Chapter One

Life was different in 1977. I can vouch for that, as I was then 11 years old and in 6^th grade. I was also an aspiring thespian, having won the lead and starring role in the school play, which that year was "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory." We gave only three performances, one to the younger kids during school hours, and two additional evening performances that same week on Thursday and Friday nights. The evening audiences were comprised mostly of parents and grandparents. Everything went well. Our audiences reacted in all the right places, and I received a lot of compliments for my portrayal of Charlie.

I bore a fair resemblance to the boy who played Charlie in the movie of the same name. Like his, my hair was a light blond, and I wore it full and long in the style of the day. I hadn't quite reached five feet in height – okay, I was closer to 4'6" – but I didn't have an ounce of fat on me. I was still a couple of years away from puberty, so aside from the hair on the top of my head and my eyebrows, I was completely hairless. Like most American boys, I was circumcised. I didn't know the first thing about foreskins, nor had I ever met or seen anyone with one. I probably would have considered it a deformity if I'd ever had the opportunity to see an uncircumcised cock.

This story begins the week after the play had run its course. I was at home with my mother when I heard the telephone ring. A few moments later, my mother called up from downstairs. "David, pick up the phone."

I scampered from my room to the phone in the upstairs hall. I didn't receive too many telephone calls back in those days. "Hello?" I asked into the receiver.

My mother was still on the telephone downstairs. That's how landline telephones worked back then. "David, this gentleman is calling from the St. Clair Players," my mother said. "I'll hang up and let you two talk." I heard the click in the line as my mother hung up downstairs.

The next voice I heard was that of an adult man. "David, good evening, this is Pete Volcker," he said. "I'm with the St. Clair Players, an amateur acting troop here in town. How are you tonight?"

"Um, I'm good."

"That's great, glad to hear it. The reason for my call, David, is I saw you in the play last week at your school. I thought you did a great job, son. You were really, really good."

"Thanks," I replied noncommittally. It felt nice to be praised, but I was still a little uncertain about the call.

"You're a talented young man, David. And the reason I'm calling is to see if you have any interest in putting your talents to work on a show we're doing here with the St. Clair Players. It's a production called 'Parasols at Night', and we need a boy about your age for one of the roles."

I was a bit stunned at the offer and I didn't know exactly what to say. "Uh, sure, I guess," I replied, probably with less enthusiasm than I was feeling inside.

"Excellent! I was hoping you'd say yes. After seeing you last week, I thought you'd be perfect for the role. Do you want to put your mother back on the phone so we can talk over the details?"

"Um, sure," I answered. "Mom!" I yelled down the stairs. "Pick up the phone!"

My mother got back on the phone and Mr. Volcker told her about our conversation. After she agreed to allow me to participate, he went over the practice schedule with both of us. For the next several weeks, I'd be going every Tuesday night, every other Thursday night, and every Saturday morning to rehearse for the play. That was all fine with me, as it wasn't like I had any other activities competing for my time. Baseball wouldn't start up again until school was almost out.

My first rehearsal was the following Tuesday, and Mom dropped me off at St. Benedict's Episcopal Church with a kiss and a pat on my shoulder. The St. Clair Players rehearsed in the church's basement, which was an expansive area that included a large, open gymnasium-type, multi-purpose room that also conveniently featured a stage. I walked down the steps to the basement and saw several adults milling about. The door to a storage room was open and a few of the adults were carrying props out and placing them on the stage. I didn't recognize a soul, and I didn't see any other kids.

"Ah, David!" said a tall man as he spotted me standing at the bottom of the stairway. He approached with a smile. I had to assume this was Mr. Volcker. He stood a couple inches over six feet tall and sported a trimmed full beard and moustache. He appeared to be about 50 years old, and he was carrying some extra weight around his midriff. He was casually dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt. His brown penny loafers clicked on the floor as he walked up to me and offered his hand.

