Teglin

Three Weeks to Heaven

A Boylove Romance

Book One

Chapter 1

The slope hung precipitously over the valley below. Glimpses of a long meadow and a rock-strewn stream running with cold snow-melt teased me, keeping me expectant and awake. There was something down there for me. I did not know what it was, but it was there nevertheless.

I hoped it was rest that awaited me. I wanted nothing more than to break this unexpected and unwanted journey by flopping down next to the stream or in the shade of an Aspen grove. 48 hours in the saddle since getting the telegram: "teg. need trkr. renegade tk j."

Only Bill Sanders, my old college fraternity brother, had ever called me Teg, so I knew this was for real, even though I hadn't known that he had brought his son out to the mining district. Well, I had only been West for ten years, myself, but in that time I had learned to track. I could follow a fish through lake water, and though Joey's trail would be two weeks old by the time I got over the mountains to Elizabethtown, I never doubted what I had to do. I just hoped the cavalry was on the trail already. Likely that bunch of Comanche that was raising hell out on the Staked Plains. Unfortunately, the army was not always successful tracking down small bands of renegades.

Right now I needed rest. So did my bay. His head was dragging. Back up on the ridge line he had slipped on the loose rock once too often. I was drooping too, I guess.

Until I glimpsed the boy down in the valley. A fair-haired youngster – I could see that much, from above. Golden blonde locks reached to his bare shoulders. He was naked to the waist, skin the color of alabaster in the noon-time sun. He wore knickers, his calves showing white below the dark material of his pants. Now that was odd out here in the West. I hadn't seen a boy in knickers since coming West myself, to start ranching. Not that I got to see too many boys out on the Mogollon Plateau, much to my regret.

Of course, I started getting hard instantly, and felt the usual quickening of breath and pulse. Couldn't help it. Well, that's why I came West in the first place, to escape the heart-rending, never-to-be requited passion I felt for boys. And the embarrassment. You see, Teg Junior, down between my legs, had a mind of his own. Just the scent of a boy, much less the vision of loveliness that now presented himself to me, would make my penis stand up to attention. It was the kind of situation I was forced to avoid, but desired more than anything else. It would be comical if it weren't so dangerous.

Now my seven inches [18 cm] stretched out painfully, flaring against the rough confinement of my jeans.

Yes, it could get more than embarrassing at times, holding this uncommon love for the little ones. But there it was. I would not change it if I could. It was at one and the same time my curse and my greatest joy. Just to be around a boy like the one down there in the meadow, just to be able to watch his every movement, to hear his every sigh, or the soft tones of his lilting voice, to watch him brush his hair back, or to witness the stretch of his lithe body as he flung a rock into the stream – those were just a few of the treasures that I can only find in a boy.

Of course, the brief glance, or a moment in his presence, was all I could expect of this or any other boy. The fate of a man like me is not often kind. Not since the passing of the Classical Age in Rome, as far as I knew.

Common sense, and a high regard for my own freedom, told me that it takes much more than love to share a relationship with a boy, even if he returns your love. You have to have that, of course. I would never force my attentions upon anyone, and can't imagine any circumstances that would ever lead me to do so. You also have to have either the permission of the child's parents, or some circumstance which places the youngster in your care. Neither was ever very likely.

However realistic I was with my passion, unrequited love never stopped my errant tool from showing its feelings. I willed my penis to subside as I continued down the trail. If I were going to rest by that stream, I wanted to at least be graced by the nearness of that boy. Having a tent sticking out in my crotch might frighten him, depending on how old he was.

Couldn't really tell yet. Hopefully pre-pubescent. I admired them about age 8 to 12. Old enough to have an independent personality, but before they lose their incredible smoothness, their slim, delicate charm. Muscle development and lankiness would mask that forever.

Before I came out of the woods at the base of the slope, I got down out of the saddle, brushed myself off and smoothed my hair back into place. Yeah, just like a young suitor, not yet dry behind the ears, getting ready to escort his girl to the social. That's the way I always feel, meeting a boy for the first time. They do that to me. My heart beat like a drum and I felt like my stomach was tied up in knots. Not to mention the tension in my loins. My balls would ache from now until I could get alone and milk them.

Putting my hat back on and taking the reins in hand, I stepped out into the meadow. The boy was standing on the bank of the babbling stream with his back towards me, arched in statuesque glory. What a sight for my tired eyes. I breathed in the scene.

The stream meandered off along the relatively flat valley floor as far as I could see in both directions. Where the boy's home was I could not fathom, as the bottomland was clear of any structures. The hint of a breeze painted my face soothingly, and gently fluttered the gossamer strands of the boy's hair.

His figure was that of about a 10 or 11 year old. My eyes traced the lines of his shoulders, from the long slender neck that peeked through the fluttering tresses, down to arms almost effeminate in their sleek, unmuscled perfection. His shoulder blades flared beneath his satiny smooth skin, as he swung his fishing pole out into the clear water. He was a thin boy, his ribs outlined in symmetry along his dimpled backbone as it curved down to disappear under his sagging trousers. The drawstring was loose enough that his waistband had slipped down the curve of his hips to lodge teasingly just below the beginning of the crease between the twin globes of his buttocks. Perfectly formed, slim legs, devoid of hair where I could see his calves beneath the knickers, made him look taller than he really was – perhaps 4'10" [1.47 m] or so at the most. He was barefoot – I saw his shoes and shirt cast carelessly aside over by a lunch basket.

I swear I had to force myself to breathe upon seeing this angel up close for the first time. He stood still now, like a child of the gods with the sun burnishing his creamy, unblemished flesh. I could have stood still there, as well, perfectly happy just to observe, but I did not want to scare him if he turned.

"Halo there," I called out as calmly as I could as I approached slowly.

He turned, startled, dropping his pole. For a moment he did indeed look frightened, but quickly regained his composure and granted me a wary smile of guarded welcome. My kind of boy! Willing to give me a chance to prove myself, but not blindly trusting.

"Hi, mister," he said in a soft, rather high voice, a song-bird like voice that I'll never forget. It had a flute-like quality, as gentle as his smile. I will never forget my first look at his face, either. A Nordic god-child, indeed. Sparkling green eyes with flecks of golden-brown, that made Nature's own green meadow grass seem lifeless by compare.

His eyes were cast below thin, silvery-blonde brows, so fine that they were almost invisible. Lips red and full – I longed for a forbidden kiss instantly, but failing that, if only I could be allowed to gaze upon his countenance for a brief while! His every feature accentuated the delicacy of his frame.

My god-child's fright did not last long, nor his wariness. I have to admit, happily, that I have that effect on kids. They seem to sense that something in me that loves them – well, the boys, anyway. Not that I have anything against girls, mind you. There's just no attraction there. I've never seen a female, young or old, that could compare to the winsome beauty of a young boy.

I think the little guys sense not only my love for them, but that they are completely safe with me. Must be my rugged good looks! At 6'2" [1.88 m], all bones and lean muscle from the last ten years of work on my ranch back near Flagtown, I exude strength and carry myself with a carefree gait. I have dark brown hair, and it needed cutting just at this moment, hanging down like this boy's. But my hair falls straight, with no natural curl like his.

