

"I never had a father," Yura said, shifting back to the other side and picking up the sponge fingers again.

Now it was my turn to feel sorry for him. The way he said 'I never had a father', in such a resigned, matter-of-fact way, touched me deeply. It was as though he had come to terms with it as something that was lost forever. Sometimes the things he said left me breathless. His words were always couched in genuine childhood innocence, and yet he could also display extraordinary maturity and wisdom. He was such a paradox.

"I never had a proper family," he went on, "I grew up in a children's home. Maybe if there had been someone there to look after me 3;"

He let his words trail off, but then his chain of thought seemed to bring other memories to the fore.

"It was horrible in the children's home," he said, and he studiously continued arranging the sponge fingers in the bottom of the tray. 'There was one man in particular, his name was Kirilenko. He used to like watching me pee."

He looked up at me with a really serious stare, and blinked deliberately, his long eyelashes making a seductive down-up sweep.

"He seemed to get off on that. I still have trouble peeing. I can never do it in a public place."

I watched his expression change from detached conversation, to solemn contemplation, then to pained reminiscence.

"Other times he would come into my bed at night and stick his thing in me," he said, and I could see that even as the words left his mouth, they touched off a memory that was profoundly painful to him.

"I was only six," he went on, in a strained whisper, "It hurt."

His painful memory transformed into suppressed anger, and I could sense the rage in his expression.

I moved around and threw an arm around his shoulders, giving him an affectionate squeeze. It had not been my intention to revisit painful memories. I had only wanted him to unburden himself, but now I had only succeeded in upsetting him. I cursed myself for being so tactless and stupid.

Yura had a lot of issues to contend with. His experiences had clearly affected him psychologically, and I knew that a child psychotherapist had been assigned to work with him, courtesy of the Moscow Police.

"You know that's the kind of thing you can talk to your therapist about," I suggested, giving his shoulders another squeeze.

He didn't seem impressed by that.

"I had one of those in Moscow," he said, almost contemptuously, "She didn't really help."

I let him go and moved away.

"Those people are trained and experienced. They can really help you if you give them a chance."

"I'd rather talk to you about it," he confessed, holding up his sticky hands, apparently happy with the arrangement of the sponge fingers.

"I'm not trained to help you with things like that," I said, discouraging the idea.

He looked up me appealingly.

"Then you should be. You'd be good at it," he said emphatically, "You understand."

He was looking at me in a really admiring way, and he paused, cocking his head thoughtfully.

"You know Mark, you're a really good person."

I stared for a moment utterly amazed by his forthrightness and his ability to express himself so candidly and honestly. I looked at him, standing there so cutely in that apron, the motif on his chest of the yellow-haired Bart Simpson, with that annoyingly inane expression and that eternal orange t-shirt, sailing through the air on his skateboard. I had to turn away. I felt the sting of tears in my eyes and I didn't want him to see me welling up. I stuck my knuckles firmly between my teeth and tried to choke back my emotions. Coming from the lips of a ten year old boy, it was probably one of the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me. But he had a habit of doing that. So many of the things that Yura said managed to bring a tear to my eye.

The rest of the evening passed off pretty uneventfully. It had been a long day, and we were both tired, so after dinner I encouraged Yura to go to bed early. I waited until he was in bed and turned his light out. I had time to slope off to the little office upstairs to catch up on some work. There was a small book-lined study at the other end of the upstairs hallway, with a computer desk and an impressive collection of books. It was perfect for catching up on messages and making calls or just some quiet time away from the rest of the house. I thought I had better check and see if my unit had been in touch, or if Nikolayev had left further instructions. I spent about an hour just catching up on emails and then thought I had better go to bed myself.

I returned to my room and decided to slip out onto the terrace for a bit. My bedroom, across the hall from Yura's room, had a convenient little terrace which overlooked the well-kept grounds at the back of the house. It was nice and cool out there, a balmy evening with a cool breeze – just the right climate for reflection. I was pleased with the way things were developing with Yura and felt we were bonding really well. I decided to reward myself with a cigarette. I rarely smoked these days. My cigarettes were so few and far between that it was almost a special treat when I did allow myself one. That was another throwback to my life with John. He was very healthy. He exercised every day, played sports and swam. He was the one who got me into the routine of working out regularly, keeping fit and eating right. On the whole we were fairly disciplined. Except when it came to sex. We could never get enough of that. We did smoke the occasional joint, sometimes experimented with other things, but it never became a habit.

