Ganymede

Paradise

Technical Note

Prologue

He checked his watch abruptly, jerking his arm nearly enough to spill his drink, Bourbon and Coke, three cubes of ice. Nearly four p.m. Thirty minutes late. He thought about that with restrained emotion. He didn't like to wait for anyone. He lifted his glass again and drank with a trembling hand. To anyone else, he appeared to sit without displaying even a passing interest in the world around him. Yet, he was excited. His mind was dulled by the heat and liquor, but his penis was hard. Thick and long, and lodged up the leg of his shorts with nowhere to go. His mind churned relentlessly over the last week, replaying yet again what he expected to do in short order. Vincente should arrive at any moment, but there was no telling with the boy. Sometimes he dawdled. Errands that should have taken minutes, took hours. Adams closed his eyes and sighed, remembering the previous day; a week of wonderful; unforgettable days and nights spent with the tight-assed brown-skinned kid.

He would have liked to go for a walk earlier during the day, before it got too hot. There was a lot to do in Georgetown. He could begin by checking out the market. He needed to buy some gifts for his wife and kids, maybe visit one of the nearby resorts. Now, he had to wait until the hottest part of the afternoon to do it. That was the trouble with young boys. There was no getting around the problem that they were supposed to be in school during the week. To do otherwise invited suspicion and police involvement, the last thing he wanted. Still, they needed a few things from the nearby store that couldn't wait much longer and Vincente was eager to get off the boat for a while. Knowing that the store was only a few hundred yards up the street, did not help much. Adams was impatient by nature. Constant worry was also part of the problem. Nowadays, people noticed men with boys. It would have been a lot safer had he stayed on the island.

He told himself not to worry for the tenth time in as many minutes. The boy would be back with him soon enough. Then, he would get what he wanted. And he wanted it, he wanted it bad. That little boy-ass spread wide. Sure, he still had the rest of the day, and then there was the night to follow, but he wanted more. His heart rate quickened at the thought. Vincente's ass was everything he had ever dreamed of. His penis throbbed relentlessly under his linen shorts, a massive engorged stake of man-flesh. He baked in the afternoon heat and dreamed of what he would do to Vincente as soon as he got the boy's clothes off. They'd do it in the cabin on the settee. Quick, because he needed to get off, and hopefully not too dirty. It would be the appetizer that preceded the main course. The best sex with a boy was to be had at night in the comfort of a bed.

Not that Adams needed the cloak of darkness to sodomize a boy. Any time, any place would do. He was not so drunk that he had forgotten the previous day. They'd done it right there on the deck, in view of the resort at Rolleville. Dangerous no doubt, but fun. Just the thought of what he had done to the boy's small buttocks was enough to keep him aroused. Bent him over a couple of life-preservers. Got him wide open with a finger, then two. Lots of KY. The kid squirmed around, but boys often became squirrelly when the moment of truth approached. He slammed his cock in, all eight-plus inches [20 cm] of it. He forced it into the willing twelve-year-old and watched the boy writhe and wail. Vincente took it all, then backed up for more. The kid had a well-used hole and he knew how to use it to mutual advantage. They did it all the time, but mostly in the cabin where it was cool and quiet, where there was no chance of interruption. It was the best sex a man could have.

There had been a few times when Adams realized afterwards that the boy hadn't climaxed with him, but they could be counted on one hand. It was no secret that the boy liked getting deep-dicked. He liked it good and hard, fast and furious, no holds barred, and Adams was the man to do it. He also enjoyed knowing that the boy was there for more than just the money.

There was exactly one night left of his one-week vacation. Seven days and as many nights of pure, unadulterated paradise with Vincente. Just one more night before he had to say good bye to Vincente, drop him and the motor yacht off at Candy Cay and return by motor-launch to Nassau. Then, he had a day of business in Miami before flying home to Chicago. He tried to put the idea into a safe compartment of his mind where it would not depress him any further.

It had been the best vacation of his life, bar none, except perhaps the year before, when he had spent the entire time on Candy Cay. He'd stayed with Vincente then, too. Sexy little Vincente. There was not a hair on him, cumming dry with little squeals of pleasure. He provided almost enough incentive to consider getting a divorce, even if he was costing him $250 a day. Chartering the motor yacht, was quadruple that. Then, there was the crew, the food and drink, and a thousand gallons of diesel fuel that cost an arm and a leg. Adams smiled, wondering what his business associates would say if they knew the company had picked up the bill. Or his wife? Then, thinking that it was a pity there was not a weekly or monthly rate available for Vincente, he laughed aloud. It was a lot of money for a week. However, it really did not matter. Vincente last-name-unknown was worth every cent of what he paid.

Momentarily, Adams glanced over his shoulder and looked directly at the approaching boat. It was, he decided at first impression, quite unseaworthy. However, his first impressions about most things were often negative. At least that was what his wife said. She derided him constantly. The dumb bitch! He took another gulp of his drink. Next time, he needed to include more ice, or he needed to drink it faster.

Strangely, 'the bitch', as he often called her to himself, did not deride the money he gave her to spend. He put his attitude down to life experiences, the frustration of being a boy-lover at a time in history when it cost a man five years of his life for a single feel of an under-aged dick. He mumbled his favorite saying. 'People are ass-holes and life is about fuckin' shit.' And then he took another drink, still thinking about Vincente and his firm small butt, bending over in front of him on the life-preservers, or better yet, lying on top of a pile of cushions down in the air-conditioned cabin, his little brown cheeks spread far apart, his gaping anus shiny with the water-based lubricant that he had purchased from the pharmacy in town for three times what it would have cost in Chicago.

He licked his lips hungrily. There was nothing quite like fucking a sexy young boy, he mused. He had been with many other boys over the years, but that was before he joined the Candy Club. They were mostly Mexicans and Puerto Ricans, some of them cute as buttons, but none could be compared with Vincente. He had it bad for Vincente. Now, there were rules to follow, but they were worth it because Vincente was special. There was simply nothing that could compare to the sensation of slowly sliding his engorged penis through Vincente's tight little sphincter. It did not matter how often he did it, the boy's opening remained tight. He knew why of course. His cock was big enough that Vincente would always have a problem with it.

Every time he got behind the boy, there was a minute or two when Vincente would whimper and complain that it hurt like hell. It probably did. His ass was being stretched to the point of bursting, but he never wanted to stop. Usually, the only relief he received came from pulling away slightly before quickly pushing back to impale himself again. As if trying to prove his manliness, once the cock-head was inside, Vincente took over for the few minutes it took to complete their union. He had a habit of huffing and puffing with effort while he slowly forced the man's cock further into his rectum. Again and again he did it, a rutting routine that happened whenever Adams' oversized cock had to breach his little ass. Adams loved the sensation of quivering, frantically straining boy-muscle. It made him pause and put aside his lust when all he wanted to do was to penetrate deeper into the looser luscious void beyond. Even still, he couldn't help thinking that Vincente's ass was put there by God for the sole purpose of containing his cock.

Adams smirked and sipped his drink, rubbing his bulging crotch with his other hand. It was no secret that the boy wanted his cock inside him. Vincente wanted it every bit as much as he wanted to be inside Vincente. The best boys were like that, Adams mused. All of the boys on Candy Cay were like that. 'Hot for cock', he called them, those sexually hungry boys who could never get enough man-cock in their little hairless asses. He had learned to spot them from a distance, although exactly what it was about them that said 'I want to fuck', he could not have elucidated in words. It was a look, a smile, a way of moving, everything about a boy that turned him on.

Still watching the other boat's slow approach, Steve Adams found himself contemplating whether a sexually immature boy received the same pleasure as a boy who was capable of producing semen. There was no way of being certain. He had long forgotten what it was like to be a boy. He'd had sex with younger boys, of course. He enjoyed their hairless smooth bodies, tiny dicks like fingers and balls the size of marbles. He liked how they gasped and groaned and carried on. It was enough to make a man think that they enjoyed being fucked, but did they? More often than not, prepubescent boys ended up jerking and writhing around, flailing their arms and legs and begging for more, certainly giving the appearance of orgasm even though nothing was ejaculated. There was a lot to be said for younger boy who still had undersized testicles and a hairless groin. However, he liked that Vincente came, even if it was not a lot. It was more like skim milk, droplets that spat first and dribbled second. There was never any question of when Vincente came, but younger boys could fake it. The thing was that for any other boy, Adams would not have cared whether the boy was erect or not, but for some reason he wanted Vincente to enjoy it as much as he did.

He savored the liquor, rolling his tongue languidly to pick up the taste. With his eyes nearly closed, he could simulate the sensation of squirting his semen into that small grasping void. The joy was overwhelming. He possessed Vincente completely, dominating him as only a man can dominate a boy. Finding Vincente was like finding paradise. It really didn't matter that his groin was shaved. Even when he was with his wife, Adams always fantasized about having sex with a boy like Vincente. In fact, the night he was married, he dreamed about a young boy with a small penis, a boy whose anus stayed tight the entire time his penis was lodged inside him, a boy who could climax again and again before he was done. He often had that dream about a boy who was just like Vincente, only younger.

He put the thought aside while he drank some more. Vincente's body was such a delight to hold that the notion of being in bed with his wife sickened him. Vincente was slim and soft, with sleek brown skin. It was so incredibly, wonderfully hot and tight inside his small body that it really didn't matter that the boy's enjoyment was real, or faked like his wife's orgasms. With Vincente in front of him, his excitement ended with copious spurts, sometimes so much of it that some of the milky fluid oozed out. He liked to look down between them to see his cock disappearing into the boy, his small dick still reasonably hard and two boy-balls that were so very small compared to his own.

However, what was in front of Steve Adams at that moment was not so small. His eyes continued to follow the vessel's approach to the dock. Definitely unseaworthy, he decided! In his considered opinion, it was indicative of sheer irresponsibility of a captain to put to sea in such a vessel. It was low in the water, perhaps several inches below the anti-fouling line, far enough that the dark-blue scruffed boot-stripe was nearly submerged. To confirm the presence of one or more unseen leaks, a stream of grey oily water pulsed erratically from a garden hose hanging over the side.

At one time, the fly-bridge cruiser, the term itself being almost a misrepresentation of its present reality, had been painted white. Under the mismatch of what was now white and cream-colored patches, the hull appeared to have been built of steel, despite the absence of welds to show where the metal plates had been joined. There were long streaks of rust-colored stains to mark the passage of water from the deck scuppers into the sea. The accumulated stains, peeling paint and salt at the bow all but obliterated the name of the once-proud vessel, Conundrum. The bridge was also variously patched with cream colored splotches, and was as rust-streaked as the hull. It looked considerably older than the ten years since its construction. The boat appeared to be well constructed and had simply been neglected.

Yet again, Steve Adams tastelessly sipped some more of his Kentucky Black-label Bourbon and continued to watch the boat's approach to the dock. Like most sailors who were sufficiently familiar with nautical engines to detect the difference, he immediately recognized the healthy exhaust gurgle of twin Cummins diesels. The sound of the boat was puzzling, posing a question that could not be easily answered. It was as if there was far more to the vessel than first appeared. Even the name was unsettling in its appropriateness. It posed lots of questions, all without obvious answers. On the surface, it appeared to lack civilized efficiency, but it was unquestionably sturdy. Judging by the sound of its engines, it was also very powerful.

The high 'tuna-tower' and outriggers gave him further cause to smile, if cynically, because unlike his boat, the approaching vessel was highly suited to its intended purpose of offshore sport-fishing. At 40-plus feet [12 m], it was barely two-thirds of the length of his well-cared-for boat, yet being of a similar beam and displacement, it would convey confidence in a heavy sea. Unlike his boat, with its over-sized fly-bridges and shallow-V planing hull, this vessel would be stable in almost any conditions that nature could provide. Indeed, Conundrum looked as if it had already taken on the worst conditions of the sea and managed to survive.

There was only one person on its deck, a gray-haired man of otherwise indeterminate age who casually steered into the crowded dock area as if there were no other boats there. It was with the same casualness that the man stood up, placed a bare suntanned foot on the wheel, and used both hands to coil a line, feeding the thick nylon rope into precise loops so that it would not tangle at an inconvenient moment. Adams half-closed his eyes when the vessel turned through the afternoon sun.

He raised his nearly empty glass to toast the new arrival in an equally empty gesture, swilling the last of the Bourbon and Coke in the bottom. In return, the man waved absently, suddenly yet casually spinning the wheel with his foot, and turning the vessel sharply to port. The engines idled listlessly, a faint haze of white exhaust smoke eddying in the still air. The man stepped onto the ladder, descended from the fly-bridge in two long-legged steps, and walked quickly to the bow. As he went forward he released a scuffed stained fender on the port side. Adams smiled, waiting for the sound of the unavoidable collision with the dock. Yet, the imminent impact was miraculously avoided. A line arced gracefully outward and fell neatly over a dock cleat.

With the bow restrained, the stern of the boat began to drift outward. Adams mouthed the word 'fuck' and started to leap to his feet with the vain hope of being able to push the Conundrum away. At the same time, the man who had until that instant been standing in the bow watching what was happening with what appeared to be vague interest, leaped nimbly onto the dock. The distance between the two boats narrowed to less than a yard before the man reached the end of the dock. He secured the stern line that he had been coiling while he stood on the bridge. With seemingly no effort at all, he brought his vessel to an abrupt halt. The man smiled and acknowledged Adams with another wave.

"I'm a bit slow today, I'm afraid! Sorry about coming so close! It's been a hell of a long day. Reckon I was thinking about something else."

"Yeah, right!" Adams replied sarcastically.

He fumed that his afternoon Bourbon and Coke had been interrupted. Worse, Vincente still had not returned. Every second was becoming precious. In just a matter of hours, he had to leave Vincente and return to Chicago. Just one more night of paradise. He had to go back to his bitchy wife and a business that demanded more and more of his time. If he had a choice, he would much rather stay right where he was, just so long as Vincente was lying in his bed at night.