Nothing much riles me. Except the kind of thing that got me on this trip in the first place. Yes, and the boys. Nope, they had nothing to fear from me. Sure, when I meet a beautiful boy I want him fiercely, I can fantasize as much as any lover. But notwithstanding my complete familiarity with the Classical writings on Greek love, well, I was perforce still a virgin. My dream was that someday, if I led a good life, I would meet a boy who wanted me in the way I wanted him, but till then I would love and protect from afar.

I could see this one looking me over just like I did him as unobtrusively as possible. He seemed to like what he saw, his smile widening off-handedly. As for me, I certainly liked what I saw. It was an effort to maintain my composure. His bare chest just begged to be caressed by my hands, if I ever dared sully his perfect skin with my work-roughened fingers. Tiny little reddish nipples, surrounded by aureole no larger around than the tip of my little finger – they glared at me from his peerless white skin – skin that was almost a translucent pearl-white. His pants swayed down in front, far below his pert little belly-button. That little nubbin peeked out of a firm belly that sloped gently into the velvety, V-shaped, but still hidden pubis. His waist was narrow, accentuating his hips, and giving him something of an effeminate grace. The merest hint of his pelvic bones, undulating under his satin flesh, seemed to channel my gaze down. The knickers were fairly tight, and buttoned up along the side, so there was no excess fabric to hide the bulge that I expected to see between his legs, but it was barely apparent. God-child's treasures were obviously small and as dainty as the rest of his frame. I could imagine his little penis, perhaps an inch [2½ cm] long when resting soft upon his pearl-encasing, totally hairless scrotum.

That's when I got in trouble again. I swear I wasn't consciously willing all these lascivious thoughts – they come upon me unbidden when I see a boy. And this was no average boy. Teg Junior did it to me again. My shaft snaked like a pole out of my pants leg and lifted out, still pointing down, but with its head forming a visible knob in my crotch as it strained to come upright. By the time I was aware of it, my arousal was impossible for him to miss.

He didn't miss it. Just as I became aware of the throbbing pulse in my straining manhood, I saw his gaze lower as he took in my towering frame. The shock in his eyes was like a dagger to my heart. I didn't want to hurt this little guy, this demi-god of Creation. He deserved love, caring, protection, not what he must have been thinking when he saw my untoward condition.

For the barest moment his eyes sought mine, and thankfully I saw a look not of fear, but of confusion and questioning. Involuntarily, I guess, his little hands turned palm out, fingers unconsciously bending as if he were trying to grasp for something, almost as if he were pleading for something. I swallowed hard and turned away to hide my shame. I couldn't fathom what that look of pleading meant. I was more flustered than I had ever been with any other boy. And let me tell you, I don't get flustered by anything or anybody except boys.

Was he pleading for mercy, out of fear? No, it wasn't like that at all. Desperately I hoped it wasn't like that. More like an entreaty, like he was tugging at my soul. Or was that mere wishful thinking on my part? Love is a funny thing – it always seeks a soulmate, and here I was hoping that this boy was feeling the same way I did.

Another funny thing – it was at that moment that my passion for this unnamed boy transformed from the physical to a spiritual plane. That just made me harder, of course; the thrill of loving and caring for this boy as more than a beautiful object made me painfully turgid. If my God-child were pleading with those doe-like eyes, then I wanted nothing more than to meet his every need.

While fiddling with the saddle ties, I stole a glance his way. He too had turned half away, and was looking down at the ground, where one foot parried with a loose rock. Through the swirling, silken strands of hair which veiled his face, I thought I saw sadness in his expression, a kind of disconsolate hopelessness, like I had just disappointed him in some way. Like he was used to disappointment and was shrugging it off.

Fumbling with my words just like I did with the saddle, I yammered out something like, "Ah 3; nice 3; nice day for fishing 3;" I prayed that he would answer me, that he wouldn't up and run away from this stranger who had just walked up, sprouted a hardon, and couldn't even complete a sentence. Aw heck, I just hoped he didn't even know what an erection was – naw, honestly I knew from his reaction that he did. Maybe still he would grant me a few moments to bask in his glory.

"Ye 3; Yeah," he kind of stammered too. I glanced over again, and it seemed like he had shrugged off whatever doubts my erection had caused. He stooped to retrieve his fishing pole, stretching his pants taut against the firm globes of his buttocks.

I sighed to myself, both in relief and in awe at his beauty. "Mind if I sit a spell and 3; keep you company?" I said.

Well, there it was. Whatever he said next would seal my fate, for longer than this one afternoon. A boylover doesn't encounter the epitome of boyhood, and ever forget each precious moment in his presence, each scent, each exchange of glances, and perhaps a passing touch. I would never forget him, whether or not he graced me with his company for the next few hours. The brief wait for his response was tense enough to cause my rampant flesh to subside. I really just hoped to sit there with the boy!

"Sure, sir 3; I 3; I'd like the company," he said in his contralto, sing-song voice. For a moment I thought I heard a wistfulness, a trace of sadness in his tone. Like he wanted me to stick around as much as I wanted to be there. Like he truly needed a companion. Was I mistaking his demure, rather shy hesitancy? Trying not to be too obvious, I watched him from beneath my hat brim as I began to loosen the cinch strap.

He was waiting for my response, I could tell. He even glanced my way with that pleading look again.

The mercurial ups and downs of my own emotions, as I had waited for his reaction, dissolved in a flood of relief and unnatural joy. I'm telling you, that's what boys do to me. I do get smitten easily, and this angel had me hooked completely.

"Call me Teglin," I hastened to respond to his offer of companionship.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Teglin!" he said as he flashed me what could only be described as a joyous smile, as if to say: thanks for granting me this great favor! Me grant him a favor? If only he could know what his words meant to me!

"Just Teglin, son. I'll be grateful if you'll cut that 'Mister' part."

Like I say, kids usually like me, but this boy was if anything more desperate for companionship than I was. I wondered what would make him feel like that, was he in some kind of trouble out here? Were his parents mistreating him? I struggled to come up with something to say that would show him that I cared, but I didn't want to take any further chances of scaring him off, by sounding too desperate myself.

"You know what," I said, "I'd appreciate it if you would just call me Teg. Not many do, and it would make me feel good, like I have a friend."

"Sure, sir 3; I mean, Teg," he giggled, even as his face began to blush slightly. It looked like my god-child had an affliction similar to mine. His complexion was so fair that his emotions were betrayed without conscious effort.

Well, his giggling made me grin, as they say, like a mule eating briars. My father, a rather staid Boston banker, would cringe to hear me use a phrase like that, but if you've lived out West for ten years, you're bound to slough off some of the polish of the Eastern elite. I certainly had long since lost any pretense I had ever learned in the Ivy League clubs.

In my exuberance, I must have become less than gentle loosening the cinch strap on my bay's saddle, because he suddenly lurched against me. I was still grinning foolishly, but suddenly I was flat on my back with the freed saddle and blanket ensconced across my chest.