"We're very glad to have you here, David," he said as his large hand swallowed mine and we shook. "I'm Pete Volcker. Do you go by David, or Dave, or what?"

At that age, most of my friends and teachers still called me Davey, so that's what I told him.

"Davey's fine by me," the man replied, as we ended the handshake. He placed an arm around my shoulders and ushered me in the direction of the stage. "Folks," he said as we walked up to the other adults, "let me introduce you to Davey Pierce – or should I say, 'Sebastian McCardle.'"

I was introduced all around, and my memory of that long-ago Tuesday evening was that everyone in the troop welcomed me warmly. Mr. Volcker told them how good I had been in the school play, explaining that he had been in the audience to see his niece perform but had been struck right away by my talent. He said that he thought I would be perfect for the role of Sebastian McCardle in "Parasols at Night."

My first rehearsal with the adult troop went reasonably well. Mr. Volcker gave me a run-down of the play and handed me a script so I could read my lines as we rehearsed. As this was the first rehearsal, all but two of the actors and actresses were also holding their scripts as we walked through the play for the first time. The play was divided into two acts, and while I certainly wasn't the lead, I had more lines to memorize than I had anticipated. It was still fewer lines than I had memorized for the school play, however, so I knew I'd be okay.

Working with the adults was a lot of fun. They were all very friendly, especially Mr. Volcker, who stayed close to me and made sure to explain things as the rehearsal went on. Another man, Mr. Hamm, served as the director, but it was clear that Mr. Volcker had been with the troop for a long time and was one of the leaders. He certainly seemed to know where all the props were in the storage room!

Mr. Volcker was nice and friendly to me, making me feel at home and always explaining how things worked and what the director wanted. By the end of the first night of rehearsal I was feeling good about my decision to participate and looking forward to performing in the play. The butterflies in my stomach that I had walked in with were gone, replaced by a feeling of confidence that I could do this, that I could be a real actor in an adult play that would be seen by real audiences that weren't comprised only of parents and other relatives. At 11 years of age, that thought was very exciting to me.

I went back for another rehearsal that Thursday night and again on Saturday. In between, I practiced my lines, and eventually I was able to get through the script strictly from memory. The actors and actresses in the troop worked hard during the rehearsals, but we also had a lot of fun. The adults really seemed to enjoy what they were doing, and there was frequent laughter on the set. I got to know most of them by their first names, including Mr. Volcker, who I now referred to as Pete, just like everyone else.

Pete was very kind to me and basically took me under his wing. On breaks, or whenever the troop rehearsed scenes that did not involve us, he often stood by and explained different acting tricks and tips while we watched the other thespians perform. He liked to put his arm around my shoulders, and he frequently pulled me close to him with a hug when he said something funny or insightful. I reveled in his attention. I had grown up without a father, and while I didn't spend my days pining away for my missing father figure, it's fair to say that Pete easily filled that role. He was the closest thing to a father I had ever had.

The play "Parasols at Night" is a tragicomedy that seemed designed for small troops like the St. Claire Players to perform. Set in England, it had elements that were both funny and sad, and a plot line that made you think. There was a real story to it. My role, that of Sebastian McCardle, was of a young boy whose father had married up, and the struggles that ensued as his father endlessly tried to fit in with the polite, Victorian society that his wife had known from birth. Sebastian was torn between that world and the world of his father's family, who were all blue-collar townsfolk with whom the boy more readily identified.

Pete played the role of Sebastian's Uncle Trowse, the garrulous older brother of Sebastian's father. The dynamic between the characters is that Uncle Trowse did not want Sebastian to lose his blue-collar origins or forgo his townie relatives for his mother's family, all of whom lived in the lap of luxury and seemingly had never worked a day in their lives. In the play, Sebastian struggles while trying to meet the expectations set for him by his mother and her family on the one hand, and his father and his beloved Uncle Trowse on the other.