Closer now, indeed much closer than he would have preferred, Steve Adams could see the man was about his own age. He was around fifty, but it had been a hard life that had taken its toll in physical appearance. The man's hair was unkempt from the wind, his face darkened by the stubble of several days of beard growth. He was beyond suntanned. His upper torso was a dark brown color with shoulders flecked with paler spots left by peeling skin. Both man and boat had the same look, weathered by long exposure to the wind and sea. However, as Adams eyes continued to linger, he began to realize that the man looked vaguely familiar. The man continued to smile, but not from amusement. He seemed to be enjoying himself while he adjusted the boat into position and secured the lines. From the stern of Candyman, Adams waited for Vincente to return while he kept an interested eye on the new arrival. Vaguely familiar? No, make that very familiar, except that he could not place where he had met the man before.

Then, Adams remembered. Out of the blue it all came back. Detective Kingston. Wasn't that his name? Two, or was it three years ago? Two years ago was right. How could he have forgotten so quickly? The detective had taken over the murder investigation of his friend and fellow boy-lover, Robert Hardy Junior. The worst thing was that the last time he had seen his friend, he was happier than he had ever been. He'd just met up with a darling nine-going-on-ten-year-old boy who was, as Bob Hardy put it, 'to die for'. There was no arrest despite the detective's excellent reputation. However, Detective Kingston had solved another crime he was also working on at the same time, and that was within a week of being assigned to the case. 'Brilliant detective work,' the Tribune had called it, the reason being that the case had been assigned previously to a team of six other detectives for nearly four months without any result.

Because Adams' name was in Hardy's rolodex, Detective Kingston had interviewed him for nearly an hour. Right away, Adams recognized that the detective was more perceptive than any person he had ever met, his wife excepted. However, in her case, slyness dictated what she deciphered. Kingston possessed an innate ability to make him feel comfortable, comfortable enough that he would say things he might not otherwise have said. More than once, he had nearly said something that might have led to his undoing. The secret he shared with Robert Hardy, Junior, endured. Bob had introduced him to the Candy Club. Indeed, it was only because of his friendship with the now-deceased Bob Hardy that he was sitting where he was in the Exumas, sipping Bourbon, and waiting for twelve-year-old Vincente to return so they could have sex again.

After the interview, Adams had reflected on what had occurred. The detective had been both perplexing and unrelenting. Yet it was far more than that. He asked questions that disturbed him, and in a way that reactivated a person's memories of an event. Kingston's ability to probe in new directions while he sifted though evidence to find unrealized connections was uncanny. It was more than seeing the crime from a fresh perspective. In the high-technology world of modern criminal investigation, the detective was an anomaly. He had a discerning understanding of people and the criminal mind. Detective Kingston was nothing short of an enigma. It was little wonder that the Chicago Tribune had referred to him as the 'Sherlock Holmes of the Mid-West'. He wondered how the man had ended up on a charter-fishing boat docked at Georgetown in the Exuma Cays.

"Nice boat you got there," Kingston said absently as he ambled along the dock.

From aboard the luxury cruiser, Adams nodded back, keeping his head down. Kingston paused, almost if reflecting on obnoxious people who found it impossible to return a compliment, or who couldn't find nothing to compliment even when a compliment was in order. Getting nothing more than a curt nod from the other man, he decided to persist, if only to interrupt the stranger's tranquil afternoon.

"Yeah, she's a real beauty. A Hatteras, right?" Kingston added with a drawl that wasn't from Chicago.

He studied Adams in the seconds that dragged slowly by. The man looked familiar, but he could not place where he had seen him. He was certain of one thing. Both the man and his boat were out of place. The boat was far too fancy to be tied up at Georgetown's public dock. It should have been at one of the outlying resorts.

Again Adams nodded grimly. He was toying with his empty glass, a habit that annoyed his wife. Either put it down or refill it.

"Damned fine boat builders, those guys in Florida," Kingston acknowledged. "I hear they do a great job on the interiors."

It was a back-handed compliment and both men knew it. Hatteras were 'pretty boats', with interiors that were luxurious as all get-out. It was a vessel with reputation for being overpriced. Again, the man nodded. He lifted his glass to sip his drink before he realized it was finished.

"It's their biggest one, right? About 60 feet [18 m] isn't it? All plastic?" Kingston continued, rubbing salt in the wound despite the decrepit appearance of his own vessel. "I didn't know they were using teak on the decks."

"They had it done specially."

Nothing more than that because Steve Adams was hoping that the detective from Chicago would keep on walking if he limited the talking. There was an unwritten code among sailors. 'Ignore and ye shall go on about thy business'. In the heat of the day, he felt obliged to offer the man a drink, and if he did so, the conversation would surely drag on until Vincente made his appearance. The last thing he wanted to do was to explain to a policeman from his home town why he was in the company of a twelve-year-old island boy who obviously didn't belong to him.

However, by then, even squinting in the afternoon sun, Kingston had recognized him. He immediately made the connection to his last case in Chicago, the murder investigation of a stockbroker, Robert Hardy. Even though there had been no arrest, the likely motive was simple greed and vengeance. Hardy had been churning investment accounts at his brokerage, building his personal fortune at the expense of fifty or so wealthy clients. It cost Hardy his life. One of Hardy's clients, Mafia more than likely, had taken the matter into his own hands and used a 38-caliber pistol at close range. There was not a lot left of Hardy's head. Adams, as a rolodex-friend of the deceased, had been peripherally involved. Hardy's calendar revealed that they'd taken vacations together. To the Caribbean too, Nassau if Kingston remembered accurately. There was a possible implication that Hardy, who was on the Board of Directors of Adams Electrical Supplies, might also have been guilty of insider trading. An e-mail on Hardy's computer implied that Adams' was manipulating that company's share price for their mutual benefit. If the SEC chose not to investigate the material Kingston had sent them, that was their business. From the look of Adams' expensive yacht, he had apparently managed to avoid prosecution.

"It's turning into one hot son-of-a-bitch day," Kingston remarked. He wiped his perspiring brow, watching the distant entrance to the dock for a sign of someone.

"Yes it is," Adams replied abruptly.

Kingston glanced over the stern of Adams' motor yacht, looking at vanished mahogany, polished fiberglass, brilliantly polished stainless-steel fittings, smooth gray sun-bleached teak. It was spotlessly clean. Perhaps he felt a momentary pang of jealousy. It was only human to be envious of something that was so desirable, but so out-of-reach. If he was jealous, his grudging resentment was short-lived. At that moment, called by a sixth sense, that familiar awareness of someone's nearness, he turned away from Adams.

A boy was walking down the long gangway that lead out to the floating dock. Kingston smiled happily, resisting the immediate impulse to wave for a reason that even he did not quite understand. His subliminal consciousness kicked into gear. He smiled, but only just. Yet, evident in his slightly changed expression was just how much he loved his son, his precious Joey. Suddenly, both father and son simultaneously lifted their arms and recognized each other with a spontaneous wave.

That afternoon, there was also another boy, a boy who was a step or two behind Kingston's son when they came down the narrow ramp. He was not a local boy, at least he was not a boy who Kingston recognized. There weren't that many twelve-year-old boys in Georgetown. The logical assumption was that the second boy was probably visiting from one of the other 360 Exuma islands. However, one thing was clear. The two boys were friends. They talked while they walked along. The boy in front held a backpack by its remaining strap, the other carrying a plastic shopping bag. Kingston's son was half-Hispanic and darkly suntanned, yet he was still much lighter than the other boy who had Caribbean blood in his veins. That boy was taller, and older too, but he was still very much a boy.

From where Kingston stood, it almost looked as if the second boy trailed behind like an obedient puppy dog, walking a feet behind his son. For a few seconds, he focused on the other boy, but for a very different reason than when he looked at his offspring. That boy was physically attractive too, no doubt about it, yet there was no comparison to the boy in front. Close to six inches [15 cm] separated them in height, and there was at least a few months' difference in age. However, differences in height and age did not account for what Kingston felt

The second boy had the appearance of belonging where he was. There were three reasons why boys were to be found on the Georgetown docks at that time of day; boys came to fish, to clean tourist boats, or to rent their bodies to men for sex. There were always one or two boys to be found loitering around the dock during the tourist season, and if there was enough money to be had, they would do whatever was wanted of them. Enough said!

The two boys approached, their footsteps growing louder as they padded down the wooden planks of the dock. Adams shifted in his seat, seemingly to find a more comfortable position. He was agitated that another man was nearby, yet seeing Vincente again had brought his cock back to full erection. Thinking the other man could not see except by turning around, he rearranged his crotch. Kingston smiled, for he had been watching from the corner of his eye. It was plainly obvious that Adams had an erection. It was huge, like a log stuffed behind his shorts. However, he wasn't the only man with a hard-on.

Retired detective, Trevor Kingston also had an erection. He was aroused because he was thinking of what they had done before his son left for school that morning. His ass-sphincter tightened with fond memories of the passion they shared every time they had sex. He was far beyond the self-recrimination that came from incest. Sometimes father and son were awake for most of the night. He fucked into his son's hot little hole until he could barely move, let alone stand and walk. He could not stop his smile from forming while he saw his son walking towards him. Even then, and it had been before breakfast the last time they had sex, it seemed that the boy could still feel the thick man-cock buried deep inside him. It was the way he walked, not quite bowlegged, but not far from it. He walked like a cock was still inside his ass, clenching his buttocks to feel it move around inside him.

The boys came closer. They passed a fishing boat strewn with green netting. Only then, could both men see that one boy was noticeably better endowed than the other. The lumps in their shorts were very visible. Both boy-pricks were as hard as wood, and jutting up. There was nothing new about that. Boys that age were often aroused. Vincente was proud of what he had been his legs. He walked with the same hip-swinging 'I'm ready to fuck' swagger that the other boy had. Any man could easily discern, just as he was intended to see, the pronounced bulge that was lodged behind the boy's skin-tight jean-shorts. In a few more years, his cock was going to be big, matched by a pair of balls that would be the size of chicken eggs. For now, and luckily for both him and the man who watched him, it was still boy-sized.

Kingston glanced at the man who was gazing at the approaching boys. He stared with eyes that were unquestionably lust-filled. Unnoticed, Kingston observed Adams's appreciative smile. If ever there was a pedophile, it was this man. He hadn't noticed it in Chicago, but then no boy had been around to arouse suspicion. No question about it, the other boy belonged on the Georgetown dock. He was of an age when he was perpetually horny, and with his budding sexual maturity, he was exactly what men like Adams craved. Not too dark, a long way from being African, but brown enough to make a person think of chocolate. Some men liked boys like that, not pale and white. Kingston did, yet there was something different between him and Adams. Kingston's eyes expressed feelings for his son that were entirely about the love they shared.

When the shorter boy stepped to the side of his companion and came into full view, Kingston waved again. The boy ignored his talking friend and waved back instantly, his face coming alive with welcoming joy. Kingston beamed. Whatever Vincente meant to the man on the boat, it was meaningless compared to how Kingston felt about his son. He lived for the boy. Most of the time, no, make that all of the time, his entire life was dedicated to his son's happiness.

Adams glanced back at Kingston with evident distraction. In his mind, the new arrival had interrupted his afternoon of debauchery. It was going to be embarrassing for him when the dark-skinned island boy finally climbed on board his boat. At the same time, Kingston wondered what the other man would say if he knew that he had docked his luxurious motor-yacht next to a man who had sex with his soon-to-be twelve-year-old son on a non-stop basis. For a moment, his expression was smug, appreciating his exaggeration. Sex was not 'non-stop' but it was certainly a frequent occurrence. They had figured out once that it happened about every seven or eight hours. Like clockwork, although the sex was anything but mechanical or repetitive.

The boys passed behind the fueling area and disappeared from sight. Both men, standing only a few paces apart, considered leaving the dock as soon as possible. There was no reason to court disaster. While Kingston reflected, he kept an eye on his neighbor. He found him fascinating. Another man who loved boys. In all his years, he'd only known one other man like himself. He couldn't help but smile. Adams' sideways glance at the man next to him, caught him by complete surprise. The new arrival was staring at the shorter boy, smiling and deep in thought with what could only be infatuation. Adams smirked, instinctively recognizing the look for what it was. He had seen that boy-lover look all too often on Hardy's face before he died.

Vincente and Joey walked slowly along the dock, seeming almost reluctant to break apart their newly formed friendship. That it would have to end when they reached the end of the dock was very obvious from seeing the men who watched them. Neither of them wanted any compication. The boys neared the motor yacht and Steve Adams finally raised his arm to greet Vincente. He might as well demonstrate to the stranger next to him who the boy belonged to.

"Hi guy," Adams called out. "You sure took long enough."

Vincente grinned and swung easily over the stern rail onto the teak deck of the yacht. The heavy plastic bag of cans and bottles dropped onto a seat. His hand wiped across his sweaty brow.

"Ese sure hotter 'ere dan Candy," he returned tiredly.

He gestured good-bye to the other boy who, after returning the wave, kept walking, coming closer to his father. For barely an instant as he passed by, he glanced at the recently arrived boat. He had no preconceived notions about what a yacht should look like, but he recognized money when he saw it. His eyes lingered, then moved away to his father. The man looked back at him with gentle eyes, eyes that conveyed understanding and patience. Both man and boy were transfixed. The sun was behind the boy and the afternoon light sparkled in his hair. In that first shared look of the afternoon, the boy saw love. And then the man smiled at him. A moment later, he was standing before his son.

"I'll pass your bag up when you're on board, Joey," he said.

He confidently took hold of the boy's bulging backpack. It was heavy, full of books as well as groceries that had been purchased at the store on the way home from school. Joey nodded dumbly. Confronted by the man he loved, all he could do was to nod his head. His heart was already beating quickly. Try as he could, he could not think of something to say. Not the weather, not about the boy he had met at Grendal's, not how was the fishing, nothing that could be said in public. All he could think about was getting naked and getting fucked again. He grinned and climbed aboard.