I was barely into my cigarette when I was startled by the glass door of the terrace sliding open behind me. It was Yura. He stepped out onto the terrace, leaving the sliding door wide open. He was barefoot and shirtless, as usual, wearing only his now familiar SpongeBob pajama bottoms.

"Hey little buddy, what 3;?"

"Couldn't sleep," he announced.

He paused on the threshold just watching me for a moment, and spotted the cigarette in my hand. He stepped towards me, and reached out, nodding towards the cigarette smoldering away between my fingers.

"You want this?"

He had wrested the smoldering white stick from between my fingers almost before I had finished speaking, and took a long, deep drag, savoring the smoke with all the aplomb of a seasoned smoker. He exhaled with relish, blowing a thin stream of blue smoke up into the air. Then he looked at me and put a finger to his lips. It was something to the effect that nobody was to know. I was delighted that he was building alliances with me. I nodded with a knowing smile, allowing myself the boyish pleasure of being in league with him.

I watched him as he smoked, not altogether surprised that he was out here now. It was getting late and I knew he was just stalling. He took a couple more drags and offered the cigarette back.

"It's okay, you finish it," I said, waving it away.

He thanked me and continued puffing away, turning to admire the view from the terrace. I stepped up next to him and we both continued to take in the view together. It was a clear, midnight blue sky, dotted with the tiny little pinholes of light of the many distant stars that were too numerous to count.

"It's beautiful isn't it?" I ventured.

"Uh huh," he affirmed.

"Aren't you cold?" I asked him, touching his shirtless body gently on his upper arm.

He turned to me and smiled, as though I had said something vaguely ridiculous, perhaps complimented by my concern. I reflected on the miraculous transformation in his mood in such a short time. I was seeing him smile more and more – a welcome counterpoint to the tears he had shed. He really did have a beautiful smile, with thin pink lips which parted just enough to expose his perfect little teeth, and tiny dimples formed in his cheeks just above the corners of his lips, like quotation marks. This little boy had something very special and it really showed when he smiled. It was endearing and intriguing, at once charming and playful, yet complex and mysterious.

He continued smoking away and staring out into the grounds below, which stretched away before us into the darkness. Whilst he did so, he leaned over the balustrade, oblivious in his near-nakedness, surveying what was below and looking around inquisitively as though looking for something to do whilst he finished the cigarette. As he did so, I stepped back slightly and watched him, admiring his shirtless little body. I was in awe of his beauty. I could see his smooth back, the perfect defining line of his spine, as his torso stretched and flexed with his movements. Despite his boyishness, he had good musculature and an unusually fine physique for a boy of his age. The thin pajama bottoms hung loosely about his waist, beneath which it was clear he had no underwear on, and which showed off his small round, pert little boy butt. There was already a hint of the slim waist and broad shoulders that were going to make him a very handsome man one day. I imagined how the pornographers must have relished ever having got hold of a kid like Yura. His looks would have been particularly prized, and he had no doubt suffered because of that. But even as these thoughts came to my mind, Yura flicked the spent cigarette over the balustrade and looked over at me, catching me off guard. Once again, he had caught me checking him out. I smiled guiltily. He smiled back endearingly, looking more flattered than offended.

We both turned back and looked out, leaning over the balustrade side by side, admiring the night sky. Then, without any prompting from me, he shuffled closer and I felt him put his little arm around my waist, gently tilting his sweet head against my elbow. It felt like such a natural and affectionate gesture. We had shared so many hugs and tender moments that it seemed the only appropriate response was to reciprocate by putting my arm around his shoulders. He was such a tactile little boy. He enjoyed closeness and was quite responsive to gestures and touch. Despite what he had suffered, he still appreciated and seemed to welcome bodily contact. I pulled his shirtless little body closer to me and couldn't help stroking his smooth back in a very fatherly way, rubbing him up and down a little as though to warm him up. We stayed linked together, enjoying the view and each other's presence and we remained like that for a good long time. I basked in the tangible proximity of his little body which was now connected to me, and I savored the exquisite pleasure of having this wonderful little boy hanging onto me. It was another perfect little boymoment.