That just made the little devil burst out laughing and slapping his knees, while I looked up at him in befuddlement.

I gave him some time to enjoy himself at my expense, quite pleased actually that the ice was good and broken, and we could be more free and open with each other. Finally I fixed a glare of mock exasperation on him and called out, "Well, are you just going to leave me here, trapped under all this leather?"

He traipsed over, still giggling, and although we both knew that I did not really need the help, he proceeded to pull the saddle and blanket off me. As he stood over me I drank in his loveliness, practically in awe. That's not something I could hide very well either, and of course he noticed the intensity of my gaze. At times past, I've had more than one boy tell me, "don't look at me like that," when much to my amaze I had been staring too closely. It's not a conscious thing, perhaps my eyes get too big, perhaps the child can see the longing there – I don't know.

Well, god-child stopped giggling, but my attentiveness seemed to please him in some way, because he gave me a quirky kind of smile, with his eyebrows raised knowingly, as if to say that he knew I was faking helplessness, just to have him hover over me, but he did not mind.

Gone completely was that pleading, desperate look of just moments before, to be replaced by something more akin to a simple question – he must be wondering what it was that I found so fascinating about him. Well, he didn't seem to be bothered by it, but I could see his mind churning behind those heavenly emerald orbs.

Never had I seen anyone so fair and blonde as this boy! Even his lips were shaded more flesh-pink than red. I tried to memorize even more of his features, because this dream was not going to last forever. I would want to remember every last bit of him. Yes, I would fantasize about the boy, while I furiously stroked my blood-engorged penis, but I wanted this memory for much more – for my devotion. He was truly a demi-god.

He had small, delicately formed ears hidden within his cascading tresses, which framed his thinnish features. A slim nose, pale cheeks, the skin soft, glowing, almost transparent.

Much to my surprise, the god-child extended his little hand towards me, as if he were going to lift me bodily. Short thin fingers, a small, smooth palm – a hand that had never known much work. Could he be the product of frontier ranchers? The purity of his complexion and the delicacy of his frame bespoke the East. Was he displaced too? Or was he sickly and unused to the outdoors? No! Definitely not that. This boy may be fine boned and his beauty unsullied by days in the sun and wind, but he was the epitome of boyhood – vibrant, glowing, healthy 3; perfect.

Emboldened by his acceptance of my rather too-obvious beguilement, I dared to reach up for his hand. Soft and warm, the feel of it almost made me forget myself again. I could actually feel the fine bones beneath his flesh, and the very pulse of his beating heart! Careful not to hurt him, I playfully tugged him down onto me.

There I was, in boy-heaven, me on my back, he sitting astonished on my belly. Both of us laughing uproariously. I drew my legs up, to keep him from rocking sideways onto my stiffening dick, although I could definitely feel the pressure of his buttocks on the very head of my cock. He didn't notice it, and just settled in and put one arm up across my knees. He propped himself there, just as pretty as you please, looking comfortable and smug.

"Hey," I said, tapping his closest knee, "you can get up now. I'm not a chair."

"Nope," he said defiantly, triumphantly, "you thought you were going to trick me. Now I think I'll just sit here."

I wasn't about to argue. Now this was rest and relaxation! A moment ago I was riding hot and weary down a mountain-side. Now I reclined in meadow grass, beside a cool stream, with a beautiful boy sitting possessively on my stomach!

Well, I clasped my hands behind my head and gazed contentedly into the boy's face. There was literally a halo of reflected sunlight glimmering through his silvery blonde hair. An angel if there ever was one. Some quandary. Now I did not know whether to think of him as a representative of the Olympian gods or an angel of grace. Truly he was both.

"Alright, I freely recognize your right to stay where you are," I conceded happily. His chin jutted out in triumph.

I felt emboldened to say, "might I ask who it is that has made of me a cushion for his comfort and pleasure."

His smug smile of victory was suddenly replaced by a bashful grimace of embarrassment. He looked down. "You'll laugh if I tell you," he said in a low, quiet voice.

"Never," I said.

He sat there clapping my knees together with both hands absent-mindedly, twisting his body away from me. "Yes, you will. If I do tell you, you have to promise not to laugh." He sneaked a peek at me to see how I would react to his demand.

"As champion of our recent encounter, it is yours to command and mine to obey. I'll not utter a peep if you'll only tell me." At that moment, with the heat from his soft bottom permeating into my stomach, with him squirming idly against my raised legs and lightly brushing the tip of my penis, I didn't really care if he ever told me his name, so long as he remained with me.

You have to picture the scene to imagine the Nirvana that I was in. It was like he was part of me. He was so close that I could smell his boy-scent, a fragrance so unlike that of a man. Even though he had been out playing in the meadow, a sweet, musty mixture of soap and his very own bodily exhalations wafted to my nose. I've admired many boys from afar, and had had some close contact with Bill Sanders' boy, but not intimately like this.

I visually traced every line of his profile. I drank in details of his beauty. His sensuous lips turned down ever so slightly at the corners, the lower lip full and soft, the upper rested upon the lower in the shape of a symmetrical curlicue, the flattened point just below the two little ridges that led to his nose. His nostrils were so tiny and narrow. And I swear that I could see the light of the sun through the membrane of his precious little ears, so delicately formed were they. His little fingers flexed playfully, clothed in pink-white skin that was devoid of the misuse of hard work or age. Little digits made for a magical touch.

He had long eyelashes of fine strands, eyelids with a warm pinkish sheen. His lashes fluttered, making him a coquette without any conscious effort.

The world could have come to an end at that moment and I would have gone happily knowing that I had witnessed, had even been touched by pure, virginal, boyhood.

"Wishes," I thought I heard him whisper. I wondered if it truly came from his lips, or like the breeze, through the pine boughs of the forest so close by.

"You 3; you wish 3; something?" I said hesitantly, in a hushed tone matching his.

"Wishus," he said more forcibly. He was still looking down, as if afraid to meet my gaze. "That's my name. My nickname."

"Wishus. Wishus," I twice breathed his name softly, wistfully, wondering how this name might be a window into his soul.

"I like it. Very, very much," I said reverently, and I meant it. It struck me. "It's musical, and brings to my mind some kind of a 3; of an expectation 3;." I caught myself thinking out loud, but didn't regret it, because he suddenly beamed with a smile and looked directly at me. It was a remarkable transformation, like I had just drawn the curtains on a window, through which poured life-giving light.

The god-child slipped off my stomach excitedly onto his own knees, facing me intently, leaning into and grasping my upraised knees in a bear hug with both arms.

"It's short for Allouitius. I hate that name," the words tumbled out of his mouth in a rush.

"I don't know why 3;," I started to protest, but was drowned out as he continued.

"I don't want anyone calling me Allouitius," he proclaimed, certain that no one would dare to contradict this dictum of his. "Momma used to call me Allie, but that's a girl's name, so I came up with Wishus."