Chapter 1

It was because of my cautious nature when out at sea that within a few weeks of going into the charter-fishing business, I discovered the essentials of business success. The trick was to quickly catch a marlin or half-a-dozen of the big yellow-fin tuna, just enough for my passengers to believe they had received value for their $250 for the half-day, plus the cost of diesel fuel to feed Conundrum. More often than not, my clients had no interest in eating what they caught, and I made another $100 at the fish market at the end of Farley Street for the fillets and steaks I cut.

After a few hours of cruising up and down the sound, my clients were content to spend the rest of the day talking about their 'catch' while they sat on the deck and drank my $2-a-bottle beer. Usually, once they found out the price of diesel at the Georgetown dock, they were more than happy to lie at anchor with the shore in distant view, or pay to take my flat-rate $50 tour around the bay, ending up at Fernando's for margaritas and chicken. For some of them, the free floor show of women sunbathing on the beach usually resulted in a companion for the night. I was content to eat jerk-barbequed chicken for lunch, and in the heat of the early afternoon, to spend my time sipping frozen margaritas while I dozed and dreamed of the boy I loved.

Sometimes, it seemed as if I lived on chicken, not boys in New York street lingo but the scrawny island bird that was drowned in Fernando's home made jerk-sauce. Either way, I was happy. I never showed the nearly naked women on the beach more interest than a passing glance because I had my own real live chicken – that's b-o-y as in 'boy-pussy', as in the best fuck ever. Now, I know what you're going to say. 'I'm kidding myself that boys like getting fucked.' It's true most of them don't like it one bit, but those are the boys who aren't gay. From personal experience, I know that gay boys are into getting their tight little butts loosened up just as much as the men who fuck them. Indeed, I saw it as my personal responsibility to fuck Joey a couple of times a day. It kept him happy. Me too. Enough said!

I enjoyed my 'job', the real one that is, the job that paid the bills, if it could be termed a job. It really wasn't a job in the sense that most people thought of going to work. The money was not a lot, maybe a thousand dollars on a good week, but after paying overhead on the boat it was barely enough to get by on. Food and drink, mostly beer, a few dollars a week for clothes-shorts and tee shirts and the occasional pair of shoes. It was just enough for the essentials of island life, and even the clothes were optional if one kept away from the inhabited areas. What extra there was, or whatever came in tips usually went either to the fund I had set aside for Joey's medical bills. I had another fund for college, retirement, and whatever. Sometimes the tip went directly to him if he worked for me with anything approaching a modicum of motivation. The work he did was not very much because I had a rule that he could help out only on weekends or during school holidays, although if he had his way he would happily have worked aboard full-time.

School was important, even though I loved to have him near me all day long. In fact, I was seldom content until Joey came home from school. And when he did, I rejoiced to see him. As soon as he had deposited his bag on board the boat, we hugged. Sometimes we wandered down to the lagoon to swim or try to catch fresh fish for dinner. Usually, he played with any of half-a-dozen friends on the beach while I busied myself in a futile effort to clean the boat or perform some necessary but disagreeable task of maintenance. If I had my way, I would spend most of my days with a pitcher of frozen margarita or a six-pack of ice-cold island beer, listening to the outrageous squabbling parrots, watching the colors change or the palms blowing in the ocean breeze and waiting, enduring the time until I would take Joey's slender suntanned body in my arms again. If I was lucky I would be able to control my lust until after dinner. Then, we watched the fiery sun settle in the west before we fucked ourselves all but senseless in the quiet stillness of the inky night. Usually, not. Usually we did it while the sun was blazing hot. He wanted to fuck as much as I did.

I always called him Joey, never Jaivin. That was the name that his mother had given him despite my wish not to saddle our son with a name from somewhere else. He was stuck with the name, her last name too, because she changed both hers and my son's name after the divorce. She did it to eradicate any memory of me. I never used his last name even on the papers I had to fill out for his school. Not because of resentment, but because I did not want to remind him or me of what had happened in Chicago. Jaivin Navarro had become Joey Kingston as far as I was concerned. He was my son, although in many ways I had stopped thinking of him as my son for the last two years.

Joey said I liked to sweat while having sex. At least that was his explanation of a habit that once started, could not be stopped. Fernando and Vincente thought we were crazy not to wait until it was cooler, yet there was something wonderful about joining our perspiring bodies together, our bare flesh slipping and sliding on the oily wet film we shared. Then, it was the same on the outside as it was inside him, a cacophony of physical sensations that every man needed to have at least once before he died. Inside a boy, and I do mean a boy, where the only hair is the hair on his head, I discovered paradise. It wasn't like pussy, nothing like it! Over the years, I had fucked enough women to appreciate the difference, but I hasten to admit that was before I had made love to Joey. Don't get me wrong. I've always been a boy-lover. I was smart enough not to do anything about it.

Back then, it was another life. I dreamed of boys but I didn't know what I was missing when it came to sex. Inside my boy, was what I had been looking for all my life. I soon discovered that there were muscles surrounding his rectum, strong muscles that could squeeze hard enough to make a man's cock throb with delight, enough to cut off the blood flow, make my cock become bloated and turn dark purple. Joey always waited until I was completely inside him before he took over. He was always tight at first. I could never have gotten my cock inside him if he didn't want me to. Then, with his face contorted, he exerted all his strength. It was enough to feel like the flesh we shared was about to burst from the pressure that formed deep inside him. And then, when he relaxed again or the muscles dilated as they did after a few minutes, the void within him became so loose and sloppy that I churned his innards like the proverbial hot knife through butter. Truthfully, and because I gave a lot of thought to it afterwards, I could not be certain of what I enjoyed the most. Tight or loose, Joey's ass was heaven sent as far as I was concerned.

It was a good life. It was not quite the life of a beach bum, but it was so close that money was always in short supply. No matter how many charters I took, how many over-priced beers my passengers consumed, or how many fish I sold at the market, it seemed that there was never enough money to get the boat air-conditioner replaced. It was beyond being repaired, although I tinkered with it once a week just in case there was one-in-a-thousand fluke that I could get it working again. On the priority list it came in third or fourth, never higher, not when safety had to come first in order to retain my charter license. After doing what was needed to keep the business running there was never more than a few dollars left over. I had given up trying to save for a rainy day because every time I had saved a few hundred dollars, it rained. There was always something else that needed to be repaired. The last time was a bilge pump. Before that was a new VHS radio. The list was endless.

So during the heat of the day, when the cabin was too hot even for me and my sweat fetish, Joey and I went outside. It wasn't just for sex, although it usually ended up that way, either lying on a towel placed over the scorching deck or going down to the beach. Either way, the sun beat down mercilessly upon my back whenever I knelt above him. He preferred doing it that way because he could look up at me. I liked it too, partly because I enjoyed looking at him as well, but it was also the natural way for a man to fuck a boy. His legs parted further, sometimes with his feet wrapped around my back or lifted up on my shoulders, or with his ankles by his ears, or splayed wide like a dissected frog with his arms locked behind his knees. In those positions his buttocks opened up for me, not like when he was lying on his belly or kneeling and bending forward, which tended to bring his cheeks closer together. It was easier getting inside. One good push was all it ever took.

On the beach it made a lot more sense to do it standing up. The radiant heat, baked into the sand since early morning, seared Joey's much smaller body from beneath, but we seldom got up from the sand. When we writhed with animal passion, shamelessly ecstatic, gorging ourselves with lust, I gazed down at him and smothered him with kisses, and fucked him and me into orgasmic oblivion. In and out, pistoning like a mad man even as Joey humped back at me, both of us fucking frantically. Sometimes, make that often, it was difficult to believe I was fucking a boy who was still months away from his twelfth birthday. The real thrill came because he wanted me to do it, submitting willingly because that was the way he wanted it. It had been the same way when he was ten. He needed to be fucked every bit as much as I needed to be inside him. Gasping, pounding my dick into his quivering little ass, never mind that rivulets of sweat dripped from me to him. Sand stuck to us, to every part that wasn't used for sex. I teased him endlessly about getting grit inside his hole and he responded with obscene comments about my having such a withered rough old cock that he wouldn't know the difference if half the sand on the beach was inside his ass. It was a good life.

Just the thought of the expression on Joey's face when our bodies finally separated was enough to make me happy for the rest of my life. There was no question in my mind that he enjoyed the sex as much as I did. Whenever he squeezed down hard to keep my cock inside him it felt and sounded a little like pulling a cork from a wine bottle. By contrast, it had become remarkably easy to slide it into him. All he had to do was push outward as I pushed inward. Mutual penetration, mutual longing, mutual loving. It was all about sharing ourselves.

After each afternoon's shameless copulation on the beach I carried Joey down to the water's edge. It was a bizarre ritual of absolution, although guilt was never in my repertoire. He clung to me, still too exhausted to do much except wrap his legs around my hips. My milky semen dribbled out of his distended ass, dripping onto my legs, sometimes oozing so much that even I was surprised by how much I had put inside him. I carried him out into the lagoon until it was deep enough that I could release him to swim away. Cleansed of sweat and the slimy smelly mess of sex, he soon swam back to me. After a long kiss to seal our secret, we would frolic in the crystal clear waters of the lagoon as if nothing had happened. Only Fernando and Vincente knew the truth about us. Others probably suspected we were more than father and son, but never said anything.

We were lovers. A father and son only in the surname and the genes we shared. It had taken two years to leave our previous life behind, but at times it seemed as if our relationship had always been predestined from the moment of his conception. In truth, I could never identify the moment when we changed from father and son to become a man and a boy who loved each other. Of course, we had always loved each other because Joey was my son after all, but all too often I found myself thinking that we had never loved each other the way that other fathers and sons loved each other. There was always that something extra that extended our relationship beyond what it was supposed to be. During those first five years we spent together, we wrestled for what seemed every minute of the day. We showered together and I soaped and rinsed his skinny brown body with great delight for both of us. And when we kissed, even as a toddler, our lips lingered longer than they should have. I got erections when we cuddled in front of the TV, but he did too, and we hid them underneath a blanket and giggled whenever our secret tickles strayed to private places. I think Joey's mother discerned that something was not quite right by the time he was five or six, for that was when our marriage began to falter. It was only a few months later when she finally told me to leave and not come back. It was phrased in no uncertain terms.

'Get the fuck out you perverted ass-hole'. The words stung because they were true although there was no evidence she could produce to back up her statement. Perhaps she had finally figured out that I loved our son more than I loved her. Nothing happened for years after that, because between my job and my ex-wife's machinations I managed to see Joey only once or twice a year. I missed him sorely, tried to remember his birthday by marking it on my calendar, sent lavish gifts to him via UPS that probably went unopened despite the polite thank-you card that came in the mail. I avoided telephoning him because it made his mother angry at him. I hated myself almost as much as I hated her.

And so it went, living a half life until the terror of that night in winter. It was a long night that I spent standing outside the emergency room, waiting for news, somehow knowing that it would never be the news I wanted so desperately to hear. It could have been worse, but not by much. There was no damage to his spinal cord. He would walk just fine. His injuries weren't life-threatening. However, the impact of the blow had caused injury to a tiny gland at the base of Joey's skull. Despite my job as a homicide detective, I didn't know much about the anatomy of the brain. The doctor had to explain what a hypothalamus and pituitary gland were and what they did. He had to tell me twice. The strange thing was that there was almost no sign of where the baseball bat had struck Joey's head. His baseball bat, the one signed by Sammy Sosa, the bat had been given to me, and then handed from father to son as a surprise gift for Christmas.

What I could not understand was why the man had attacked my sleeping son after he had killed his mother. When I asked Joey about what had happened, he merely shook his head and cried for half-an-hour. I never asked again. None of it made much sense. There was nothing I could do. The investigation was in a different precinct, and while I was kept up to date, there was little information added to what I already knew.

His mother's funeral came and went in a cold December afternoon with freezing rain in a forecast that never happened. There was a perfunctory hearing in early January that restored my rights as Joey's father. I thanked God at the time, but I wasn't able to change his name from Jaivin Navarro to Joey Kingston. I needed to ask his permission for that, and that was not about to happen. Then, I waited three weeks, weeks instead of months that he could have spent in hospital. It was what the doctor called a remarkable recovery, except there was no recovery. There was a shard of bone, a mere sliver embedded in his hypothalamus that was too dangerous to remove until he had recovered properly. His next appointment was to be a month later. I would never forget driving Joey to my apartment still dressed in pajamas. His face was ashen, which for a boy with that much Hispanic blood was unsettling.

Our love renewed itself in a rush of emotions that never went away. That night before he fell asleep I discovered that he still got erections that wanted to be tickled, and for the first time in almost five years, my hand strayed onto a cock that wasn't much larger than it had been the last time I had touched him. I tried to convince myself that it was innocent, something I did only to comfort him until he fell asleep and then I intended to carry him into what had previously been my study, but which had been converted to his bedroom.

However, from that moment forward, the change in our relationship was profound. I had touched his body in a way that caused him pleasure and he had no qualms in letting me know that it was what he wanted me to do. Even that first time it was expressed as mutual lust and not a matter of seduction.

He had sex with me again the following morning. I could not resist for it happened at his instigation. He was awkward and silent yet very eager as we explored feelings that were unfamiliar. Then lying on top of me, both aching hard, we began grinding our cocks together. He was smooth and soft and as hot as can be as he wriggled and humped against me. After a while he sat up and straddled my thighs. He inspected his new toy meticulously, eventually bringing my cock to his lips, nervously touching with his tongue before he opened his lips and took the head into his mouth. That a young boy could feel and act that way shocked me at first. Of course, I made him stop, but it was already too late. It had happened. The dam had burst. Our spontaneous lust was already changing to love.

In truth, we became lovers before I realized what was going on. Otherwise, I probably would have taken steps to prevent the inevitable change from being father and son, or at least tried harder. It happened in a way that seemed as if nothing had changed between us, while our emotions were running out of control.