It was Yura who broke the reverie. Even as his head was tilted against me, his thick hair brushing against my arm, he took hold of my hand and squeezed it, as if to attract my attention. He looked up at me longingly and questioningly.

"Mark?"

"Hmm?"

"Can I sleep in your bed tonight?"

His request was so plain, and was delivered so simply, so innocently, that it almost sounded like it should have been more complicated than it was. But it wasn't. It tripped off his little tongue so easily, it was as though it was the most natural thing in the world. It was funny, I thought. I had wanted and desired this little boy so much, and my heart was brimming with so much love for him, that out of all the convoluted scenarios I had envisaged in my mind, a simple request from Yura was the one I had never imagined and much less anticipated. For a moment I wondered if it had anything to do with his fear of being alone. He certainly had plenty of reasons not to sleep in his own bed. Then, a more sinister side of me wondered if he was only saying that because he had been groomed to think that way. Perhaps, after what he had been through, he had been conditioned to read the signs and maybe there was something in my face, my demeanor, that betrayed what was in my mind. Maybe recognizing how to satisfy the boylovers had become second nature to him. But I dismissed it. Yura was more perceptive than that. He was too intelligent, too aware, and I had no doubt that he knew exactly what my feelings were towards him.

He held onto my hand, squeezing it tightly. I could feel the urgency in his grip. He tugged gently, trying to coax me back into the bedroom. I let him lead the way. He steered me towards the door, and as we went I stared down lovingly into his hopeful little face. Looking down at him, I recognized his expression and the needy way he was clinging to me. I saw the way his piercingly blue eyes were shining up at me, like two little liquid pools of pure desire. He had that familiar look, the look I had learned to recognize from the street kids. It was the same indefatigable specter that was ever-present in their eyes. That haunted, hungry look. The look of longing. The longing that all little boys had hidden within their psyche. The longing that could only be satisfied by an older man.

Yura made it very clear that he was now in control. What happened next was delightful, but still somewhat unexpected. Coming in from the terrace, I closed the sliding boor behind us. Once inside, Yura let go of my hand and left me standing in the middle of the room. Silently, he went over to the light switch, reached up and dimmed the lights a little, then pulled back the covers on the bed. He shed his SpongeBob pajama bottoms by running his hands down his hips, slipping them under the elastic, and sliding them down so they fell into a crumpled heap at his feet. He stepped out of them, and with a quick nimble hop, he jumped up and bounced onto the bed naked. He sat up against the headboard smiling, languishing lasciviously, making it clear that he was mine for the taking. His tight, hairless little body was incredibly beautiful and his little boydick was already hard. I shall never forget the expression on his face as he grabbed his little boner and squeezed it tightly in his little fist. His eyes closed in ecstasy and his entire body seemed to melt with the pleasure. He pulled roughly at his hairless little dick and balls, and then he opened his eyes, holding his hard boydick by its base, and showed it to me, as though he was offering it to me. He asked me, pleadingly, in Russian, to come to him, and I understood by his tone that it was a request for satisfaction – or relief – I wasn't sure which. Either way, his precocity was disarming, and I understood then how the incident with the cigarette on the terrace only a few moments ago was a symbolic prelude to what was about to follow.

Of course the fact that he was doing this shouldn't have surprised me. We had been building up to this moment from the time I first set eyes on him. Perhaps I had always known it was going to happen. Perhaps he did too. Even so, now that it was happening, I was still taken aback by his precocity, and the fact that he clearly had no compunction about what he was doing. He was so self-confident and forward, and comfortable with his own body, it was breathtaking. I think what surprised me most of all was not that he was only ten years old and was demonstrating that he really was a sexual being – but that despite what he had been through, he actually wanted sex, was able to make a clear choice and was doing this freely and voluntarily. Perhaps it was that, more than anything, that I found such a turn-on.