"I like it. I like it a lot," I again tried to interject. You can't imagine what a sweet little smile of acknowledgement he gave me at that. I mean, his whole body snapped to attention, he cocked his head to one side, flashed me a smile ever so briefly, then continued on with his discourse.

"Too bad my grandfather was named Allouitius. That's where I got it from. Allouitius Knight. He was actually a drummer boy in the Revolution. You believe that?" he exclaimed in a voice that rose in pitch melodiously.

"Sure, I believe it if you 3;."

"Well, that's what they say, anyway." He proceeded to give me the whole family history. I listened in rapt attention, not believing my good fortune.

Have you ever had a half-naked boy, clad only in his knickers, draped all over you, his animated body wriggling and flexing this way and that as he talked? Wishus' taut little tummy was wrinkled like a washboard when he relaxed and scrunched down, with his chin momentarily atop his hands, which were clasped atop my knees. A second later he would be stretched up to full height, and his tummy was smoothed out. His little belly button, hidden under a fold of skin, would wink at me as he moved.

I don't know why, but I was entranced by his slim neck. I could see the rising columns of tendons and muscles, encased in the softest, silken textured flesh, so white and pure. I wanted to lovingly brush his hair back and nuzzle in the little crevice between his neck and collarbone, and give him soft kisses.

Actually, I was entranced by his every feature. He would raise his arms and I could see the concavity of his little armpits. There too I longed to plant a kiss. His eyelids were so thin that they glowed from within with the warmth of the tiny capillaries that carried his life's blood. His little nipples stood out hard and erect in his excitement. They begged to be caressed.

I wanted to touch him everywhere with a depth of emotion that constricted my heart, and throbbed with an aching pressure in my testicles. My penis was still rock hard, and receiving a constant, indirect massage as Wishus pushed and squeezed my knees. I knew I might cum at any moment, which might cause another crisis of embarrassment, but I guessed that Wishus wouldn't notice, unless I could not contain my reactions.

All these musings rushed through and mingled in my overloaded mind with the boy's chatter. I soon realized that he was not only beautiful and pure on the outside, but smart, innocent, vivacious – and talkative!

Having exhausted his grandfather's story, from which I gained an inkling of the long and proud bloodline of his family, he suddenly veered back onto the subject of names.

"Teg. Teglin, I wonder where your name comes from," he said, pursing his lips, wrinkling his brow, and looking off into the distance musingly. Then he looked at me questioningly. This being the first opportunity for me to speak, I figured it was my turn.

"Welsh, I think," I said.

"Oh, Wales, that's on the Western border of England. We learned that last year in school."

"You have a school out here?"

"No, silly." he harrumphed, giving me another variation on his many facial expressions, this one indicating his complete and utter disgust with my thought process. Actually, this expression too was laced with his patented sweetness. I don't think he had mean bone in his body.

"I mean back home, in New York. I just came out here last month to live with my Aunt and Uncle. My parents sent me out here because they were so asham 3;"

Suddenly he froze, horrified, realizing he was giving away something too personal. Again he looked down in melancholy. But this boy was irrepressible, his exuberance was not to be denied. He so quickly masked the unpleasant thought, that I knew he had had a lot of practice denying whatever it was. Right at this moment, I think he just desperately wanted someone to listen to him. Did that indicate a deep loneliness? What kind of hurt was he trying so hard to avoid thinking about? Having me here seemed like a balm to him, that he wanted to use up as fast as he could, before I disappeared.

That brief moment of introspection, some sad memory, was washed away as he resumed his talking. I could tell by his eyes that he saw my inevitable concern, but he seemed determined to brush it aside and focus on gayer thoughts. My erection began to subside nevertheless. I was amazed at my own reaction. Just the hint of a cloud over this demigod of mine made me want to do something, anything, to aid him.

For now I could only listen. That's what he seemed to need now – someone to listen. I suspected that since being shipped out West for whatever reason, he had been one very lonely and lost boy, shut off from every familiar aspect of his life. At least my own exile from the East had been voluntary.

So listen I did. We must have talked, well, he mostly talked, for a couple of hours. He eventually propped himself up against my saddle, facing me, and we had a gloriously long conversation.

I found out all about his trip West. It hadn't been a happy parting with his folks. I could tell that. I wondered what kind of people would divorce themselves from their young son. Wishus skillfully avoided any further hint about the cause of his exile. He wasn't getting along with his Aunt and Uncle, who he said had taken him just to get a subsidy from his parents. His Aunt was in the last stages of a pregnancy, and his Uncle had turned out to be something of a ne'er-do-well. He also drank to excess, as far as Wishus was concerned. No, he wasn't abusive, just inattentive. Wishus was basically uncared for, in both senses of the word.

His predicament made my heart wrench. I was powerless to help. Worse, I would be leaving him as soon as I recuperated enough to get back in the saddle. At the most, I would give myself till tomorrow morning before I needed to get back on my way.

I resolved to devote my every waking moment to this child for the few brief hours I was here. I was already thinking about my return trip, when I would get to see him once more. After that there was little hope for more than an ongoing correspondence. But there I was, already dreaming that Wishus would even want to keep in contact with me.

For now he certainly did. At one point during our conversation, he lifted his feet up onto my stomach. It took me a few moments to get up the courage, but I finally reached out and nonchalantly caressed and massaged his feet and calves. His surprised smile and the contentment pictured in his visage were all the reward I would ever need. I kneaded his soles, tweaked his toes playfully, and coursed up and down his lower legs. All the while he continued his discourse on his life and family.

And all the while I kept thinking that this was my moment, the moment I had been waiting for all my life. I liked myself at this moment, thrilling at my own honest reaction to this intimacy with a boy. Wishus was giving me a window into my own soul, and what I saw there was wholly good: tenderness, caring, compassion. And yes, there was passion too. I didn't try to hide that from myself. I wanted this boy more than I had ever wanted any other, but that desire paled in comparison to my concern for his welfare.

It was an all too brief interlude. The inexorable march of time and the lowering of the sun marked its end, when Wishus suddenly looked up in shock and noticed that it was late afternoon.

"Oh no, I promised to catch some fish for supper!" He jerked upright then jumped up and ran to his pole, his lithe form so tense that I could sense he was more than just surprised at the late hour.

"Your Aunt and Uncle won't be angry if you come back empty handed, will they?" I called out to him as I stretched my lanky frame and rose to my feet also. From what he had told me, I didn't think he was afraid of being physically punished.

"No, no, but 3; I wanted to do something to 3; I wanted to make a good impression for a change. Do something to help out. Now they're going to think I'm just useless."

I could almost feel his anxiety, and tried to imagine what it would be like to be ten years old, unloved, rejected, desperate to fit in to a family he had not even chosen for himself. I felt a lump in my throat, a sign of my own desperation to find a way to help Wishus in some small way.

"Uh, maybe I can help," I said as I strode to his side, where he was fumbling to retrieve a worm from a cup. Of course the bedraggled worm was lifeless after sitting in the enclosed container in the sun for hours.