All in all, it was a good play, with a strong plot, plenty of laugh lines, and enough good scenes to keep audiences interested. I had a number of scenes with Uncle Trowse, who was Sebastian's favorite relative and confidant. Sebastian would frequently sneak away from his country estate to see him in town. One of our scenes together involved the largest prop used in the entire play, which was a brick wall that Sebastian had to peer over to spy on his mother and her friends in the garden. The prop wall was wheeled out on stage between scenes. During the wall scene, Pete would lift me up on his right shoulder so I could see over it to the garden on the other side.

Our rehearsals continued for several weeks. We met every Tuesday and Saturday, and alternating Thursday nights. The play was really coming along, and I was having a lot of fun. Pete was as indulgent of me and as funny as ever, and the two of us had struck up a very genuine friendship. I really looked up to the man. He was smart, funny, and a very good actor. He knew all about acting and generously shared tips on how he thought I should play different aspects of different scenes.

Between scenes, and before and after rehearsals, Pete and I were almost always together, either working on our lines or just joking around and having fun. Pete was very hands on, always tousling my hair, giving me a playful nudge, or coming up behind me for an impromptu shoulder massage. I didn't think anything of this physical contact. In fact, I welcomed it. Pete was friendly and funny, confident and smart. Everyone on set liked him, I probably most of all.

Working with an adult acting troop is not all fun and games, however, and the director, Mr. Hamm, was a very serious man who didn't engage in the banter and humor of the rest of the troop. He never seemed to warm up to me and seemed to tolerate me more than like me. He was often critical of my performances, coming out on stage to reposition me, or interrupting to tell me how he wanted me to say my lines. He probably wasn't any harder on me than any of the other actors or actresses, but as an 11-year-old kid, his criticism stung, and as we drew within a month of opening night, I started to grow more and more despondent. My confidence was beginning to suffer, and I was thinking more than acting.

Pete could sense my worry and tried to cheer me up. "Don't worry about Ray," he told me after taking me aside. "He's just a really serious guy. You're doing fine, Davey – really coming along." He tousled my hair and reached over to squeeze my shoulder reassuringly.

"Thanks," I replied, but my voice hardly masked my despondency.

Pete pulled me into his hip for a friendly hug. "Listen, Davey, if you want, why don't we put in a little extra practice on Saturday? After rehearsal you can come to my place. We can work on the scenes we have together, and I can help you with some of the others. What do you say?"

I nodded as he broke the hug, already feeling better. Pete had that kind of an effect on me. "That'd be great," I replied with real enthusiasm.

"Perfect!" Pete exclaimed. "Tell your Mom I'll bring you home when we're done – or do you want me to call her?"

"No, I'll, um- she'll be- I'll take care of it."

"Perfect! Then plan on working with me on Saturday," Pete said. Then, leaning close to my ear for a breathy whisper, he added, "We'll show Mr. Hamm what kind of actors we are, okay, kid?"

I nodded. I felt confident once again, all thanks to Pete. Later that night, I spoke to my Mom, and she gave her consent to the extra practice session with Pete.

That Saturday, I rehearsed with the troop in the morning, and when we broke at 10:30 a.m., I walked with Pete to his car. "Hop in!" he said with smile as he opened the passenger-side door for me. I settled into the vehicle for the drive to Pete's house.

Pete lived just a few minutes away from St. Benedict's, in an upper-middle class neighborhood near the town line. With his arm around my shoulders, he ushered me inside. "Welcome to my humble abode!" he said enthusiastically. "'Tain't much," he said in his Uncle Trowse accent, "but it's home."

"And home's a good place to be," I responded in my Sebastian McCardle voice, reciting the responding line from the play with a huge grin on my face. I thought it was nice how easily Pete and I interacted, both in and out of role.

Pete offered me a drink, and we ended up in his living room, sitting on opposite ends of the sofa, sipping Cokes together. It was a few moments before Pete spoke again.