It took a few days until it became impossible to stop the inevitable desires from being satisfied once more. Indeed, I went out of my way to stop it from happening again. I tried to avoid the obvious truth of what I felt by avoiding him. I paid my cleaner an extra $100 to stay all day. I went back to work, reviewed the cases I was supposed to be working on. There were fifty people who could have murdered Robert Hardy Junior. There was nothing new on his mother's murder.

Those few days passed slowly. They were miserable days when he cried or moped around my apartment, blaming himself, crying frequently. I assumed, rightly or wrongly, that his tears came from hating what he had done in a moment of out-of-control lust, probably imagining that I hated him as well for being queer. Perhaps it was worse because I wasn't there when he needed me during the day. I had not rejected him. I was too busy to spend the time with him that he deserved. That weekend, we moved the rest of the things he wanted to keep from his home into mine. One carload, then another, and on the third and final trip he smiled for the first time since his mother's death. Something snapped inside me and the frustration of our long separation dissolved. We shared the same bed again that night. By the next morning it was too late to stop. What had started as another gentle consoling touch late that night when he said he could not go to sleep, had, before we finished, left my semen in his mouth. Things were different after that, although I was slow to realize that after what he had been through, he needed me around constantly. However, it was not as his father, but as his lover that he needed me. I loved him with all my heart.

Every day of the next few weeks we spent together was a day I would never forget. We made love with a tenderness that I had never known before with any woman. Progressing slowly, cautiously experimenting with the things that men and boys were supposed to do together. There was no manual, no guide to follow. I would have given a thousand dollars to have a copy of 'The Joy of Man-Boy Sex' if such a thing existed. Instead, we learned by trial and error, repeating what felt good and right, always getter easier, always improving our technique. Those two weeks passed very quickly. We soon discovered that he liked my finger in his ass. From then on, he encouraged me at every opportunity, practicing at our favorite sixty-nine with him receiving anal stimulation from my tongue until we could time our climaxes to be simultaneous.

The next meeting with his doctor was an exercise in futility. There must have been a dozen x-rays and ultra-sound scans spread out on the desk. It was impossible to miss the piece of bone. It was shaped like a pointed triangle. It was not large, smaller than I expected. It had moved slightly since the last time, burrowing deeper into the hypothalamus. There was no rush to remove it. Joey might not even be badly affected by it. The doctor repeated his explanation about hormones, using terminology that I forgot as soon as I heard the words. There were substantial risks associated with getting it out, compared with no immediate life-threatening effects if it remained. It was impossible to say whether there would be a noticeable improvement in Joey's condition even with surgery. The damage might already be done. Perhaps in another year or two. There might be better surgical procedures if we waited. It wasn't the end of the world, but there was no reason to be happy beyond the fact that I was head over heels in love with my son.

My decision was made on the way home. I was eligible for early retirement under a recently announced plan to restructure the Police Department and reduce costs. It was gobbledygook, of course. It was the politically correct approach to eliminate inefficient senior employees with high salaries. They didn't want an age discrimination suit. It wasn't intended that detectives would take advantage of it, but I did. For as long as I could remember, I had wanted to run a fishing charter business in a place where it didn't snow.

We went south, all the way to the Exumas. It was a good life, operating my charter boat out of Georgetown. It made for a long hard day, fishing for a living. The usual catch consisted of marlin, a tuna or two, a couple of wahoo, some bonito. It was enough to keep the passengers happy. Usually, I got through the day thinking of cold beer and a boy. The boy was my beautiful, sun-tanned, over-sexed son. He was headstrong and independent and ready to try anything. He also a boy who would never take no for an answer when it came to having sex. Joey lived for sex. At times it seemed as if all there was to his life was being fucked. For that matter, as far as I could tell, all Joey wanted from life was to have sex with me.

I loved to look at him. I loved his smell, sweet and sweaty, the smell of boy. And the taste of his bare skin, especially when it was tangy with salt. I also loved to hear him speak and laugh, attentive to the sound of a voice that was still unravaged by puberty. It didn't matter that I was his father. I lived for the sole purpose of making love to him. I loved him dearly. Indeed, even though we lived apart for half of his life, I never stopped loving him from the day he was born. I entered his life again when I cradled the frightened, badly injured boy in my arms two years earlier. Then, I silently promised myself that we would never be separated. Joey and I had been through a lot together, not all of it as father and son.

For good reason, he had stopped thinking of me as his father, if indeed he had ever done so once his mother was out of his life. Now, after two years of constant loving, I had little hesitation in plunging hard and fast into his hot, hungry bowels. We rutted furiously until my cum spurted in thick hot gobs. There were times when I filled him up so much that when my cock finally slipped out, the excess dribbled from his ravaged hole and made wet spots on the sheet. I loved Joey's smooth body, still in the bloom of enduring childhood. Lean and wiry and very much the body of a boy. Joey was a kid in lots of ways, but he possessed the sensual eroticism of a much older boy. I loved watching him grow up, but I could not help thinking that it was unfortunate that in another year he would be a teenager.

The sex was always good. No, make that great, incredible, wonderful, unforgettable, but without love it was just plain wrong for a man to fuck a boy. I didn't need to fuck my son. Just being near Joey more than made up for my devoted love. Merely seeing his beautiful face, the lips that I knew to be incredibly passionate, always brought back a memory of waking up with him beside me, that first sleepy early morning kiss, ignoring morning-breath and lingering while we exchanged hugs, then at Joey's insistence, rolling onto my back. Most mornings, we did it jockey style. I would fuck him for a long while with him on top, sliding in and out of his boy-chute, popping my cock-head through his anus with quick jerks. Usually, we climaxed together, and rested for a while. Then, we had to hurry to get him to school on time and for me to meet a charter on the Farley Street Dock at the standard departure time of 9.30. If his butt was sore from the night before, we found other ways to quench our lust. Sometimes, when I saw him off on the ferry from St. Angelique, his beaming smile suggested something else. Then, with his tongue sliding back and forth across his pure white teeth, he revealed to me, if not the rest of the world, that he could still taste my semen from when a half-dozen spurts had emptied down his throat. At times, we were so late that he missed the ferry to Georgetown, and I conveyed him across the channel instead. Those times I spent an hour or more waiting on the Farley Street dock fondly remembering what we had done. More than once, Joey had sucked me off again while we motored across from St. Angelique, eating my cum for breakfast. Laughing, he would tell that me it tasted just like thick cream, or, in a fit of giggles, like eating a salty slimy clam. I gave him some extra money to buy lunch in case he was still hungry.

It was no secret that, as he crudely put it one time, 'I loved to be fucked and you love to fuck me. Why fight it?'. It was a mutual adoration society. I loved the mahogany smooth skin of my young son's chest, his firmly muscled thighs, his slender sun-bronzed legs, his compact waist leading to a diminuitive dick and even smaller balls. His sex organs, which as far as I was concerned also included his pinched buttocks and the treasure hidden between them, were as tanned as the rest of him. When we sucked each other, which we did just about every afternoon, he would lie with his head cradled between my legs, his mouth stretched wide open, deep-throating my cock while his fingers played in my nearly black pubic hair, a patch that had been trimmed to a neat 'V' especially for him.

Finding St. Angelique Cay was the second best thing that had ever happened me. It was the perfect place to love a boy.

Chapter 2

However, some things did change in the daily rhythm of our lives. The colors of the water changed constantly from sunrise to sunset. Its color changed again when the sun shone brightly, or when clouds rolled in, gathering until the sky became leaden and an infrequent afternoon storm threatened our little piece of tropical paradise. And when the rain thundered down on the boat, like shotgun pellets hitting steel, and the lagoon water was somber gray instead of its usual brilliant blue, Joey and I would sit on the deck under the white canvas awning in our self-assigned chairs, picking off scabs of peeling vinyl. We would watch the clouds race purposely overhead and talk about where they had come from and where they were going to. Never did we mention Chicago as a likely venue for that would have raised the specter of what had happened to him there. It was as if nothing had occurred. Our lives were ordinary, but we relished the time we spent together.

The luke-warm deluge seldom lasted for very long, and while it interrupted what we had planned to do on the beach, we welcomed the disruption nonetheless. It gave us time to simply sit and relax, time to enjoy life by ourselves. The rain washed away the dust and renewed whatever it touched, leaving a dew of crystal droplets on the verdant leaves of the hibiscus that grew beside the dock. That rickety dock, which I always intended to repair, but never quite got around to doing, was almost as much our home as Conundrum. The rain brought with it a thousand refreshing smells that enlivened the senses, overcame the fetid heat that wafted from the usually pristine beach. It took away the slight odor of rotting fish or whatever the marine smell was that always hung in the air after a long hot spell. Even the lagoon seemed brighter, livelier after rain, with a host of multi-colored reef fish close inshore and the silver flashes of deep-water fish everywhere. I often thought that the rain made our already perfect lives worth living once again.

After a while, and despite my caution to the contrary, for there was often lightening in those storms, my boy's impetuous nature would triumph over lethargy. With nothing more than an infectious grin, he would leave me sitting on the deck by myself and he would run back and forth along the beach, despite the rain or perhaps because of the rain. In the dry Exumas, it was refreshing when it rained. He would go down to the water's edge and splash and kick, while the rain streamed down his lean bare body. More often than not, he went naked whenever we were alone. He wasn't the only one. It was no different , at least for him, if we were with Fernando and his boy. However, at other times when clothes were in order, he would usually wear a pair of loose cotton shorts. Nothing more, not socks or briefs, seldom shoes beyond rubber-soled sandals. His feet were loose in size six sneakers, the only pair that he owned. Given the cost, it made sense to buy them big. For Joey, formal attire added a tee-shirt, hopefully clean. I much preferred to see him out of clothes.

Joey lived for the sun, worshipping daily until it turned his skin dark brown. His back was like the color of mahogany, and just a shade lighter elsewhere. At nearly twelve years old, he was unabashed in the ecstasy of boyhood. Even during a storm, he grinned and laughed and played in the rain, and when the gusts of wind lashed our paradise I amused myself as thinking of it as flagellation for the sin of too much happiness. Afterwards, when the rain had cooled down everything and he was fresh and clean, and I had dried him with a vigorous toweling, we had sex down in the cabin. Hard sex, sex that quickly became sweaty without the benefit of air-conditioning, sex that made us both cry out in the sheer fearfulness of unbridled passion. Fucking wildly, like rutting animals, that unleashed, unrestrained sex that made the cabin smell and left him sore where my cock had been, and me too tired to do little more than hold him tight against me, still inside. It was so loose inside that succulent cavity. It was not a void because my cock which more than filled him when it was hard, became comfortable like a well-worn glove afterwards. We stayed like that for an hour sometimes, locked in our shared nightmare of unspoken memories from Chicago and the dreamy bliss that pursued orgasm. We were happy, yet neither of us talked about the life we led, at least not the horror of Chicago and his mother's death. There was nothing to be gained by renewing his grief. If he cried, I would stroke his smooth soft cheek or flank, and whisper that I loved him, calming him until with arms around each other, we stumbled down to the water's edge and cleaned away the mess we made. Each day we shared was perfectly predictable, even when it rained, a near-perfect duplicate of the day before. For us, the evening that the boy called Vincente died was no different to any other evening when it happened to rain in the Dry Exumas.

It began with a late afternoon thunderstorm that was unusual in the Exumas at that time of year. It seldom rained out of season. The storm came barely a few moments after Joey had tied the boat up to the dock cleats, although the bolts were so loose and rusted that they could do little more than hold against the tide. It had been growing steadily darker since we had left the Farley Street wharf and I had made a judicious use of the throttle to cross the channel before the storm arrived. Joey hurried back from the bow as the first raindrops splattered on the windscreen. A trickle ran down his nose and he grinned and wiped his forehead.

"Looks like we just made it in time, old man." he announced with a laugh as he came up behind me and hugged me.

Lightning crackled and flashed in the west, beyond the headland, and a few seconds later thunder boomed. With luck, the worst of it would pass close to Georgetown. The farmers who eked out a living even less fruitful than fishermen like me, needed the rain badly.

I shut the diesels down and switched off the battery power just in case lightning came our way. I turned around, barely glancing over my shoulder but appreciative nonetheless. He was undressing. Usually, he was naked as soon as we were out of sight of the town. However, the approaching storm and the hurry to put away the fishing gear and cross the channel before it broke, had kept him dressed. Already he had his shirt off. He tossed it, balled-up, at me, his favorite target. I ducked and his rain-splattered, oil-spotted tee-shirt whacked against the new VHF radio overhead. Joey laughed. I loved his laugh. It was infectious, always full of glee and irresistible to me. It was a musical laugh that danced in my head and made me love him even more. A moment later, his faded cotton shorts were sailing through the air, not aimed specifically at me, but coming in my general direction. I caught them easily and threw them down the stairway where he could find them later if he needed to. With the storm it was unlikely that we would have any visitors for the rest of day.

I laughed too, and leaned back against the wheel, watching the strip show with unsuppressed enjoyment. Joey was all but naked. Even his shoes were off. He had not worn socks in two years in the Exumas. His over-stretched and sagging briefs, the briefs with a two-inch [5 cm] hole in the seat right where his anus was, promptly slid down his thin bronze legs before being kicked into the air. No doubt it disappeared among the towels. The butt-naked boy grinned boldly. His game had reached the point when things became interesting. Only the leather cord and tiger shark's tooth amulet adorned his body like a precious jewel. It was the only man-eating shark I had killed, and then it was in fear. Worse had been my aim, almost missing in my panic as the shark closed in and rolled, ready to attack Joey if he so much as moved. The shark had no right to be in the lagoon. I dragged the carcass out to see after taking great pleasure in cutting out its jaws. The $50 we received from the fish market for the set minus the tooth I kept for Joey was hardly worth the effort. Some tourist probably bought it for a couple of hundred dollars.