"Will you?" he jumped to accept my suggestion, almost pleading. His hands were moving furiously, clumsily, as he crimped his arm around the pole and snaked the fishing line up between two fingers to get at the hook. Of course he caught the point under his skin, but it was superficial and he easily removed it.

"I can't get this. No matter what I try to do, I mess it up." He was starting to whine and sniffle, and I knew tears were likely to follow soon.

"You know what?" I said as I reached out and calmly but firmly grasped his fumbling hands. He looked up helplessly. I smiled down into his reddening eyes reassuringly, then cupped one hand under his quivering chin and said, "We can get some better bait first, then I'll show you just where to lay the hook. We'll have a whole string of trout before you know it."

"Really?" he squeaked in a tiny voice, his throat constricted by emotion, but I could see a twinkle of hope in his eyes. A twinkle of trust, it was. Now I had to live up to that trust.

All he needed was a helping hand and a little instruction, and once again the transformation was remarkable. Soon we were hopping through the tall grass, laughing and romping, trying to outwit a grasshopper to impale on the hook. Wishus was again the bundle of pent up energy bursting to be released. We would have had our grasshopper a lot quicker, but my mind wasn't on it. I just wanted to watch my little god-child as he crouched and leaped and crept through the meadow, his every motion fluid and graceful. He was one of those boys favored by fate with the natural athletic skills and reflexes to match his physical beauty. He just needed a mentor. Even as I thrilled at every moment I spent with him, I felt deep down sadness that he wasn't likely to get that fatherly guidance out here in the wilderness with an uncaring Uncle.

Once we had a fat, juicy grasshopper, I lovingly guided Wishus' little fingers with my own in getting it hooked, then stood behind him with my hands on his arms as he tossed it out behind a rock in the stream. I towered over him protectively, encasing his fair form in my near embrace, then we just stood there patiently with my hands resting lightly on his shoulders, gently, gently massaging.

At one point he leaned back into me and I gasped involuntarily with the joy of it. He cocked his head back and peered up at me with that quizzical look again. I didn't know if he understood the effect he had on me, but I made no effort to hide my complete contentment. I did refrain from pressing my hardening penis into his back. He no doubt felt it anyway, but there was nothing I could do to avoid it but to back away. That, I was unwilling to do, knowing this boy needed me for this moment.

I know, that sounds like the kind of rationalization that you might expect a boylover would make, and no doubt it was, but everything we were doing together was building up Wishus' self-esteem. I felt that he was going to need that inner strength after I was gone.

I saw not even a trace of disapproval, or shock, or fear in his eyes. Only the same reflected contentment that I felt.

Well, as he looked up at me, I almost leaned down to peck him on his forehead. Finally some reserve of good sense got the better of my passion, and I refrained from that too intimate act. I did lean down and sniffed and tousled his hair, and said off-handedly, "You smell good." He harrumphed and punched me with one elbow, but remained leaning against me.

At that very moment we got our first bite. For the next hour we pulled them in one after the other, and got our string.

I was just unhooking the sixth catch of the day, when Wishus' Uncle Ben rode up.

"Uncle Ben! Look at our string!" Wishus literally leaped down the stream bank to where we had pegged the knotted lariat upon which five trout swam desultorily. He proudly strained and tugged, half lifting the catch out of the water. It was heavy enough that he almost pulled himself into the cold stream instead, but he beamed up at his Uncle.

The man looked a little befuddled, if you had asked me. Maybe he had already been drinking or was just naturally slow, but he failed to respond as Wishus obviously wanted him to. The lad just wanted to be acknowledged for a change, to be complimented on his great feat. He was going to provide supper for the family, after all! His Uncle looked dumbly at the fish, at me, at Wishus, back to me.

"Looks like you had some help," he said finally, in a dull, uncaring tone. He did not sound drunk, just plain uncaring. I could understand him focussing on my presence – I was an unexpected stranger on his land, standing with his charge. But it should have been easy enough for him to take the scene in at a glance – my grazing horse, me unhooking another trout, Wishus safe and excited. In my opinion, Uncle Ben should have understood that my presence was no threat and he could safely take the time to congratulate his little nephew, then go on to find out what I was doing there.

Wishus, bless his little heart, was downcast. His shining triumph stripped from his grasp by the unthinking comment of his Uncle – it was what he had talked about for the last hour, how his Aunt and Uncle would see what a food provider he could be.

"Yes, sir," Wishus answered his Uncle disconsolately, dragging the trout string towards me. "This is Mr. Teglin. He helped me a lot."

"Well, once I showed him where to drop his line, Wishus did the rest, Mr. Knight," I hastened to add. "Why, Wishus even strung the catch." I looked from the man back to Wishus, and gave him a slight nod. I wanted to encourage him to buck up, and take the credit. He deserved it. I was telling the truth, because I had made sure not to do too much. I had wanted Wishus to experience it all, so he would be confident when I was no longer there to help.

Wishus responded to me with a shrug and a weak little defeated half-smile that was definitely not heartfelt. It had a hard time making itself all the way to his eyes. They looked hopeless, as if he wanted to say, "it's no use."

"Teglin 3; I'm sorry, sir, but I don't believe I've ever heard your name around here, Mr. Teglin," Ben knight said agreeably enough. I guess he wondered how I knew his name, but he did not know of me.

"No, sir. I have a place over on the Mogollon. Just passing through here. Came upon your nephew here. He was kind enough to allow me to rest. Well, sir, I can't resist a chance to cast a line out in a fishing stream.. Hope you don't mind, sir," I said, doffing my hat.

"Not at all, sir," Knight said. "You're welcome to your rest. And a good supper. I suspect you've helped my nephew a little more than you let on. It's only right that you should share in the fruit of your labor. Mrs. Knight would string me up if I didn't invite you in."

I looked questioningly down at Wishus. He had been following our introductions. "You will come in to supper, won't you Teg 3; Mr. Teglin?" he said, perking up a bit from the sting of his disappointment.

If Wishus wanted me there, I'd not dream of declining the invitation. I was just sorry to have our time together end like this so abruptly, and it was disturbing to witness the lack of sensitivity for the boy's needs on the part of his Uncle.

It was an afternoon that I would never forget, a heavenly interlude, during which I had been granted audience with a god-child. I knew that we would never have the opportunity to be alone together again, and he would not be so free with his emotions with me in the presence of his folks. So the inevitable parting would begin now. I could only mask my own discouragement and make the most of the opportunity that remained.

For now, it was back into the so familiar mode that all boylovers must know – observe from afar with furtive glances, plant silent, wistful kisses into the ether, and let the boy go.

Chapter 2

Now it hit me like never before, because this time I loved the boy. I mean I truly loved him. I did not just admire Wishus, as I had so many other boys, in passing, through the years. I loved him. Not lust. Love. I assure you there were no embarrassing moments with my arousal in front of Wishus' Aunt and Uncle. My longing for the boy had transcended to a plane beyond mere physical attraction, to one built of concern and passion so strong that it took all of my energy, both physical and emotional, to keep from crying out during the meeting with his Aunt, the frugal supper, and the conversation afterwards.