"I haven't seen the same kid I saw on stage in 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory' these last few rehearsals, Davey. Ray's in your head, isn't he?"

I nodded glumly. "Everything I do is wrong – where I stand, how I say my lines, everything."

Pete nodded and took another sip of his Coke. "Davey, you're really good at this. I'm not just saying that. You really are."

I shrugged and took a sip of my own soda. "Ray doesn't think so."

"Ray's like that with everyone. You just have to let it go in one ear and come out the other. Not that you shouldn't listen to what he says – Ray knows a lot about directing – but you can't take his criticism to heart."

"I'll try."

"Look," Pete said as he turned to face me. "Your problem right now is confidence. Once you feel like you can do it, everything will be better."

I shrugged. I knew Pete probably was right. But how could I regain my confidence with Ray on my case?

"When I was your age," continued Pete, "the drama club advisor took me aside to work on my confidence. He helped me a lot. Same thing we're doing here – extra rehearsals, one-on-one work. I even went to his house a few times."

"Did it work?"

"Absolutely," Pete replied. "Pretty much everything I know about acting I learned from him. My confidence grew, and I actually ended up earning the lead role in the high-school musical. We did South Pacific that year, and it really launched my acting career. I owe it all to him."

"What did he tell you? About confidence, I mean."

"Well," the man replied, "confidence is all up here," he said as he pointed to his temple. "It's all upstairs. All in your mind. If you think you can do it, you can usually do it. He taught me some things that made getting up in front of an audience easy as pie."

"Like what?"

Pete laughed. "You're going to think it's crazy if I tell you."

"No, I won't. What was it?"

"It's too weird," said Pete with a shake of his head. "It worked for me, but there are other ways."

The man had my full attention now. "Tell me," I insisted. "What was it?"

Pete gave a reluctant sigh. "Did you ever hear that thing about public speaking? How lots of people get nervous when they have to stand up and speak in front of a big audience? The best way to overcome that kind of stage fright is by looking out in the audience and imagining that every single last one of them is sitting there naked. It was something like that."

I couldn't help but laugh and shake my head. That sounded ridiculous to me. "No way!" I replied.

"It's true," Pete said with a nod. "Wait here." I watched as he rose to his feet and went to a bookshelf. He retrieved a volume from the highest shelf and returned to the sofa. This time he sat right next to me with his leg touching mine.

"This is one of the best books I've ever read on acting," he said, "and it has a section on stage fright and stuff like that. I was just reading some of it the other night." He flipped a few pages, settling in on Chapter 5, entitled "Overcoming Acting Anxiety." Pete pointed to the second paragraph under the chapter heading. "Read that," he said as he placed the book on my lap.

I felt Pete's arm go around my shoulders as I began to read from the book. "'Almost all actors will feel the sym- symptoms of stage fright at one point- at one point or another in their careers,'" I read aloud. As I continued to read, the author likened stage fright to the fear of public speaking just as Pete had. The book told how many public speakers overcome their concerns by imagining that their entire audience is naked.

"Wow!" I said, with a laugh as I looked at Pete with newfound appreciation. "I never knew that trick."

Pete squeezed my shoulder and pulled me against him in a hug. "Told you," he said with a grin. "But my drama club advisor used a different trick to help me with my stage fright."

"You had stage fright?" I asked incredulously. I was really taken aback. Pete was so smooth with his lines I could hardly believe he had ever suffered from a case of nerves.

"I sure did. A pretty bad case, actually. I almost quit the drama club over it. I'm glad he talked me out of it before I did."

"What was the trick?" I asked eagerly. I really needed to know.

Pete squeezed my shoulder once again. "With acting, it's a little different," he explained. "All you have to do is when you rehearse, make it difficult and uncomfortable, so when you're up in front of the audience in the real event, it seems like a breeze – even if something goes wrong."

"How do you do that?"