I have already said that John taught me well. It had become my rule that I would never be the one to initiate these things. It always had to come from the boy. Well, I had just received my invitation. The sight of this precocious, gorgeous, naked and sexually aroused child on the bed, essentially inviting me to seduce him – or perhaps it was him who was seducing me – was just too much. Turning to him, I pulled off my polo shirt, unclipped my belt, and removed my jeans. He watched me intently, rubbing his little boydick in anticipation, and as I slipped off my underwear, revealing my hard-on to him for the first time, his eyes widened and he quickened the pace on his dick.

"Ooh," he squealed, his high pitched voice excited, his eyes fixed on my hard-on as though he had never seen one before.

He held out a hand, enticing me to join him on the bed, while he kept the other firmly around his boydick, rubbing it roughly, almost erratically, in his anticipation.

I approached him, by now almost breathless with excitement myself, and mounted the bed, kneeling before him, massaging my hard-on for him.

"You're so beautiful, little buddy," I whispered, for the first time able to openly convey my feelings for him.

He smiled mischievously.

"I knew you liked me," he said, "You do like me, don't you?"

"Oh, you're really fuckin' special," I said.

His smile broadened. He seemed to like me swearing for emphasis. He held up his palms to me as I neared him, preparing to sink his little fingers into the fine, sparse hair on my chest. I scooted up and knelt astride him, his long, slender legs stretched out between my knees and, still reclined against the headboard, he ran his delicate little fingers all over my chest, cupping my pectorals in his warm little palms, his fingertips tracing the thin little trail of hair down the centre of my abs to my crotch. He appreciated my well toned body, my muscled chest and trim stomach, and at that moment I knew that all that time spent working out at the police gym had been worthwhile. It would have been worth it just for this one moment, seeing the amazement and wonderment in his eyes as he drank in the sight of my body, feeling every inch, taking in every detail. This little boy was so into me, it was incredibly arousing.

He reached up and pulled my head down towards him and for the first time I tasted his beautiful little rosebud lips. I kissed his mouth really hard, mashing our lips together roughly and invading his little mouth with my tongue. He let me, almost sucking my tongue into his little mouth. His breath smelled of cigarettes, but then probably so did mine. It did not put me off. The proximity of his little face, and being able to kiss him so freely, was an exquisite pleasure. His head moved down, his lips traced a path of wet, ticklish kisses all the way down my chest. He buried his nose right into my abs and I pressed his beautiful little head into my tight stomach. Feeling his warm, wet lips down there made my stomach muscles quiver. While he was down there, he kissed the tip of my hard-on, ever so gently, and ever so expertly. The sight of his little mouth on the tip of my cock was incredibly erotic. But that was nothing to what he did next. Shockingly, he wrapped his lips around it and enveloped almost my whole cock in his mouth, without any instigation on my part. I gasped from the sheer pleasure, and from the shock of seeing my whole cock disappear into his mouth. This kid was so capable, so expert in what he was doing, and his little mouth was making me feel so good. I buried my fingers in his thick black hair and gently coaxed his head onto my cock. Not that he needed any encouragement. I resisted the temptation to thrust into his mouth. It wasn't necessary. What he was doing was just fine. I simply held onto his head and watched the way his cheeks puffed and hollowed as he performed on me, and I could feel his hot little tongue flicking across the head of my cock. His technique defied belief. It was so precise, so measured – in fact so practiced, it seemed almost instinctive. The sight of my cock in his mouth, fucking that beautiful face, enveloped in the magical warm, wet cavern of his mouth 3;. I knew I wasn't going to last long and was already anticipating building up to a really powerful cum, at which point he suddenly pulled away, leaving me cliffhanging and breathless and my cock naked and exposed, pulsing in mid air.

"What the 3;?"

"Fuck me!" he said tersely, in English.

He really emphasized the word 'fuck', to demonstrate that he was now being just raw and dirty. He looked up into my eyes with an urgency that belied his age. It was an expression of flushed seriousness, revealing out loud what his body silently craved. It was a look I had only ever seen in the street boys – a look that conveyed the urgency to have their little bodies mercilessly fucked. With that, he promptly turned over onto all fours, expertly spreading his legs for me, his narrow waist dipping, pointing his perfect little boy butt up in the air. I admired the litheness and suppleness of the little preteen body stretched out naked before me. He turned back to look at me, getting down onto his elbows to offer me his boyhole and steady himself for my assault. He purred in his little high pitched voice, still grabbing at his hard little dick which pointed insistently down between his legs.