Joey stood with his feet apart, his hands on his hips in a daring stance, the curved tooth pointing down to his crotch. It wasn't much smaller than his dick when it was limp. Usually, shark-tooth and boy-dick were aimed at each other. He looked as if he was challenging me to take him right there and then, without any preliminaries. I had to smile. So much for foreplay with my son. It was a thought that made mockery of fatherhood. It would not have the been the first time that he did his homework late at night, and sitting on a towel at that. Fortunately, for him and me, his suntanned penis was still limp. It was a pitiful, seemingly dead worm than dangled between his slim thighs instead of the proud young erection that normally adorned his groin when he was in the mood for sex. He smiled, rather smirked, for it was an 'I know what you're looking at' smile. He raised his eyebrows enticingly. Seduction 101, we called it when he did that. It was also his 'let's fuck' look. He was learning quickly, learning how to express his desires and get what he wanted. It was all that I could do not to walk forward, to take him in my arms and ravish his naked bronzed body while the rain came down in blinding sheets.

"You got homework, lover boy?" I asked hopefully, and with a grin to let him know that I was thinking what he was thinking.

Joey nodded slowly, not eagerly. He detested doing homework. It was second on his list of least-favorite things, right after going to school. He argued that he learned far more from being around me, and I had to agree with him having met his sixth grade teacher, a black lady who could barely keep ahead of the class. Still, I tried to do the right thing. Sometimes it worked out for the best, sometimes we both gave in without ever raising the issue of priorities.

"Too bad, babe. You'd better do it first, I s'pose."

His eyes flickered. He realized as well as I did that there had to be some rules, and that his job was to obey both them and me. I had the responsibility of father and lover, as a consequence of being older and providing for him. It was difficult enough as it was to be both his father and his lover. I often found myself wondering whether I was doing the right thing by raising him even if he was my son, but Joey appeared to handle our unusual relationship much better than I did. He said I was his best friend in the whole world, and that was enough for me. The alternative was something I didn't want to think about.

"You want a beer first, Dad?"

His mood for sex was gone. When he wanted sex, he called me old man, probably to equalize the score. He wasn't passive by nature and he took it in the butt because I was the man and he was the boy. Dad was reserved for other times.

"Sure."

I watched him as he squatted down before the bar refrigerator that I used for charters. Most tourists preferred name-brand American beers or fancy foreign lagers, but there were usually a coupe of local brews hiding in the back. Joey scavenged around until he found what he was looking for. Meanwhile I feasted my eyes on his rump, that cleft from spine to balls. Had he ever been pale and scrawny? There was a time, but it was long ago, when he was virgin, but it was next to impossible to remember what he had been like then. Despite the heat and the toll it took, living in the tropics appeared to agree with him most of the time. He was still slender, but his body had filled out with lean muscles where previously there was almost nothing. He had become lithe and agile over the last two years. There was muscle where a boy was supposed to have muscle. He was supple, and when the headaches gave him some respite, he was full of life. Indeed, the amount of energy he possessed was somewhat surprising for a boy whose life had come so close to expiring. His head still bore the mark to show where the wooden baseball bat had impacted bone, but it could be seen only by parting his hair. Just once, it had hit him. Motive? It was something to do with his mother being a high-class hooker was the best that I could come up with. Whoever had killed her, had also taken his anger out on Joey.

His haunches flexed when he bounced back up. He tossed, and the can of beer fell right into my hand.

I ambled across to my seat, popping the top and taking a long draught before I sat down. Joey came over, desire revealed in his eyes. I smiled and nodded. In an instant he was sitting on my thighs, facing me with his legs outstretched and spread like a whore flaunting the merchandise. With his legs on either side of mine, his sex organs were displayed for me to admire. It was a familiar position, but usually we were much closer. He grinned and reached as I lifted the can up to take another drink. A few mouthfuls of beer would not hurt him. I turned it around to him. He gulped greedily, sucking to get as much out as possible before I pulled the can away. When I did, he noisily smacked his lips and winked. His eyes slowly dropped down between us and then he met my eyes with a look that said, 'I'm ready to fuck if you are'.

"You sure?"

"It's gonna cost you another drink first," he said teasingly. His lips formed the words 'old man' but nothing came out.

"Is it now?"

Joey grinned and nodded. Desire was back with a vengeance. His less-than-three-inch [7 cm] dick was well on the way to being hard. He licked his lips and leaned closer. His lips pecked my lips, paused and then descended once again. This time our kiss lingered. I tasted beer. I smelled boy, like an aphrodisiac on my senses. I wanted him. He wanted me. Nothing had changed during the ten hours since he had left for school. In some ways, nothing had changed in the two years since we left Chicago.

"You want me dry, old man?"

"Love to, but not this time."

"Spit?" My, but he was eager.

I shook my head. There were a few times when I was more than happy to avail myself of either option. It made sense to use lubrication when the difference in our sizes was so great. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt him.

"My turn to get the oil huh?" he said huskily. The tone of his voice always changed when he was in the mood for sex. Someone who didn't know him might have been misled into thinking that his voice was breaking. It wasn't. It was simply how excitement affected his speech. I liked how he spoke when he was in the frame of mind where all he thought about was sex. I liked that tone. It was a barometer of lust. The deeper the tone and the more shaky his voice became, the more excited he was, the more he wanted to couple with me. When he was excited like this he could not be diverted. We had even done it in the back room of Fernando's bar with Joey bent over a couple of cases of beer, the bottles clanking as I buffeted him back and forth. He had needed lubrication then too, but we did it anyway.

He smiled, putting effort in the 'look' once more. He needed to be fucked. When he breathed, his nostrils flared, his chest rose and fell. All I had to do was say the word. Spit would work if we didn't do it for too long. I considered trying, I was so eager for his smooth lithe body. Finally, common sense prevailed and I nodded once.

He was off my lap and headed towards the port-side storage rack before I could change my mind. He bounded back, his eager boy-dick already more than half erect and beginning to bow upward. It was the mirror image of his father's, only smaller. This time, he knelt down before me. His eyes met mine, traveling to my crotch, a giggle to show that he had something other than a simple kiss in mind. Neither of us spoke. His movement was hurried, urgent. His fingers deftly unfastened the metal clasp of my shorts. With more difficulty, he tugged open the copper zipper, jamming every inch or so because of the encrustation of salt and oxidation that formed on anything of metal.

"Stand up, old man."

The sound of anxious lust in his playful order was unmistakable now. I obeyed. His voice was almost a ragged croak. He breathed out, his small brown hands grasping the frayed legs of my shorts, pulling downward rapidly. He licked his lips. My briefs, without a hole in the seat but otherwise as tattered and worn as Joey's, came down at the same time as my shorts. My cock, banana-shaped, pointed right at his face. For a moment his lips stirred over it, barely touching skin to skin before he closed and began kissing me on the blunt crimson-purple tip. His tantalizing lips, the puff of his breath, the delicate touch of his tongue on the exposed head. Licking me. Sucking off the slimy juice that always seemed to be there whenever he was near. He swallowed, looking up to meet my eyes with crude joy at what he had done. His eyes were shamelessly delighted, as if he had tasted the nectar of the gods or achieved some task of great importance. He had reason to be proud. My cock belonged to him. His head descended again, supplicant again, like a boy receiving the Holy Sacrament. He was Catholic like his mother, but his last confession was ancient history. His next confession would probably give the priest a stroke. There was a gold chain and a cross somewhere on the boat.

This time, he took my helmet-head deeper, until his lips settled behind the coronal ridge. He held me here with his teeth teasing, lightly scraping, his tongue tantalizing with playful sweeps back and forth. His hands went to work, one stroking the thick curve of my cock while the other hand massaged my balls, pulling down gently, firmly, stroking with his fingers, grasping each pendulous egg. He sucked expertly. If I didn't stop him I knew that he would soon deep-throat me.

"You keep doing that lover boy and someone's going to have his face fucked instead of something else," I murmured.

There were two reasons why Joey sucked my cock. It was no secret that he liked the taste of semen. Sometimes, he didn't stop after it had become erect. Then, he took it deeper, until it touched his larynx, then used his fingers on what was left outside his mouth. Occasionally, he bobbed his head, but usually my role in our mutual pleasuring was to provide the back and forth motion. He was experienced at sucking cock, far better than any woman, all but climaxing himself when he ingested my fluid. However, usually sucking my cock was the foreplay until his urge became so overpowering that he needed something else. Then, grinning, he quickly provided another way for my penis to be inside his body. Simply by turning around and spreading his buttocks wide apart, he let me know. It was nice either way.

This time, as the rain cascaded down in sheets and pounded on the metal decks and canvas awning, he did what I wanted as well. Anal sex was a difficult habit to break especially when I was in the mood for boy-ass. Suddenly, his mouth lifted off, slurping wetly in saliva. While I moved back and weakly sat down again, he repositioned himself again. He giggled, for no other reason than he was happy kneeling before me with my engorged cock dancing a few inches from his face. He uncapped the dark-green plastic squeeze bottle that once held Palmolive kitchen detergent.

It had not taken me more than a few weeks to discover that coconut oil was cheaper by the gallon milk-jug. Decanting it when the squeeze bottle was close to empty was Joey's job. He squeezed some oil out into the cupped palm of his hand, and carefully conducted it to my groin. He was a careful kid when he played with his favorite toy, meticulous at times, but greasy splotches on my shorts and the upholstered seats in the cabin were a very common sight. I had all but given up washing the sheets on our bed. Grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat, Joey slowly slid his oil-slicked hand up and down my now-very erect penis. He enjoyed the sensation of slipperiness, squeezing his fingers in to meet his thumb. It was a tight but enjoyable fit. He began pumping rhythmically, up and down until the entire shaft glistened. For a moment, his thumb caressed the rounded head, puddling in the excretion that had formed at the slit. He smiled sensuously, leaned forward and touched the tip of his tongue to the bead of crystal juice. I watched his tongue disappear into his mouth again, his cheeks pulling in as he savored the taste of oil and pre-cum. He glanced up, his eyes flashing with excitement.

"He's ready," he said gleefully.

He gave my erection a final loving squeeze. He held it lovingly in his grasp, considering my male power, his eyes revealing just how much he wanted to be fucked.

"Yeah, I see."

He stood and then with a playful smirk, the oil that had not been transferred to my penis, quickly ended up smeared across his bottom. He was less than fastidious about getting his anus ready, but experience had taught us that a lubricated cock was really all that was required now that he was used to it. The fact was that putting more oil inside his rectum merely acted as an enema. It was much more effective than my ejaculations and it could be embarrassing at times.

Still smirking, he resumed his previous position above my thighs, this time straddling me instead of sitting down. He felt behind him, beneath him, aligning my cock and placing the bulbous tip where it needed to be. It burrowed between his cheeks, held in place by his hand and firm boy-flesh. His legs quivered and he lowered himself just enough to bring my penis into contact with his anus. That first touch of slippery cock-head and equally slippery boy-hole caused both of us to groan. My hands moved beneath his buttocks to take his weight, to open his crack up and expose the opening into his bowels. His small brown-rubber cheeks were spread wide apart, his little dimpled anus stretched, pushing down onto the oily heat between us.

My cock penetrated easily, but it hadn't always been easy. That afternoon, Joey was willing and his ass was relaxed and waiting for my hard cock. We both knew that my cock, while huge compared to his tiny orifice, was going to go inside him and there was nothing he could do to stop it, even if he wanted to. Putting a man's throbbing cock into an equally throbbing boy's rectum was like that time-honored analogy of a hot knife going into softened butter. We had two years of practice yet it did not matter how often we did it. We still groaned loudly when it slid into its tight hot home.

Despite being the brunt of Joey's frequent jokes, the fact was that my cock curved like a banana. It was just as long and thick, but I was of the opinion that it was ideally shaped for a young boy's rectum. I teased Joey back. 'Banana cocks' ran in the family, and while Joey physically looked much more like his Hispanic mother than me, his dick had the same pronounced outward curve as mine. It was smaller, of course, a fraction under three inches [7½ cm] long, a thin tiny boy-dick that was often harder than seemed humanly possible.

I eased Joey down carefully, feeling his tight muscle creeping along the length of my engorged cock. Eight thick inches [20 cm] of man-cock was a lot for a boy of Joey's size. He took it all, bravely, barely flinching yet constantly trembling. His pelvis undulated back and forth, working against my penis, forcing his bowels to open up. His eyes closed tightly. He pushed himself onto the huge hard shaft until it could go no further. His erection diminished with every added inch I managed to cram inside his slender body.

"He's so fucking big," he breathed out in a rush. "But oh, man it sure is good."

We inhaled together. The sensations were enough to make Joey shudder abruptly. He was full of cock, full to overflowing, stretched to the limit of his body. We were lucky, as lucky as any man and boy could be. It was the perfect fit desired by nature. Tight? God, it was vise-tight. However, he took it all, until my pubic hair was crushed against his buttocks. If there was any more to go inside him, he would split open. We rested, waited, knowing that the slightest movement would be enough to set one or both of us off without warning. That would happen soon enough, but first we needed to fuck for a while. It was hardly worth the mess otherwise.

"How's the boy-pussy feeling, lover boy?" I teased after a while. He felt a bit looser to me, but only Joey could really tell when he was ready to start moving in earnest.

"Okay, old man. I'm getting used to him 3;"

He winced when his sphincter gave a feeble squeeze. Absently, his hand wiped the tiny beads of sweat from his brow. I brought my lips to his face and began to kiss away his distress. I tasted the tanginess of salt. Unless he had just showered with me, Joey's body always tasted salty. It came from sweat and spending most of his free time playing in the lagoon. His lips came onto mine, seeking to be kissed. From the very start, he had always been a passionate kisser, even before he learned to use his tongue. He was like his mother in that respect. Full mouth kissing was a skill that came from his Hispanic genes, but he had perfected the art. Joey took the lead, using his lips and tongue to ravish my mouth. And while we kissed, I could feel his body loosening, the muscle slackening to allow my cock to move inside him.