I did not show it outwardly. As I said, I am practiced in this one aspect of boylove. Nevertheless, I felt it, painfully. Knowing that I might never see my god-child again after tonight made each passing moment more unbearable. I did resolve to accomplish one thing – I wanted to get a sense of Wishus' relationship with his guardians, and to find some way, through suggestion, to ameliorate the life that had been dealt him. Perhaps I could even offer more material aid, financially, if I could get some sense whether they would invest whatever I sent into a better life for the boy.

They were not bad people, but I did not like them nevertheless. They were providing shelter for Wishus, but not a home. Through the whole evening that he watched and listened to us, not once did they ever invite him into their arms, either literally or figuratively. He was just there, he was their ward, but he was not a loved part of their family.

It was a sad, sad evening, made all the more so by the contrast between Wishus of the meadow, and Wishus the boarder in this cold abode. Gone were the quirky smiles, the exuberance, the playful wit that I had somehow released in him this afternoon. Now he sat pensive, his eyes ever active, going from one speaker to the next, a lonely and alone boy, hanging onto every word desperately. More than once his gaze met mine, and in the dim light I thought I saw that same hurt and pleading look that I had seen when we first met, and I had shocked him with my erection.

I had no more idea what that look meant now than earlier in the afternoon.

Not trusting my reading of his gaze, since I had too much of my own emotions invested in him, I knew I must not imagine that anything about me was so important to him, but the hope persisted.

The Texas-style cabin was split into two rooms by an open, roofed veranda. Each room had a loft. Wishus slept above the general living area, where we sat now, while his Aunt and Uncle would cross into the other room. We all sat inside that evening, for it was still too cool out, this early in the mountain Spring. We sat in wooden chairs pulled over from the supper table. Only Mrs. Knight had a rocker, where she knitted for the expected baby. Mr. Knight offered me a drink, then sat idly next to the table, occasionally freshening his own glass. I am not a drinker, so the one glass was more than I wanted.

I was in part thankful for the gloom of evening, because I could more readily watch Wishus. Flickering yellow light from the dying fire in the hearth, and from one tallow lantern, washed the boy's silent form in waves of gold.

He had brushed his hair before supper, when Mrs. Knight had us all wash up. Now his tresses flowed full to his shoulders. Here and there was a natural ringlet, burnished with the glow of the flames, seemingly alive, bathed in ever-shifting patterns of shadow and light. His flawless pearly-white skin now looked tanned and sun-bronzed, but it still radiated from within with the virile energy of his youth. The god-child sat with his feet up in his chair, his legs tucked together beneath him to one side, making his whole body lean lazily against the chair arm, his head cocked sideways and resting on the palm of one hand. Golden locks draped loosely across one whole side of his face, nearly masking one eye, while on the other side his hair hung freely away from his cheek in undulating curls. This pose lent him an air of mystery – what did he see through those golden strands of hair, why didn't he brush the veil back – it was all of a piece with the boy I was yearning to know more about – part of him was so free and open, unabashedly eager for attention, while another part remained hidden, as if on guard against being too exposed.

He had donned a loose-fitting, white tunic over his knickers, and had pushed the sleeves up, leaving his slender arms bare to my view. In the flickering light I again traced his every curve and angle, noting the lack of musculature. It made him look all the more vulnerable. The wide, open collar of his tunic laid bare the symmetrical flare of his collar bones. They merged with the curve of his little shoulders, the whole forming a bow scarce two hands breadth apart, from which sprung his slender, satiny neck.

A dainty, effeminate boy, some might say, but that was only his outward appearance. Beneath, there flowed all that boyish energy that I had witnessed today. Arms that showed no ugly bulge of muscles, flexed with pent-up tension as he listened attentively to every word we spoke. While he rested his head on one hand, his other arm shifted restlessly, at one moment lying across his thighs, then wrapped tightly around his calves, pulling them in even closer.

All scrunched up in his chair, a little golden bundle with eyes wide and open, watching, waiting 3; for what? I wished for one of the Old Masters to paint him in that pose – a study in the dark hues of night contrasted with the inner glow of pure, virginal, exquisitely beautiful boyhood.

Wishus was watching me too. I was not blind to it. His every glance, the occasional solemn, brooding stare from under his lowered brow, both thrilled and pained me. That too is a familiar refrain for a boylover, always wanting to read the most into a boy's attentions, but always distrusting of one's own hope and imagination. Of course I wanted his attention, I wanted his thoughts on me, but my yearning was tempered by concern. However glorious was our afternoon together, it must come to an end now. I would be leaving. I was used to the hurt of unspoken love, but for him, if he cared for me, our parting would be too much to bear.

The conversation continued in the way it always does out West, when strangers brought together briefly, want to know everything from each other. As the evening drew on, and the fire died out completely, leaving only orange-yellow coals, the room began to grow chilled. I noticed it when Wishus finally drew both his arms in, tucked tightly across his chest.

What wouldn't I have given if I could have wrapped him in my arms! Well, I did the next best thing, finally breaking my spell of despair.

While Aunt and Uncle were momentarily lost in some ramble concerning an acquaintance of theirs, I said quietly, leaning towards Wishus, "Son, would you be kind enough to fetch my coat – the sheepskin coat?"

"Sure, Te 3; Mr. Teglin," he didn't even hesitate, but with the nimbleness of youth unwound himself from his fetal embrace and scampered across the bare wooden floor to where my coat hung on a hook. He brought it to me with that same open and pleasant desire to please that colored his every action earlier in the day. I marveled again that his parents were so cruel as to send this angel of good will out of their home and that his guardians were apparently oblivious to his charms. It should not have taken a boylover to see the many wonders in this boy.

As I took the coat, Wishus started to turn back to his chair, but I said as nonchalantly as I could, "Wait, young man. You know, I bet you need this more than I do. Stand just here."

He just grinned in surprise and stood before me as if at attention, his little belly arched out and his hands at his side. I wanted to grasp him in a bear hug, but I maintained my air of off-hand unconcern, for the benefit of the Knights. I held up one hand and motioned with one finger that he should pirouette around. He did so, in one gleeful jump, giggling all the while.

The tail of his tunic flared up as he hopped around, giving me a delightful but all too brief glimpse of the two cute little dimples just above his buttocks, at the base of his spine. I could smell him again, too, as he whirled about, his boy scent still fresh and sweet, but at the end of the day hardly unwashed. Well, my coat had its own peculiar aroma – a mixture of me and the sheep, I guess, but Wishus did not seem to mind. I held it up for him as he slipped his slender arms through the bulky sleeves.

Then he turned back slowly, entranced, with a look of total satisfaction on his face, as he hugged the soft and warm garment to his chilled body. He closed his eyes briefly, while savoring the feel of it, smiled sweetly like a cherub, and let out a soft sigh of contentment. My work was well done!