"Fuck me," he said again, this time with more emphasis, his face muffled into the pillow.

With that he mustered up a mouthful of spit, which he deposited into his palm, then reached back and slapped it into his boyhole. He was so sexed up that I knew he wasn't going to wait. It was such an erotic sight, this lean, svelte, almost delicate looking child, waiting to be unceremoniously fucked by my big cock. He was so beautiful. His skin was so perfect, so smooth and white and creamy, like terracotta. I could have blown my load all over his perfect little bubble butt right there – soiling that flawless young skin with my cum. But it was obvious he wanted my dick in him.

"Not like this," I said, and reached down to turn him over.

He smiled mischievously, immediately understanding what I wanted. He positioned himself on his back, bringing his knees to his chest, hooking his elbows behind his knees, giving me clear access to his boyhole. His body had amazing flexibility, and great suppleness, as only a boy of his age could have. His little boydick was dagger hard, flat against his belly, pointing up towards his navel. It was the first time I got a good look at his erection. It was perfectly formed. Small, straight and just the right size for a boy of his age. The skin had rolled back just a little, enough to expose the tip of its pink little head. It was a lovely stiff little cock, over-inflated with arousal, standing out so proudly, pulsing with the need to be firmly lodged into some tight, wet hole. At this moment I didn't know if I should suck that little dick for him, or fuck his little boyhole.

One thing I know as a man is that we are genetically programmed to fuck. If we see someone we desire, we want to stick our cock into them. If we see physical features we admire, we want to blow our load all over them. I know that predisposition sometimes comes under criticism, but I also know that without it the human race would end tomorrow. That's what cocks are for – and we are driven by our desire to use them. So when, at this precise moment, I knelt there with this beautiful naked kid, hard and willing and apparently as driven by his cock as I was, I just knew I had to bury my cock into him.

I shall never forget the way he stared into my eyes so lovingly, biting his lip in concentration, as I forced my dick into his boyhole for the first time. My cock ached to be enveloped in his tight warmth. It went in surprisingly easily – spit or no spit – but then I knew just how very experienced he was. Yura knew how to control his sphincter to accommodate the invasion. My cock seemed huge to his small, boyish frame. His expression turned very serious for a moment, with a twinge of pain as I pushed into him, and his little mouth opened momentarily with a silent gasp. But he bore the initial pain, and he let me in. His expression soon changed. As I sank into him, like a hot knife into butter, my big cock glided fully into him as though his little chute had been made to precisely accommodate my girth. He relaxed and a look of relief and pleasure took over. His blue eyes were now screwed tightly shut, his little mouth slightly agape, his pink little tongue firmly poking out of one corner of his lips. He was so beautiful. At that moment what I saw before me was so perfect, so exquisite, I couldn't help exerting a few quick, hard thrusts into him, digging my cock deep into his narrow little abdomen. His eyelids flashed open, and his expression was confused for a moment, as though asking 'What did you do that for?' Still impaled tightly on my cock, his ankles hooked over my shoulders, I laid with almost all my weight on him, pinning him down. I shall never forget what he did then: he smiled! As I watched him, my face hovering only inches above his, an impish smile crept across his face. He was loving it!

"Fuck me Mark," he whispered breathlessly, "fuck me hard."

It was dirty talk – taunting me, inviting me to discard all restraint, wanting me to hurt him. I thrust hard into him, moving my iron hard rod in the softness of his little cunt, slowly at first, then again and again, thoroughly pummeling him into the pillow, and he went on talking under his breath.

"Oh I need this so bad. Fuck me Mark, fuck my little ass, fuck your dick into me, hurt me 3;"

He continued talking dirty almost all the time we were fucking. This dirty talk was so arousing. He certainly liked to express himself, sometimes muttering quietly under his breath with his eyes closed, sometimes loudly into my face as I bucked my cock into him.