Sex usually went the same way once my cock was all the way inside him. I told him that his ass was made for fucking, and Joey shamelessly told me to stop wasting time and get to work. As soon as we started moving, his body jerked and twitched erratically. We called it the 'fuck jumps'. When that happened he was on sensory overload, so stimulated that he could have a couple of his dry boy-orgasms to my one. I let Joey take the lead. I usually did that when we were sitting down. It was good for his self-esteem.

At least for the first minute or so, Joey's rectum had two different parts, one tight, one loose. His sphincter grasped the bottom half of my cock like a clamp. The upper half floated in a sleeve of quivering mush, surrounded by the bulges and bumps of his vital organs and a hard ridge that was probably his spine. While Joey pretended to have reservations about where it felt the best, it was no secret that there was simply nothing better than a man's cock grinding against a boy's prostate. My penis needed to be about halfway inside him to do that, just four inches [10 cm] to provide euphoria. The sounds he made were ample proof of when my cock was deep enough. It was somewhere between a moan and a whimper that was strangled in his throat. I was uncertain of which part of his rectum I preferred, except at the end. Then, his insides had loosened up and become such a sloppy mess that it really didn't make any difference. All that mattered to either of us was that my cock kept sliding back and forth and rubbing against his tiny prostate gland. With some six inches [15 cm] of movement back and forth inside his bowels, sometimes my penis could travel a long way in a day.

That afternoon he lasted about thirty seconds, a baker's dozen of awkward 'sit-down' thrusts, before he shuddered and went very still except the persistent trembling of his legs. So smooth, so utterly beautiful in their golden tan, his slender thighs spread so far apart that he was in the 'splits' position. By then his sex had become a tiny, shriveled thing that hung straight down. His erections never lasted very long, and were nonexistent once my cock was inside him. It was almost as if making love desexed him in that way. My cock possessed not only his body, but denied his boyhood.

"That was quick, lover boy," I jeered as the pulses peaked and died away.

For a few seconds Joey's face had revealed a fleeting expression that suggested he was in pain. What was it? The agony of the ecstasy? It felt the same to me, a deliciously hot, oozing, grasping tube inside him that reached nearly to his belly. Sometimes I imagined I could a bulge just below his belly button. If it hurt him at all, it was gone before his clutching spasms faded.

"I wanted that so bad all day," he sighed longingly. He shifted slightly, tightening his anus to hold my penis captive.

"Yeah, me too."

"He feels so good. You want to know something? You're really not bad for an old man, even if your dick doesn't get all that stiff."

"Ha! Very funny."

To show me that he wanted more, he squeezed again, clamping his sphincter, compressing his buttock muscles. I felt his insides quiver, grasping, alive and heated with desire. His eyes closed and he strained, pulling my penis inward. I heard a gurgle as my cock surged through his bowels.

"Now that he's all the way in there I want to keep him there forever," he purred, his face showing a wistful smile.

I held the beer can to his lips. He sipped instead of gulping. He licked his lips, then kissed me, his tongue putting beer in my mouth.

"You wanna get fucked some more, pussy-boy?" I teased. "Or have you had enough banana for today?"

I stuck my tongue in his ear and swirled it around to make sure that he got the point. He nodded vapidly. Orgasm did that to him for a while, took away his energy and left him weakened and malleable, but still craving more. He always wanted more. I envied him that way. His orgasm was still dry so he could do it all day if he wanted. According to Fernando, young boys were like that, insatiable when it came to getting fucked. Unfortunately, my urge vanished within seconds of achieving climax. For Joey, more often than not it was physical exhaustion that stopped him from wanting sex.

"You want my big hairy man-cock to fuck your cute little boy-ass?" I persisted, flexing it inside him.

Again Joey nodded, still meekly. He was under my power, completely abandoned to what he was feeling deep inside. Each little jerk of my dick against his prostate made him quiver. His sphincter relaxed, then tightened, undulating but loosening even further. His narrow pelvis lifted, rotating, pushing down until my balls were pressed tightly into his cheeks.

"Fuck me, old man," he muttered shamelessly. "Give it to me hard this time, okay."

Like me, he enjoyed talking dirty during sex. Not that he ever needed much encouragement to use words that I would never allow him to use at any other time. Sex had its own language and we spoke it together.

"Tell me what you want, lover boy."

"I want your cock all the way inside me 'n I want you to fuck me deep, and fast. Real fast, okay? And hard too, as hard as you can do it. I want your cum inside me, old man, so don't take him out until I tell you," he murmured.

He smiled slightly as he spoke, his sultry eyes teasing, alluring, revealing more than his fair share of need. Already the urge was coming back. It seldom took him more than a few minutes to recover, even from an orgasm that would have drained me and left my balls aching. However, if Joey climaxed quickly again it was usually because I had taken his boy-dick in my hand. I seldom brought him off like that. There was simply no need to when my cock had the same result. He breathed with deliberate effort, trying to regain control, to ready himself to repeat what he had just done. We kissed, swapping spit and beer, tongue kissing, bruising our lips together. His fingers raked my back, pushing my white tee-shirt higher, bringing his slender hairless chest to nestle against me. He was hot, moist with a sheen of sweat. My hands caressed his sleek back and sides. He was strong, wiry strong, and soft like a baby. So smooth. My hands glided up and around and around, all over his muscular back, cupped his rounded buttocks and lifted him higher, high enough that he sighed and pulled his anus inward to keep my cock embedded. He sighed again when I grasped his shoulders and levered him down until my balls were once again squeezed into his crack. He was seated in such a way that the tips of his toes barely touched the deck. It was all that he could do to lift his body up. Yet somehow we managed to achieve a rhythm, not slow or fast, but unpredictable the way we both liked it. I propelled him up and down, using my cock like a piston, simultaneously bucking and fucking until our faces were flushed and sweat flecked our bodies. Two years of practice went into every fuck. We were good at it.

Behind us, all around us, the rain came down in torrents, thundering onto the steel, splashing across the back of the boat until it found its way to the scuppers and drained away. And we sat there, totally involved in each other, savoring the sheer overwhelming joy that came from joining our bodies together, from a man and boy fucking for no other reason than it felt good. No wonder man-boy sex was against the law, I thought ruefully. If it wasn't, the human race would soon die out.

For once, we climaxed before the brief rain-storm abruptly finished. At the end it was hard and fast, and deep, every thrust all the way in and nearly all the way out. It was the way that Joey liked it, needed it after he had an orgasm at the start and another halfway through. Joey grew hotter, but did not want to slow down, let alone stop. His face grew red, sweat trickling down his neck and chest. He trembled and writhed around above me, sometimes jumping up and down as if he was riding a wild bronco. He was always looser when he was like that. He was loose enough that my cock could pop right out and then slide back in through his dilated anus without slowing down. This was anal sex at its very best. It was how men were supposed to fuck young boys.

I bounced him up and down above my thighs, using his flexibility, his lean young muscles, his light weight, to achieve the motion we both desired. Only his anus and the first inch inside him clasped my cock with any semblance of pressure. The rest of his rectum seethed like molten metal around my cock. I strung it out for as long as possible, delaying my release again and again, but climax was inevitable. The slurping, pumping sound grew louder, our gasping, our frantic lunges, increasingly out of control. That was usual, being overwhelmed, being totally oblivious to everything else except Joey's succulent heat, his urgent exhortations to do it faster and harder and deeper. He was close, so close that he could not stop whimpering as waves of ecstasy surged through him.

Like this, Joey reminded me of the reef, but unlike the resolute coral that was pounded by the rolling breakers, he flowed with me. He plunged against me, increasingly desperate for relief until he could no longer stand it and his hand grabbed my hand and planted it on his limp boy-cock. That insignificant part of him became hard as steel and slippery as an eel within a few seconds of me touching it. My hand pumped up and down, his tiny boy-balls slapping and sliding against his oily thighs. I felt my balls tightening, my cock expanding, getting ready to disgorge inside him.

When it happened, I rammed him down onto me, hard. Joey lifted up his feet at the same time so that it seemed as if his entire weight was borne by my cock. Together we groaned and writhed, me flexing my throbbing cock into his grasping bowels, Joey squeezing with all his strength to get every bit out. Most times, Joey could feel my ejaculation, at least he said he could. No doubt he felt the heat and the half-dozen spasms that jerked my cock inside him, but it seemed difficult to believe that he could actually feel the spurts when my semen emptied into him. He said he felt it as splattering bursts, like something hot was being squirted deep inside him. Not that it mattered. We both knew what had happened as soon as I stopped thrusting quickly, and the jerking and erratic shudders began.

Both of us quivered, sharing the intensity of the moment. My love juice was inside him, and he had proven that he was my lover boy once again. We hugged, panting, feeling the rush begin to dissipate as my hardness slowly diminished. I rubbed my hands over his bare bony back again, cradling him as I whispered the magic 'I love you' in his ear.

Poor Joey. He couldn't talk. His mouth was open, his head rocked to and fro as if still feeling my cock lunging back and forth inside him. It was a pity that he had not climaxed for a third time. His anus continued to pull on my cock, contracting, squeezing, still trying to achieve release. Yet as my maleness softened and shortened, it began to withdraw of its own accord. There was a slurping wet burble when it finally disengaged. Joey grinned obscenely, fully aware of whatever was inside him would soon be dripping down onto me. Sex was messy. What came out usually wasn't milky white, but especially when he hadn't been to the bathroom in a while.

"Was that a good fuck or what?" I mused.

He rolled his eyes, shifting his hips from side to side, trying to restore his innards to what had to feel like a huge void inside him, to bring the churning sensations to an end, to close his anus up, to return to some semblance of normalcy. I lifted the can of beer. He took a brief sip.

"You're dribbling jizz, lover boy." I observed as I felt the first trickle on my thigh.

"Yeah, well whose fault is that, old man?" Joey rebuked heartlessly.

"It wouldn't be a problem if your ass was tighter."

He smirked as a wet gurgle came from below him. A large blob of yellow gunk splashed onto my leg as he awkwardly lifted up then eased back into a more comfortable position. His legs were still spread, sitting astride my thighs, looking down at my glistening wet cock and the splatters across my groin and thighs. He smirked again, recovering from his lethargy, becoming a different boy in the radiant sunshine that just appeared through the clouds. Beyond that receding line, the sky was clear all the way to the horizon.

"Next time you'd better use a towel, old man," he taunted.

It was a standing joke and stemmed from the very first time when we had had anal sex. I had not expected it to be so unpleasant to clean up afterwards, but boys were like that. Sex loosened their bowels and turned turds to slush. I had to wash the sheets twice that time. That time, we learned that sex and a teaspoon or two of semen could be a powerful enema. It was almost as good as a half cup of warm oil. I grinned back at him and reaching behind him, gave his small greasy buttocks a loving squeeze. There was a large amount of slime that had escaped from between his cheeks. I trailed my fingers through it, rubbing into the dimpled cleft that marked the start of his crack, then sliding three fingers into his crevice, levering the firm flesh apart. His anus was huge, soft, gaping, slowly releasing juice that was mostly mine. All three fingers fitted comfortably, belonging there almost as much as my cock. It was always that way after my cock had been in him for a while. Had that part of his body ever been tight, I wondered? Of course it had, but it was two years ago. I could not help but smile.

It was even easier to put one finger from each hand into him, in to the second joint, like wedges to feel around. It was as loose as it had ever been. I massaged his opening, stretching him further, feeling his weakened sphincter making feeble efforts to compress.

"Pretty gooey, huh Dad?"

"Yeah. Loose too."

"What did you expect? I think you like playing with my ass afterwards. You do, don't you?"

"There's nothing quite like sticking your fingers in a boy-pussy," I chortled, pushing my fingers in deeper.

He relaxed before the onslaught, giving way with a sigh from deep inside. It almost sounded as if it started from where my fingers were.

"Except a well-fucked boy-pussy," Joey replied on cue. "Man, you sure screwed me good."

"That was the plan, lover boy. Nothing like having a well stretched ass-hole to finish off your day, is there? You want me to bring you off again?"

"Nah, I'm okay. I don't need it."

"Then stop complaining. Man, I can't believe it's opened up like this."

"It's just loose because your dumb-dick cock's so big."

"Yeah, and you're big enough to take it. Besides, it's not a dumb-dick cock. I figure ole George's the smartest boy fucker in the island," I retorted, then promptly winked.

"Now there you go thinking with your dick, Dad. How do you figure that?"

"It gets up your hiney every chance it gets," I guffawed. "Hey, cum-bum, you feel like cleaning up or are you going to sit there drooling jizz until dark?"

Cum-bum was one of the many endearing names I called him, but usually only when it was appropriate. This was one of those times.

Joey grinned back at me, leaned forward, gave me a wet loving kiss and stood up cautiously, ready to staunch the flow if necessary. It always amused me to see him walk after we had sex. He walked purposefully if unsteadily, noticeably bowlegged across the deck, cupping his right hand behind him just in case. There were matching trickles on the insides of both of his lean brown thighs, trickles that could become a splattering gush if his bowels exhausted as they sometimes did. Not that it bothered me if he dripped on the deck. It was better there than leaving spots on the carpet in the cabin. Carpet cleaner cost five dollars a bottle and wasn't much better than hot water except it killed the smell.

He gave me a fond smile over his shoulder when he reached the stern. He had to use a hand to pull himself up to the dock instead of springing up from the side of the boat in the graceful leap that he usually performed when it was low tide. I picked up a towel and followed close behind him. When we were both on the dock, I rested my hand on his bony shoulder while we walked down to the tiny beach that was ours alone. Like Joey, I was a creature of habit when it came to washing off after sex. Cleanliness was not high on either of our priorities, but cooling down certainly was. I splashed water over us as soon as we were knee deep. We both kept smiling, knowingly, consumed with joy as much as from still feeling the lingering urge as the intense closeness that came from having sex. There was no hiding the signs of our recent intimacy, yet this place, like our love, was a secret from all but a few people. We were safe there, safe to express who and what we were.