"Thanks, Te 3; Mr. Teglin," he stammered in a hushed whisper when he opened his eyes and looked gratefully into mine. I knew he wanted to call me Teg, but for some reason known only to him, he used the Mister in front of his folks. Well, I guess I understood it, since I too was more formal with him in their presence – kind of an unspoken agreement between us that our developing friendship during this afternoon was just between ourselves. I maintained distance to avoid arousing suspicion. Exactly why he did so I did not know. Still, the contentment he showed now told me that we were still best of friends.

"Well 3; you just cozy up in that old sheepskin, and before long you'll be good and toasty," I said, loud enough that his Aunt and Uncle could not help but notice. I wanted them to think it was no big deal, this little act of kindness. Of course, given their attitude towards Wishus, I should not have worried about their being suspicious of my intentions. They had to care before becoming suspicious.

Wishus sat back down and totally enveloped himself in the oversized coat, luxuriating in its comfort and the sense of protection it afforded. Every once in a while I caught his glance as he peeked out of his haven. Invariably, he seemed to be saying "thanks for thinking of me."

As time passed his eyelids told me something else, as they drooped lower and lower, the warmth of the sheepskin lulling him to sleep. He was exhausted, after our long day together, and romping in the meadow.

Even Mrs. Knight noticed the boy's drowsiness eventually, and startled him a little too abruptly, "Allouitious! Wake up and go on up to bed, now."

It was almost comical how large his eyes became upon being so rudely awakened, but he took no offense. "Yes, ma'am," he said as he stretched out and stood up. "Good night, Aunty, Uncle Ben." Obviously his Aunt had never asked for a good night kiss from the boy, since she did not seem to expect one. Inwardly I cringed at that. A boy his age needed that kind of affection.

Turning to me and wrapping the coat even tighter about himself with overlapping folds, he said boldly, "Good night, Mr. Teglin. May I sleep in the coat? I'll give it back in the morning," he hastened to add. His little voice had risen with the question, and so sweetly did he ask it that even his Aunt did not demur too forcefully.

"Oh, but he's going to need it 3;," she started to say, looking at me questioningly, but I interrupted.

"Begging your pardon, ma'am, but that's perfectly alright. I'll get it in the morning."

"Well, you heard him. Up with you, now!" she clapped her hands, and for the first time gave him a trace of a smile.

The boy graced me with one more of his own patented gifts, that grateful and contented smile of his that just grazed his lips and widened his eyes ever so slightly, then he turned and started up the steep, stairway ladder to his loft.

I fully expected that that would be my last sight of my boy – this vision of his lithe form, snug in my too-large coat, disappearing head-first through the loft-way. Finally only his little feet, and then he was gone.

Then the sudden void in my heart. An end to this most wonderful day of my life. No doubt Mrs. Knight would retrieve the coat for me when I left long before Wishus woke up.

She started to speak, and I had to force my heart to start beating again, and to pay attention to her. All the while I strained hopelessly to hear any movement up above. And pitied myself that that was all I had left.

"He seems to like you, Mr. Teglin," she said.

"Uh, yes 3; yes, we had a good time out there fishing today," I responded, still, through habit, trying to minimize the significance of our time together. "Every boy likes to fish, I imagine."

Well, the conversation struggled on after that, although it was useful when Mr. Knight offered advice concerning my journey. Good advice it was too, probably saving me a day or more in getting over Black Mountain into the Santa Fe Valley.

The big surprise for me was when they finally declared the evening spent. Both insisted that I sleep right there before the hearth, rather than out in the cold barn. Although the floor would be a lot harder than a bed of straw, I certainly did not protest. In fact I was overjoyed, with a fullness in my breast that almost made me cry out. I was going to sleep just below my god-child's loft! For this one night, I would know he was safe! I would hear his every turn and sigh in the dead of the night!

I tell you, after the Knights left I just stood there a moment with my eyes closed and tearing up, in silent thanks to whatever higher power had made this day complete. Finally I snuffed out the lantern and spread my blankets before the still glowing embers of the coals. For half an hour I lay as still as I might, hearing every creak as the walls shifted in the breeze outside, and thrilling when I occasionally identified the rustle of my boy's bed clothes as he turned in his sleep. Before I drifted off to sleep myself, I thought I even heard him murmur once, softly, angelically, transported in some little boy dream.

Well, I wanted to lay awake all night, in silent vigil beneath Wishus' aerie, but after 48 hours in the saddle, and a glorious day of intense emotions, in which I myself had been transported from carnal arousal, to playfulness, to arousal again and again, then to spiritual exaltation, and back to pensive moments with Wishus – I could no longer fight off the exhaustion.

I know I did send a message up to him before I dropped off, one of those futile whispers into the silent night which would have required divine intervention for him to hear – "I love you, little boy. I love you, my child of the gods, Allouitious Wishus Knight."

I must have slept three or four hours, well after midnight, when I snapped awake, knowing instantaneously that I was not alone in the room. And I knew it was Wishus there with me even before I opened my eyes. The mind is a marvelous engine, capable of integrating varying sensory perceptions into a picture, drawing upon a swish of garments, the scrape of a bare foot on the wooden floor, the boy scent – and that sheepskin aroma! Oh, I knew it was Wishus and my heart sang!

I breathlessly opened my eyes and there he was, standing over me, still hugging my coat to his breast.

The embers had died to ashes, so the only light came from an unchinked crack here and there in the cabin walls, and one oil-skinned window. Fortunately there was a full moon outside or I would have missed another of those visions of loveliness that Wishus was wont to afford me with, unintended, just by being himself.

Gone were the familiar knickers and tunic. Now the coat was wrapped around his little boy's nightgown, which flowed in soft flannel folds down to his knobby knees. It looked plain but comfortable, with thin vertical stripes disappearing up under the coat. I could make out the lines of his inner thighs from my vantage, looking up beneath his gown, but the treasure higher up between his legs was hidden still.

Presented with Wishus so close and in such dishabille, I instantly began to grow hard, and could immediately feel the dull, wrenching ache in my balls. I had doffed my outer garments, but was wrapped in blankets, so Wishus could not see the true effect he had on me, but he saw that I was astonished by his sudden appearance in the dead of the night.

"I 3; I'm sorry, Teg," he half whispered. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"No, no, Wishus, you didn't scare me," I hastened to reassure him, my own voice tarnished with sleep, raspy and hoarse. "I was just a little 3; well 3; okay, you scared me a bit." I chuckled, and speaking a little louder than he had, said, "Just a little, though." Hey, I know people, and everyone gets a kick out of inflicting a little harmless fright, so long as its not done in malice. I thought maybe Wishus would derive a small sense of control and power with my little fib. He could never scare me. Thrill me, yes!

"You're sure you're alright?" he asked, looking concerned, but then he confirmed my reading of human nature by giggling, and brought one hand to cover his lips.

"Yeah, I'll be alright, you little scamp," I said in mock anger. "What did you come down here for, just to see if you could frighten me out of my skin?" I chuckled again and lightly rapped his bare foot.

"No," he protested. "Really, I just wanted 3; I really just wanted 3; I just wanted to see if you were okay. You might be cold, since I took your coat. That was unfair of me."