"Yeh, that's so good. Give it to me Mark. Fuck my little ass 3;"

We got into a really good fucking rhythm, all the time reading each other's expressions, and kissing. He loved kissing, drawing my head towards him as we fucked, and flicking his hot little tongue around. He was shockingly knowledgeable and practiced. This little boy was superb. He was with me throughout – compliant, enthusiastic, and sometimes in control. I swear I had never experienced that in adults, yet alone in someone so young. His technique was legendary, knowing exactly when to flex the muscles in his little boycunt, and how to position himself to maximize our pleasure, sometimes mine, sometimes his own.

He was so attuned to fucking that he felt when I was getting close. My pace quickened and my thrusting became more urgent and more forceful. I was so damn excited by this kid, was so turned on by him, and so spiritually in tune with him, that I wanted to experience the most exquisite pleasure of all inside his little body. I just had to pump my spunk into him. It was then that he stopped me. He signaled a change of position by pushing his palm against my chest. He had me pull out, and then he spread himself flat on the bed, with me towering over him between his legs, my hard-on aching for relief. He rubbed his hands all over his chest and stomach, pinching his little pink nipples, arching his back, thrusting his flat little belly up at me. His hairless little body wriggled with delight, squirming with anticipation.

"Cum on me!" he demanded.

This forwardness, this sense of knowing exactly what he wanted in someone so young, only heightened my excitement. He sat up and grabbed at my cock, by now almost desperate for my ejaculation and I let him finish me off. I watched his graceful little fingers, and the neat, trim, pink little fingernails, wrapped around my thick shaft; those delicate little hands expertly jacking my big cock into a frenzy. It was just too much. My cock finally reached bursting point, and I savored that delicious moment of delay – that brief expectant pause when you know you're past the point of no return and your orgasm is imminent. I felt my cock give one enormous pulse as my orgasm hit, and I could see Yura close his eyes and throw his head back in ecstasy as he prepared to be covered in my cum. My god, this kid was so into it, and just seeing that sent me way over the edge and intensified my orgasm beyond imagination. My whole body tightened with violent waves of pleasure and I gasped, nearly screaming with the intensity of it. I swear I have never blasted so much cum or as hard. It came out with such force that it splashed all over his face and neck and he almost seemed to direct my cock onto his chest and stomach even as I was cumming. It was quite intense, and lasted a good long time, with several good strong jets of cum. Where it peppered his young body, it ran in little rivulets down him, over his smooth chest and nipples, and over his flat tummy and his hairless little cock and balls, and seeing this only heightened my pleasure. He milked my cock enthusiastically until he knew my orgasm had subsided, and then, incredibly, with my cum still dripping from his face, he leaned forward and licked the head of my cock. He sucked on the tip, licking off all the excess cum and squeezing out any last drops, before he let go and dropped back down onto the bed. He was rubbing his hands all over his chest and stomach, smearing my warm cum into his skin, and scooping up what he could, licking it off his palms. His hot little tongue was licking all around his mouth, where the first and heaviest blast had hit, and he was loving it, savoring every lick, every mouthful. Still laying back on the bed, with me towering over him, one hand in his mouth, he reached up with the other and pulled me to him. I bent down towards him and he lifted his head off the pillow to meet my lips with his. I was rewarded with a hot mouthful of my own cum, which he spat vehemently into my mouth as we kissed. It was shockingly erotic. God, this little boy just about blew my mind.

Finally, he laid back on the bed with a satisfied grin, his work seemingly done for now. He was shiny with sweat as well as my cum where he had smeared it over himself. And there were still traces of it where the jets of cum had splintered with the force of ejaculation and had landed on him as little pearly droplets on his shoulders and upper arms. I reached out to wipe them with my bare hands and as I did so, you know what he did? He grabbed my hands and licked them. He licked my fingers greedily and with great relish, sticking my fingers as far into his warm wet little mouth as they would go. God, how this little boy loved the taste of cum.

Satisfied, and still somewhat breathless, I dropped down onto the bed beside him. He laid there next to me, one hand up under his head as he lay on the pillow. The other, I soon detected, was down on his crotch, and he was playing with his own little dick, rubbing the head with his palm, grabbing it, squeezing it, twiddling it around, and letting it slap back down against his abdomen. He was still as hard as wood and, it seemed, fixing to have his own cum.