"Wash that ass out good, lover boy. I might be eating from it before long."

Joey shrugged, returning one of his nonchalant looks that said that he wouldn't mind if I ate him out right there and then, mess or no mess. He squatted in the tepid water, submerging his legs and buttocks. His hand moved behind him, rinsing away the remnants of mutual pleasure. However, without an enema to flush his bowels whatever was inside him would remain for later. An hour perhaps, or until we went to bed. Our sex was never scheduled in advance. It happened when it happened. In truth, there was not much of a justification in washing afterwards. Without soap, a lot of the oily film on his thighs and buttocks would last until he bathed properly. To my mind it did not matter if he washed with soap. The oil would not hurt him. Joey had spent two years covered in coconut oil from head to toe. Not that a boy needed protection from the sun when his skin was only a shade lighter than one of the local boys. I put it on Joey as much to enjoy the sensation of applying it as to keep his skin soft. He ended up with a sheen that all but glowed in the dark.

"What are you going to do when I start getting hair, Dad?" he asked curiously, standing up but looking down to examine the little thing that dangled between his legs.

It was his way of teasing me, because he asked the same question almost every day, but it was also a question that was frequently on my mind. Perhaps that was why he delighted in taunting me with what might or might not lay around the corner. It wasn't that there was anything to see beyond the silvery sun-bleached fuzz that had always been there faintly on his arms and legs, but he was getting older.

Recently, I began to think that his balls had dropped lower, but close inspection showed there was almost an inch to go when his pouch was fully relaxed. If it had happened, it was sometime during the last month or two. I could only hope so. The only thing I could be certain of was that his balls were slightly larger than they had been two years ago. That was a bad sign, according to what I had been told by Joey's doctor. At nearly twelve, testicle growth was supposed be pronounced. I watched carefully, hoping, because there was still time. Another year could make all the difference, or no change at all. At that age a boy was entirely at nature's mercy, but sooner rather than later puberty would either start to show its face, or not . I kept hoping. The alternative was too depressing to think about.

"I'll probably make you shave it off, lover boy. I love you just the way you are," I answered with what I hoped would be taken as amusement. Because it was amusing in its own way, a boy's longing for the inevitable march toward manhood that necessarily would make him less desirable to men like me.

"Maybe I'll have a big hairy one like him," he said, pointing at his friend and constant companion, my dick.

"In your dreams, Joey. There ain't no way I'm putting up with it."

He grinned at me. "Fernando said that girls like guys with hairy dicks."

Yet, there was a tone in his still unbroken voice that was hopeful. We both knew that girls were the last thing in his mind.

"Like he'd know what girls like," I snorted derisively. "Do you want to eat dinner ever again?"

He shrugged, smiling, but not answering. He liked to tease me that one day in the near future he would have a girl friend, if only because it was never going to happen. There was no doubt that the girls thought he was good looking. They flirted with him, or tired to. He was good-looking with a body to match his handsome face. Sometimes, a lot more often than I was willing to admit, I found myself thinking that he was too good looking for his own good.

"Don't sweat it, Dad." He grinned. "I'm planning on shaving if off as soon as I get some hair you can see."

He dabbed the towel around his groin, drying off the water.

"I think my balls are starting to get bigger," he added seriously

"In your dreams. You know, Joey, there ain't no way I'm fucking a boy with big hairy nuts. I'm cutting them off and using them for fish bait when I see them start getting bigger. You'd better hope they stop growing."

We both laughed.

"What's for dinner, Dad?"

"Other than boy-balls?" Joey grimaced and shook his head to show it wasn't on the menu as far as he was concerned. "I got some nice tuna steaks today," I answered. We practically lived on tuna during the fishing season. "Figured I'd scorch 'em on the grill with some lime."

Joey sniffed the air with another exaggerated roll of his eyes. "So that's the smell. The limes don't help you know, Dad. Tuna still tastes like crap."

"You want some more of this, Joey-boy," I jeered.

I held my penis between my hands and wobbled it to and fro. Joey smirked and promptly bent over, obscenely splitting his buttocks wide apart with a dark brown hand on each sun-tanned cheek. Even inside his crack was tanned, although how the sun ever penetrated into that narrow crevice I had no idea. His anus was still very dilated, surrounded by a ruddy ellipse extending onto his cheeks. I always felt a little ashamed when I saw the evidence of where my penis had been rubbing for the last fifteen minutes.

"Aren't you sore?" I asked concernedly.

"Not much," he answered, standing straight again. He smirked. "I'm used to your over-sized dick. What's the matter? Don't you have the energy to get it up again, old man?"

"I'm hungry. And not for boy-ass either."

"Can we eat at Fernie's tomorrow night then? It's Friday," he added hopefully.

"Hey, my jerk-chicken is almost as good as his. You said so the last time I made it," I laughed.

"In your dreams. I only said that because anything's better than smelly old fish," Joey giggled. He thought for a few seconds and then winked. "Hey, Dad, I came twice, you know."

"Yeah, I know kid. You nearly tore my cock off the way you were jerking your little chicken-ass around today. I'm surprised you didn't end up shooting something outta that boy-dick of yours, carrying on like that."

"Dad?"

The tone of his voice had changed and I regarded him, all four-foot ten-inches [1.49 m]. His eyes wavered, not greeting mine. He always did that when he was nervous or afraid.

"What's wrong, lover boy?"

"When am I seeing Doctor Lamar again?"

"I forget exactly. In a few more weeks I think. I've got it written down somewhere on the boat."

"What if 3; well 3; you know 3; if it's what he said 3;?" Joey asked anxiously. "Will we have to go back?"

"If we do, it'll only be to Miami, Joey." I sighed. "I promised, remember. And even if you have to have an operation, it still won't be for another year or so."

"I don't want another operation," he said dismally.

"I know."

How could I tell him that in all probability, the damage that had been done was irreversible? 'I'm sorry son, you're going to have to spend the rest of your life getting hormone injections because some fucking ass-hole smashed in the ack of your head with a baseball bat?' It made me sick to even think about it.

I don't want to ever leave here, Dad."

"Neither do I."

He shuffled his feet, still gazing down. The sand was already so dry that it flowed between his toes. Against his bronzed feet, the sand was white. His feet were petite, somewhere between size five and six. According to Doctor Lamar, the growth of a boy's feet was one of the first obvious signs of approaching puberty. It followed a noticeable increase in the size of his testicles that dropped them lower in the scrotum. It was a sign that was far less obvious unless a boy went around naked. There was no doubt that Joey's balls had grown slightly over the last six months, but they were still tiny and clung beneath his penis. If an increase in size and the drop-thing was going to happen, it should be soon, at least according to Joey's endocrinologist. He was supposed to be a specialist in pediatric pituitary problems. By the time Joey turned twelve there ought to be a noticeable difference, was the way he put it. Would a few more weeks, enough to make two months, make that much difference? It seemed impossible.

Perhaps Joey needed to see Doctor Lamar sooner than his scheduled appointment. The headaches hadn't gotten any worse, although his ability to adjust to sudden changes in temperature had worstened with the heat. The lack of testicular developemnt might mean the operation should be moved up. I shuddered at the thought. Dr. Lamar was Joey's best hope, and he went as far as saying that the risk might not be justified by the results. He wasn't conservative, just brutally honest.

"What if I don't want the operation?" Joey asked softly. It was a worry that was often on his mind.

"Hm 3; why not?" I knew the answer, or rather I thought I did. We had not really talked about it even though it was our central worry

He shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned. He was like that. Carefree and undecided about the most important things. Little things bothered him. The big things he found difficult to talk about.

"I don't mind being like this," he said in a blasé voice.

"Joey 3;" I began.

There was no point in fighting with him. I wasn't happy about him having the operation. Neurosurgery was very dangerous, even with a highly skilled surgeon like Doctor Lamar. It would take him weeks to recover and the benefit might be so slight that it was hardly worth the risk. The alternative was very depressing to me, if not to Joey.

"We can't afford it anyway," he blurted out.

"That's not something you need to worry about," I replied brusquely. He did not have to remind me that money was scarce.

He frowned at me. It was supposed to be a partnership. I had promised him that. I told him that I would always value his opinion when we left Chicago, when we started a new life together. It was a very different kind of partnership to what I had envisioned, but it was still based on trust and respect. That it was based on a lot more love than most marriages helped us get through the difficult times.

"I'm sorry, Joey," I said humbly.

"I'm hungry, Dad. Let's go eat," he mumbled.

He shivered suddenly and wrapped his arms around his chest. His arms erupted in gooseflesh. He shivered although the temperature was close to eighty degrees after the storm. I nearly cried when he stomped his feet and tried to get his body warm again. In came in bursts, hot then cold, always without warning. He said he was getting used to it, that his body was adjusting faster, that it was never as bad as it looked, but between shaking with the chills and sweating with fevers, it was very distressing.

"We could go over to Fernardo's tonight?" I suggested, hoping to get his mind off his condition. "Some of his jerk-chicken sounds pretty good to me right now."

Joey shrugged. Gooseflesh had suddenly formed along his legs. I wanted to hug him tight, keep him warm until the chills were gone.

"Are you fishing again tomorrow?" he asked pointedly. He had me figured out.

"Yeah. I've got a charter with some smart fuckers from New York, Joey," I replied without much interest.

I knew what Joey was after. The fish markets preferred fish that were caught by net, not on a hook, so it was often difficult to get rid of the fish my customers insisted on keeping, but seldom wanted to take with them once they reached the dock. Like Joey, I was tired of fish as well, but there would be even more fish to get rid of the next day.

"Well? So it's fish for dinner yet again."

"Don't worry. I promise I'll sell whatever we get tomorrow, even if it's ten cents a pound. Besides, from what I saw of the dude who made the booking, we probably won't catch anything. They'll probably get seasick as soon as we clear the harbor," I laughed.

"Probably." Joey smiled. His body was slowly adjusting to the change in temperature.

"Hell! I'll have to do everything except drink their beer for them."

Joey laughed. "I can come help," he suggested eagerly. "You're going to need someone at the helm if they're that bad."

"I wish you could, but I seem to remember that you have school, babe. I think tomorrow is going to be a repeat of today, kid. I'll expect to meet you at the dock at four."

I was met by a wry face. It was no secret that Joey was little different to the typical pre-teen island boy. He hated going to school with a passion that was equal to my dislike of entertaining tourists from New York. Both of us persisted because that was what we had to do. The things we really enjoyed, we didn't have to do. Perhaps that was the reason why we enjoyed them.

"That dude at the dock?" Joey began uncertainly. His voice had lowered as if he was about to confide a secret..

"Yeah, what about him?"

"He pays Vincente two-fifty a day," he announced suddenly. "That's so he'll do sex stuff."

"Probably," I ventured, without giving it much thought.

I wondered how Joey had been able to find that out. It was somewhat more than I expected for a dark-skinned boy whore. According to my good friend, fellow boy-lover, and frequent drinking companion, Fernando; renting a boy for a night could cost as much as chartering my boat for an all-day fishing expedition. Vaguely, I wondered what the boy charged for a fuck. It was probably not as much as a young hooker would get in Miami, but boys who had sex for money were, according to Fernando, becoming increasingly rare.

"He fucks Vincente," Joey added with a strangely disconcerting giggle. "He told me."

"I expect so. What did you tell him about us?"

"Nothing. You aren't surprised?"

"I guess I'm not. If you want anything bad enough, you'll pay whatever it costs, Joey. It's a matter of what's called demand and supply."

"Like buying stuff at Grendal's?" Joey chortled. "Two-fifty! At least that's what Vincente said he got. It sure is a hell of a lot of money for some boy-ass."

Grendal's was the supermarket on Garrison Street, the next road up from Farley Street. Their prices were out of line, but we still shopped there. Without a car, there was not a lot of choice for the day-to-day things and the extra it cost to shop there wasn't worth getting a taxi for.

"Yeah, I guess. It's the same as I make doing a half-day charter," I agreed.

"You could make a lot more money selling my ass, Dad," he joked crudely. "I'd only have to work a couple of weeks and we could buy that new air-conditioner."

"You know, that's what Fernie was saying a few weeks ago. He was joking, but the way he put it, you're sitting on a gold mine, kid." Joey shrugged. I grinned, loving him so much that it hurt inside. "But you know something, lover boy? There ain't no one fucking this boy-pussy but me," I rebuked, making a half-hearted grab for Joey's buttocks.

He jumped, slapping his behind with glee and pushing my hand away at the same time. He had reflexes like a cat. "So what do you think it's worth?"

"Your ass?" I laughed. He grinned back at me and nodded. "Hm 3; well you're much cuter than Vincente, that's for sure. Looks are very important in the flesh trade. And you're nicely tanned all over, and you're built right, but especially where it counts. That's got to account for something. Plus most men prefer white kids, even if you aren't all that white. You have a body to die for. If Vincente gets two-fifty for opening the back door, hell, you ought to get five hundred for going all the way. Assuming you were into going all the way, that is. Which you aren't!"

"He's got jizz too," Joey pointed out as if maturity had a positive effect on value, instead of diminishing returns with every month once hair appeared. He considered what I had said. "Five hundred for a fuck, huh? Geez, Dad. That sure is a lot of money. I could make a good living just putting some guy's cock up my ass a couple of times a day."

"Maybe, but Vincente won't see more than a hundred of it, if he's lucky," I commented dryly.

"Why?"

"He's a whore, Joey. That means he has a pimp. There's someone who lines up his customers, takes care of him 3; That sort of thing."

"A hundred bucks isn't all that much. I could get that if I bagged groceries at Grendals for a few days. Mr. Grendal said he'll pay me three bucks an hour."

"That's right, or if you cleaned a couple of tourist boats. You could make a hundred bucks a day doing that if you worked hard. The sex thing is 3; well it's a very dangerous game for a boy your age to be playing," I pointed out.

"Like because of AIDS and stuff?"

"Yeah. And in other ways too. Vincente'll probably get hurt sooner or later, if he hasn't already."