I could have eaten him up, he was so sweet! I knew he really was concerned, and maybe just a little bit lonely 3; the way he hugged the coat to his thin frame suggested that both the cold and perhaps something more were bothering him. What must it have been like for this little boy, god-child though he may be, to have been relegated to the confines of his dark loft out here in the wilderness every night – so unlike his bedroom back East, where he was always surrounded by family and the bustle in the city streets.

Yes, I knew that this boy was concerned that he had taken my warm coat from me; it was in his nature to show that kind of care. But I also knew that he, like me, was reluctant for this night to end, when the only person who had shown him any warmth and concern in return, was going to depart, perhaps forever.

"Wishus!" I breathed his name into the night.

"Yes?" he asked, then quickly knelt beside me, feeling the pull of my emotions. I had but to look up into his angelic face to see, in the soft reflection of the moonlight in his eyes, that he was taken aback by the force of my utterance. I rose to sit facing him, then reached out and took both of his hands in mine. They were cold, so I began to rub them.

"Wishus, you make me feel quite special, thinking of my comfort down here. Thank you. But I want you to keep the coat tonight, I really do." I caught myself almost pleading with him.

"Look, remember, how I asked you to call me Teg, out in the meadow?"

"Yes," he answered me solemnly, just loud enough that I could hear the true music of his voice.

"Do you remember why I asked you to call me that?"

"You said very few people called you Teg, and if I did, it would make you feel like you had a friend."

"That's right," I nodded. "Well, now I feel the same way about the coat. When you wear it, I feel all warm inside, because it's like you're telling me that we are friends, that you'll share what is mine. Knowing that you wore it tonight, even after you changed into your nightgown, really hits me here." I placed one hand on my heart, then grasped his hands again. "Every time I wear it, I'm going to remember you. And that will really make me feel warm."

"So 3; so, I should keep it for 3; the rest of tonight, until you leave?"

He said in a voice so thin and tight with emotion. His eyes glistened more than normal, from welling tears, so I knew that I had understood this little boy correctly. He was so alone, and for right now, he was desperate to hold onto my presence.

"Yes, Wishus, I want you to have it tonight. Please. Keep it 3; for me." My own throat had a lump, and that last phrase was kind of strangled out.

"I will, Teg," he smiled at me through real tears, and withdrew one hand hesitantly to smear them away, then sniffled, "I guess I had better 3; go back up to bed, huh?" He sounded reluctant, and made no effort to withdraw his other hand. When he brought his hand back down, still moist with his tears, and absently began to massage the skin on top of my hand, I knew what he wanted, what he needed.

"Wishus?"

"Yes, Teg?" he answered in that kind of nasal, hollow tone that we all get when tears and sniffles overcome us.

"Will you do me one more favor?"

"Yes, of course, Teg. Just ask!" He wanted so much to please me, as if he would grasp at some way to repay my simple acts of kindness.

"Will you lay down here with me for a while?" I pleaded in earnest this time, wanting it probably more than I was sure he did. "I'll carry you to your bed a little later."

He didn't say a word, but his angel's breath sigh of relief was answer enough. He closed his eyes immediately and literally flowed down by my side as I lay down and reached out for him. I cradled his darling little head in the crook of my arm and shoulder, and he snuggled close, crossing one arm over my belly. All the while I had had my raging erection, so now I quickly grasped his forearm in my free hand and drew him tight against me. This was no time for him to accidentally rub against my stiff member.

Sure, I wanted to make love to Wishus, but now was not the time to think of that. There never would be a time for that, I knew. So I would do the one thing I could do for him, and for myself. I would simply cherish him for our remaining moments together.

The top of his head brushed my cheek, and I luxuriated in his silken hair, caressing him with my lips. He felt my light kisses and did not pull away.

I whispered, "Wishus?"

"Yes 3; Teg?" he returned to me, drowsily, from out of a sleepy haze.

I sniffed his hair and rubbed my nose in his scalp. "You still smell good, Wishus," I chuckled.

"Oh, Teg," the boy roused himself in exasperation, then jabbed me weakly in my ribs with his free hand, that lay embedded between us. Then he pulled himself even tighter into my embrace, and threw one leg across mine.

Moments later I could hear his regular breathing and I knew that this demi-god of boyhood was peacefully asleep again. No longer alone and lonely.

For the next hour I willed myself to lie awake, soaking in the closeness and warmth of his body, never loosening my embrace of him. In his now peaceful slumber he only drew closer to me, never relaxing his grasp. I nuzzled in his hair over and over, memorizing his unique boy-scent.

I whispered to him the whole time, aware that he would not hear me consciously. That alone gave me the courage to say all the things I said to him. But I hoped he would absorb my words of love subconsciously, and perhaps they would be some source of strength to him in the days, months, and years ahead.

Finally, nearing dawn, the reality of man/boy love could no longer be denied. I could not risk being found in Wishus' embrace. I moved so slowly that he would not even notice, to extricate myself from his hold, every move away from him a struggle against my own hopes and dreams.

I gently scooped his dainty form off my blankets and lifted him bodily. His head I held with my right hand against my left shoulder, in the hollow of my neck. In lifting him, his gown had ridden up, and my other arm pressed against the bare flesh of his back, my hand cupped his bare, incredibly soft rear. I gasped in surprise, and had to stand there for a moment with my eyes closed, to regain my composure.

You'll never know the struggle I endured to keep from looking down between the little boy's legs. I imagined his little penis, lying hidden within the protective wrap of his drooping foreskin, and the soft little ball sac upon which it rested in the 'V' of his legs. To actually see it would be a memory I would cherish through time immemorial. I could not adequately describe the magnitude of the effort to avoid gazing upon it. Suffice it to say that it left me trembling. But I knew that to look would be tantamount to violating the trust that Wishus had in me. It was never to be, I knew, but if by some miracle I ever did know the joy of seeing Wishus in all his natural beauty, then it would be by his choice, not mine.

So, cradling him like a baby, I started climbing the ladder. My middle finger slipped naturally into the moist crack between his buttocks, the finger tip hovering a hairs-breadth away from his virgin anus, but this time the struggle was easier. I would not take advantage of this sleeping child by penetrating deeper to that ultimate object of all my pent-up desires.

It wasn't intentional, but when it happened I did not resist any longer – as I slowly, carefully stepped up the ladder, cupping his buttocks, his thigh rubbed up and down against my penis. Halfway up the ladder my breath grew ragged and I nearly fainted with the release, as I finally came, spilling my seed in huge spurts inside my longjohns, spurts that seemed to go on and on. Never before had I come with such force and in such copious amounts. The liquid warmth spread and soaked through the fabric, touching Wishus. It was meant for him, after all, as the natural result of my love for him, so I did not feel that I was soiling him. I only held him closer.

I had to pause again to regain my senses. Then when I finally resumed climbing and made it to the side of his bed, I leaned down and kissed Wishus on the forehead for the first time, offering him a silent thanks.

I left him there, in his bed, still wrapped in my sheepskin coat, his covers drawn up over his legs. He still slept the untroubled sleep of the loved boy.

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