I scooted up onto one elbow as I lay stretched out beside him, and I admired his beautiful young body, casting an eye over his sweaty, cummy little torso, and the flat little belly that was as tight as a drum. He looked over at me, grabbing at his hairless boydick and pointing it straight up into the air and then waved it at me. He wanted me to suck him! Well, I needed no invitation. He deserved to have a cum of his own. I knew that his young body was already producing spunk and I was instantly hard again just at the thought of sucking his perfect little dick and having it squirt in my mouth.

As I moved over him, one hand on his stomach, one on his thigh, I enveloped his hard little organ in my mouth, and as it slid past my lips he moaned quite loudly, "Ugh 3;" almost as though I had hurt him. His pleasure was tangible. That little cock was so stiff he must have been aching for relief. As my tongue probed around his foreskin, I licked around the head and beneath the rim of the glans, and he moaned even louder. It was incredibly arousing. Glancing up at him, with his dick still in my mouth, I could see his eyes screwed tightly shut and his little fists by his sides grabbing handfuls of the bedclothes. He wriggled and writhed so much it was almost as though he was in agony. He could barely resist the temptation to buck his slim little pelvis upwards into my mouth. Then he started again with the dirty talk, his utterances going straight up into the air as I continued my ministrations on his hard little cock, his high pitched voice almost desperate for relief.

"Oh, that's so good Mark. Suck my little dick. Make me squirt my spunk for you 3;"

Such a sweet but dirty little mouth. But I liked his assertion that he was going to squirt his spunk just for me. That really appealed to me.

Tired of leaning over on my elbows, I laid down flat on the bed and lifted him above me onto my face, his little dick still in my mouth. He was almost imperceptibly light, as though there was hardly any substance to his little body at all – at any rate he felt lightweight in my strong arms. I positioned him on all fours above me, with my head between his knees, so that he was able to fuck down into my mouth at will. And he was good at it. I could feel his boybutt flexing and tensing as he fucked his little dick into my mouth. I spread my palms onto each side of his little bubble butt and felt for his boyhole. It was still wet and dilated from my fucking. As my fingertips probed his little hole, he squealed with each thrust of his hips, insistently seeking the satisfaction of my warm, wet mouth, clamped tightly around his little dick. It was driving him crazy. I had to admire his technique, which was remarkably well practiced. His fucking had such a refined style, the rhythmic thrusting of his hips belied his age, and his movements had a maturity and a professionalism that I had only ever seen in seasoned porn stars. He humped and bucked his slim little hips in such a way that it seemed almost instinctive, with a natural fluid movement that he knew heightened his pleasure – and mine. To have his little hairless body flexing, driving his boydick so deeply, so smoothly, so erotically into my mouth, was incredible. This little boy was really something else.

When his breathing became quicker and deeper, I knew he was getting close. That was when I stuck one of my fingers deeper into his boyhole, getting it in easily up to the last knuckle, and massaged his gland. It drove him wild. His pace quickened and became more insistent, and his squeals gradually louder. His little dick was rock hard in my mouth. I pressed hard on his gland, hooking my finger and digging it painfully into the side of his velvet little chute. And then it happened – on the paradise stroke he stopped, stiffened and went completely silent, holding his breath, and there was almost a delay between the moment he felt his orgasm hit and the moment his little dick flexed wildly in my mouth. He let out his breath, gasping "Oh fuck!" and then "Ungh, ungh, ungh 3;" in time with the profound ecstasy that accompanied the pulsing of his little dick. I could feel he had even rewarded me with two or three little jets of watery boycum as my mouth filled with little boy spunk. It tasted so good, much sweeter than mine, and I gulped it down without hesitation, sucking on his hard little dick as though trying to draw out all the remaining boyspunk from deep within his immature little body.

Spent, but still hard, Yura pulled his little dick out of my mouth and collapsed down onto the bed next to me. His dick was still pulsing perceptibly in his crotch, his youthful erection still very much alive, and still dribbling wet little boy spunk from the tip.

"Fuck," he whispered, in English, still slightly breathless.