"Hurt how? You mean because a guy's cock is too big." It was no secret that Joey had a thing for big cocks. I teased him all the time about it.

"Yes," I answered.

Steve Adams was well-hung from what I could see behind his shorts. He was more than big enough to do permanent injury to a boy, especially if he didn't take his time.

"That and other ways. Some men like to hurt boys."

"Why?"

I shrugged, not surprised that he was asking. I had never hurt him intentionally. "I guess people like that are mean as sharks, Joey. They resent paying for sex. Maybe they feel guilty and take it out on the boy. There are some men who get their kicks from hurting kids."

Joey seemed very quiet at that. He fidgeted with boyish awkwardness, not scared but certainly reluctant to pursue the subject further. I rubbed his shoulders. Finally, he moved away.

"Dad?"

"Yeah."

"Today, at the wharf 3; there was a really weird guy up there where the trucks are supposed to park."

"Yes?"

"He said something to Vincente when we came past him."

"Which was?"

"I didn't hear it all, because we were laughing and carrying. I'm sure he said it to Vincente, only I don't think he understood. I mean Vincente seemed to know him, but he kept on walking. He said something about living righteously in the eyes of the Lord or being evil and dying."

I stroked my chin. "Maybe he was trying to be funny. Or maybe he was one of those religious freaks. Fernando told me a while back that there's a group of Bible bashers hanging around Georgetown. IT's probably some sort of religious commune."

"Yeah, maybe. He sure looked strange."

"Strange? Do you mean he was dressed strangely?"

I had in mind a man dressed like Quaker, complete with hat and beard. A person like that would stand out like a sore thumb in Georgetown.

Joey shrugged. "I don't know, Dad. He just looked at us like we were 3; I don't know 3; like we were doing something bad, I suppose. Except we weren't. We were just fooling around kicking a coconut shell. It probably wasn't anything. Only 3;"

"Only what?"

"I don't know, Dad. I just got a feeling 3; like I'd seen him before somewhere 3; but I couldn't remember where. Just forget it. I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

Chapter 3

Even with the looming threat of being permanently grounded or until Hell froze over, whatever came first, he still made a feeble attempt to get me aroused. He brought me another beer, spending a few minutes of sitting in my lap kissing and hugging and getting a drink in when he could. It was romantic, looking up at the vast night sky and the stars spread across it from end to end. He wriggled, getting comfortable, pressing his cheek to mine, reaching for my groin. I was excited and he could feel my erection with the palm of his hand as he kneaded it relentlessly. However, I was resolute. He had priorities just as I did.

With a grimace he gave up and started doing his homework, not an easy task given the miserable light that came from the boat's 12 volt electrical system. I sat in my chair, drinking beer, looking at Joey's tousled head. Inside that head was a bright boy, but he hated anything to do with school. When he wrote with a pencil with a much-chewed end, it was with deft thin fingers making precise movements. His effort would not last very long. Perhaps a page or two. Joey was only like that until his concentration lagged. His attention span for school-related things could be measured in minutes at the best of times.

In mute admiration I studied him. His wiry arms, his square shoulders, his compact chest. He looked as dark as a native boy, at least when he was by himself. Put beside his friends, Joey was a very different color-gold-bronze rather than coffee-brown. His hair was also lighter, bleached by the sun and salt, from dark at the roots to golden-yellow at the tips. There was just a slight curl where it grew longer on his neck. Most of the local boys had very dark, tightly curled hair.

When Joey was home from school, there were always other boys hanging around. He was a natural magnet for them. I enjoyed their company, often going with them down to our beach where they would play and show off their naked skinny bodies. I liked to watch, and I considered it my private 'show'. They were sexy too, but not like Joey. He was the master of them. They flaunted their occasional if very noticeable erections at me with boyish bravado, always making certain that I looked long and hard. They seemed to know that Joey and I had a special relationship that somehow excluded them. Just being a man necessitated their efforts to seduce me. It was a game that boys played when there was no fear of punishment. I treated it with amusement, although Joey smirked and knew what effect it had beneath my clothes. The lewd show never lasted more than a few minutes, before they darted off, giggling among themselves, always disappearing behind the palms at the southern end of the beach. Often when he returned, Joey told me that some of the boys had fucked each other while they lay on the warm white sand, but not him, at least not yet. Instead he sucked his best friend, Fernando's boy, his nephew, who everyone called Roddy-short for Rodrigo, but equally descriptive of the constantly erect pubescent cock that was proudly displayed whenever his loose cotton shorts came down.

Joey was bright, but he was slow to act when his interest waned. When he did not care to try, he was as lazy as any boy could be. He looked up at me and smiled temptingly to show that he was nearly finished. I nodded that he could work on the essay at another time. For the next few minutes he grumbled over his math problems, then took to gnawing on the end of his pencil. It was his way of asking me to help. I wandered over. Behind the table was a very naked boy. His legs were apart and his left hand was wrapped his very erect boy-cock. On a good day it was just on three inches [7½ cm] long, enough to be a handful for him. For me it was a job for two fingers and a thumb. Less if he didn't want me to touch the sensitive head.

"You playing with your dick again, lover boy?" I observed. "You're s'posed to be doing math."

Joey shrugged. His mother had wanted him circumcised to look like me. Although I had experience with only one boy at the time, me, I was perfectly happy with the way his cock was. Indeed, I had not thought much about it at the time he was born, yet his mother prevailed. I had to admit that when his little hand squeezed and the tiny helmeted bulb bulged out between the thumb and first finger of his fist, it was very cute. Fernando told me that for a long while, a year or so, the skin on the end of Roddy's rod had to be eased back carefully if it was not to hurt. It was supposed to be more sensitive when the skin was left on. It sounded more like an inconvenience than an advantage, although all of Joey's friends were that way. It was the Caribbean fashion. They all had bigger dicks than Joey too, even Rodrigo who was still a few months shy of turning twelve.

He was a few inches taller than Joey, but for boys as well as men, height was not as important as cock-size. Being smaller in the dick-department was no disadvantage in my mind, although in all likelihood it relegated Joey to the bottom if he every let another boy mount him.

There was a pecking order among the island boys that was mostly based upon athletic skill, but that changed when it came to sex. Then, the importance of penis size was never more apparent. I smiled to myself, wondering whether that explained Joey's popularity with other boys, unlikely as the possibility seemed. Perhaps they liked him because of what he did with them behind the palms. Joey was adamant that he was a 'one man boy', but he had lied about other things. All boys lie and I knew better than to pry into what he did behind the palms.

It was private there, where the boys went after swimming. And pretty too, postcard pretty with a superb view looking along the curve of beach, arcing palms, and a lagoon that looked as if it had come from paradise.

Fernando and I joked about what the boys did there, much to Joey and Roddy's consternation when we came too close to the truth. Sometimes I sat on deck and trained my 10 x 50 binoculars into the tangled undergrowth behind the palms. If I was lucky I caught a glimpse of chocolate-colored bodies doing things that boys did when adults weren't around to stop them. Masturbating each other, sucking cocks without restraint, and a few times, confirming Joey's claim, I had even watched a couple of them fucking, doggy style or straddling a fallen palm tree. They took turns, but not for both roles. The lucky ones were the boys who were sexually mature, even lining up behind one of the younger lads. There was no reticence when it came to boys coupling. Once, I observed an older very-dark teen with a smaller, pale-skinned boy who could not have been more than nine or ten. The kid shucked his expensive designer-label vacation clothes and lay face up in the sand with his knees lodged beside his ears. He was there for no more than five minutes. The teen hunched over him, driving hard and fast to get it finished before they were disturbed. The young boy looked as if he should have been playing on the beach outside one of the expensive hotels, not there getting his butt hammered into the white-hot sand. I didn't care. I was glad only that it wasn't Joey. That day at least, I could be confident for I could see that he was playing with Roddy and another native boy further down the beach. According to Fernando when I told him later that night, that boy had not been the first white kid who had lost his virginity on that beach. Apparently, it happened quite often.

"I nearly got it all done," Joey said moodily.

"What's the problem this time?" I said, looking down at the erection that persisted between his legs. He was perpetually hard, or at least he was whenever I was around.

"Fucking math. I don't know why I have to do this crap! You don't need math to run charters, least nothing more than adding up what people owe you and the cost of gas and stuff."

I shrugged. "I wasn't always a charter captain," I remarked soberly.

Joey didn't answer. Instead, he pushed his textbook towards me and stabbed his finger at a problem he could not answer. He needed help and it was my responsibility to make the effort to help him. I rubbed my chin. Math was never my strong suit.

"Hm 3; If three apples and five pears cost $2.60, and five apples and three pears cost $2.20, how much would five apples and five pears cost?" I read aloud. "It doesn't sound that hard."

"Then you do it!" He almost shouted in frustration.

"What do I get if I get it right?"

Unless we were in bed together, usually, the person who brought up the idea of having sex did it as part of a game. It was a reward for winning or 'punishment' for losing, part of the eternal competition between a man and a growing boy. More often than not, I won and Joey 'lost', but that was how he wanted it. He liked being on the 'bottom'. He won his share of the other battles. He usually got what he wanted.

Joey smirked. "Hm 3;" He pretended to think about it. "Whatever you want, Daddo."

"Anything?"

Joey nodded shamelessly.

"Even keeping it in all night?"

"Yeah, whatever 3; If it turns you on. I suppose it's okay."

He tried to sound reluctant, yet he smirked. He always pretended he didn't like doing that, but he did. It made for an uncomfortable night for me, and his anus loose the next day, but that couldn't be helped.

"Okay. You've got a deal, butt-boy."

I doodled on the paper he handed me, drawing a crude imitation of apples and pears, except that the apples looked like butts and the pears like cocks and they fitted together like we did, a man inside a boy. Joey realized what I was doing before I was halfway through and erupted into a fit of giggles.

"You forgot the jizz, Dad" he said gleefully.

"Nah, see they're boys like you and Roddy. None of 'em have jizz yet."

"Dad, just do the problem," he remonstrated. Still he smirked crudely. He was into sex as much as I was. Perhaps more.

"Okay, okay. I guess you could do it by trial and error?" I suggested.

"You're s'posed to use equations. Like three A's plus five P's equals 260," he said, pointing where he had written something.

"Ah. I guess you could do it that way. Trial and error is probably faster," I suggested hopefully, trying hard to remember how equations like that were solved.

Joey laughed. "If you want a piece of my ass tonight, you'd better use equations, otherwise I get it wrong."

"Who said I wanted another fuck? You said anything I wanted," I reminded him.

'You said you were going to leave him in all night."

"No I didn't. I just suggested that as one possibility."

"Just do the equations, Dad!"

I scrawled out the first one again because I had trouble reading Joey's scrawl, then the second one beneath it. How were two equations solved? It had been thirty years since I had learned how it was done. It was not the sort of thing that you remembered for that long. A year was my limit. Anything else went into the file, or was forgotten.

"Anything, right? Anything at all?" I taunted, stalling for time.

Joey shrugged, braced his elbows on the table and rested his suntanned, handsome head in his hands. He regarded me affectionately. Like me, he was prepared to forget the homework and go do something else, something that we both found more enjoyable.

"I thought you wanted to leave him in me all night?" he suggested again.

It was proof positive of what he wanted. He glanced away uncertainly, hearing the low rumbling noise of diesel engines. That boat was probably outside the reef, but the air was still so the sound traveled almost uninterrupted across the lagoon.

"Hm, I still might have me some boy-pussy. I haven't decided yet."

"How much do you reckon my teacher makes?" he asked. Like most boys his age, he changed the topic whenever his interest waned.

"No idea. Probably thirty or forty thousand U.S. a year. Something like that I expect. Teachers generally don't make all that much. Maybe they make more back home. I expect they get about the same as a cop."

"So like about seven or eight hundred a week here?"

I nodded vaguely, barely realizing that Joey had done the math in his head. He was like that. Sometimes he took me by surprise. He also had my insight, and an innate ability to reduce a complex situation to a few simple facts that made a lot sense. He had the making of a very good detective once he had developed the ability to focus his thoughts.

"So I could make like in less than two days what she makes in a week? If I did what Vincente does?"

"I guess. If you let some dirty old man who had lots of money fuck your ass. Which you aren't going to do. Least not while I'm around, Joey," I said bluntly.

Joey smirked, enjoying his game. "I wasn't planning to, Dad. But I don't see why you say no. You're a dirty old man, and you fuck me all the time, only you don't have the money to pay what I'm worth."

I laughed. "We've got enough money to be happy and that's what counts, lover boy."

"But if you had to, would you sell your ass to get some cash?"

"No." I was adamant about that.

"Even if it was a matter of life and death?"

"Hm 3; Still no. I don't know why you'd even ask. I would be so pissed if you did that, Joey. I'll never let you do it willingly, that's for sure."

"But 3; well 3; what if I only did it a couple of times 3; We could get the boat fixed up, and other stuff we can't afford."

"No! Stop talking about it. It isn't going to happen Joey."

"Just a couple of times and we could make a thousand bucks, Dad. That's more than enough to get the air-conditioning fixed." Was he serious? He sounded like he was.

"No one with half a brain needs money that badly."

Joey glared at me. I wasn't sure whether he was serious or not.

"Well, can you fucking do it or not?"

"Do what? Oh, the problem? Yeah, I think you just switch things around."

"Wow!" he exclaimed sarcastically. "So do it, Dad."

"Anything I want right?" I teased.

Joey giggled and nodded. His moods never lasted very long. I started to write out the first equation again, swapping the terms before substituting in the second equation. Finally, I created a third equation with five of each fruit and recalculated.

"Three bucks!" I announced proudly. "You see how I did it?"

Joey nodded. He was bored. I had known all along that he had not even tried to do it. He could have done it if he tried. He yawned.

"Time for bed, lover boy," I announced.

"I'm not sleepy. You wanna go for a walk on the beach for a while, Dad?"

"Yeah."

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