I looked over at him, once again scooting up onto one elbow. He stared straight up at the ceiling, one hand draped across his forehead as he lay there, slightly dazed. His chest was still falling and rising rapidly as he came down from his high. I reached out and felt his young body, my dark, hairy, muscular forearm a stark contrast against his white, hairless, boyish chest and stomach, which still had my spunk drying on it.

Eventually, his breathing slowed and he turned to me, as though just remembering I was still there, and he looked into my eyes with a serious expression for a moment. Those sweet, azure eyes looked deeply into mine, and he smiled, acknowledging that he was utterly drained. That was so cute, the way his little body was so completely spent after that particularly powerful boycum.

He rolled over so that he was resting on top of me, his crotch on my thigh, one leg between mine, and his cheek resting on my chest. I was suddenly aware that I was supporting the full weight of his hot little body. I steadied him by wrapping my arms around him, and rested my palms on his smooth, squishy little butt. He started talking again, his voice muffled against my chest hair.

"Fuck, that was good," he announced, "I needed that."

He seemed to like the word 'fuck' and used it to great effect. By now I could tell a lot from the tone and expression of his voice and I felt that, over the past couple of days, and especially after what we had just done, we were pretty in tune with each other.

"Thank you Mark," he said, "You fuck real good."

As I laid there, with this lovely little boy resting on top of me, I felt the weight of his body the full length of mine. I felt his warmth and the hardness of his little boy muscles. I felt him breathing, his body pulsing with the vitality of youth, and at that moment I felt a special connection with him. I was so enamored with this little boy, who had come into my life in the most unusual circumstances, and whom I had met barely more than three days ago. He was making such an impact on me that I was beginning to feel a deep and tangible bond was developing. It was a perfect boymoment. The most perfect boymoment we had shared so far, made all the more perfect by what happened next. He was quiet, his breathing slowing almost to a sigh. I laid there beneath him, captivated by his breathing. And when he had recovered sufficiently, he moved his head and looked up at me as he laid there, his thick black hair brushing against my skin, his cheek on my chest. I looked down at him, peering deeply into his crystal blue eyes, with those long seductive eyelashes, and he spoke very quietly.

"I really like you Mark," he said, almost in a whisper, "I have never met anybody as nice as you."

It was said with such honesty and sincerity, with the trusting innocence that only a kid of his age could possess. And once again, in that inimitable way I soon learned characterized so many of the things he said, it brought to my eye a little tear of emotion.

He eventually let his words trail off and I felt his little body relax completely on top of me. His breathing became long and deep, and I could see his smooth back rising and falling with each sighing breath. He had finally succumbed to his boyish exhaustion and was asleep in no time. The childish exuberance and the trials of the day had finally caught up with him. It was an expression of his trust and evidence of our budding rapport that he was comfortable enough to fall asleep on me. To have his limp, hairless, hot little body on me like that, even as my spunk was still drying on it, was an exquisite pleasure which I took the time to really appreciate.

I contemplated this strange paradox of a boy, this enigmatic little person that was so full of contrasts and contradictions, and at this moment I felt suddenly very protective of him. Yura was a little boy with a lot of problems. He was prone to wetting the bed and was plagued by nightmares. He was a pivotal element in this international police operation, possibly the last living witness in the entire investigation. His life was in flux and his future was uncertain. On the surface, he was just a little boy that was embroiled in events that he had no control over. But in bed he was different. In bed he was assertive, confident and apt to take control. When it came to sex he knew what he wanted and he knew that he was good at it. He was energetic and lustful, vocal and dirty. To me, he was a prince, a very special little person that I absolutely adored. I didn't know how long I was going to be on this assignment, or how long this wonderful little boy was going to be in my life, but I knew then, despite the impossibility of the situation, that I wanted it to go on. During the course of only a matter of days, this little boy had made such an impression on me, with his complexity, his vitality, his precocity and his charm. I was so deeply drawn to him, I was hopelessly in love with him. It was a strange feeling, all the more unfathomable in its strangeness because of his age. I lay there, hugging this wonderful, beautiful little boy on top of me, still somewhat disbelieving at what we had just done. I wanted to hold him and take care of him and make him mine forever. I drew the bedcovers up over us both, for the moment content and happy, and eventually let my own exhaustion overtake me.

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