Pete laughed a bit nervously. "The trick he taught me was to rehearse your lines in your underwear," he said sheepishly. "Once you've done that, nothing that could possibly happen on stage could be any more embarrassing. You see?"

I eyed him skeptically. "You rehearsed in your underwear?"

"Well, not everywhere and all the time. But with him I did."

"With the drama club advisor?"

Pete nodded. "At his house. It was just the two of us."

"Did it work?"

Pete squeezed my shoulder again. "It sure did," he replied in a soft voice before pausing. "Want to give it a try?"

Now at this point, you're probably thinking that this was the dumbest pick-up line in the history of pick-up lines, but this was 1977, I was a naïve 11-year-old kid, and I can say with a straight face that the idea that Pete was up to something never even crossed my mind. Not once, not ever. 1977 was a different time. We didn't have Stranger Danger assemblies at schools. There was no internet back then, and nobody talked about good touches and bad touches. Pete had been hugging me, tousling my hair, and touching on my arms and shoulders from the very first night I met him, and nobody thought anything of it, least of all me. Not in 1977.

"I guess so," I replied, almost questioningly, as I tried to imagine how it would work.

Pete gave me one last squeeze on the shoulder as he stood up with a smile. "That's great, Davey!" he said as he gave me his hand and tugged me to my feet. "If this doesn't give you more confidence, I don't know what will." I watched as he began to unbutton his dress shirt. "I'll do it with you," he declared.

I wasn't sure what to think about that, but I could hardly back out now. It put me a little bit more at ease to know that I wouldn't be the only one of the two of us in my underwear. I stood up from the couch and gamely kicked off my sneakers, then smiled at Pete as he grinned reassuringly back at me. Was this really happening? It seemed like it was. I removed my t-shirt, exposing my upper body. Pete pulled his own shirt off with a dramatic flourish and let it drop onto the sofa. I smiled at his antics and began to unbutton the front of my jeans as Pete worked his belt free from his pants. I waited until he had started to remove his pants before freeing the button on my jeans and lowering my fly.

"You'll see how well this works," said Pete as he kicked off his penny loafers, lowered his pants, and stepped out of them one leg at a time. He was wearing plaid boxer shorts underneath. I quickly stepped out of my jeans, exposing my white Fruit-of-the-Loom briefs. Mind you, this was back in the seventies, and generic, white-cotton y-front briefs were the underwear of choice for an entire generation of young boys. I was no different.

Pete sat down on the couch to pluck off his black dress socks. I sat down beside him and pulled my red-striped, white-cotton tube socks from my feet. These were also part of the uniform that all boys wore in those days. When we stood up once again, both Pete and I were bare to our underwear – and that was exactly how I ended up standing in Pete's living room, about to rehearse my lines from "Parasols at Night" while dressed in nothing but my skivvies.

"There!" said Pete as he looked at me with an enormous grin. I looked back at him and smiled, and of course my curious, 11-year-old eyes took in his nearly naked body. Pete had what I suppose was a typical build for a man of about 50 – not that I was an expert on men's bodies at that time. He was carrying a few extra pounds around his middle, but he was not what I would call fat. His stomach and chest were covered with hair, heavier on his chest. The ends of his nipples stood out from his pectorals like pencil erasers. His navel looked hollow with hairs in and around it. The thin fabric of his boxers contoured to the obvious shape of his penis underneath.

My 11-year-old body was quite a contrast to his. Since I hadn't yet entered puberty, I had no hair anywhere on me below my neck. My body was slender, almost to the point of being too skinny, but not quite. My skin was smooth, pale, and save for a scab here and there, unblemished. My legs were coltish and perhaps a tad bit long for my body. I also had prominent, somewhat knobby knees. My belly button was halfway between being an innie and an outie.

I don't know if Pete sensed any nervousness or reluctance on my part, but he reached out and gave my bare shoulder a squeeze. "This will be fun, Davey," he said. "You ready?"

I nodded and gave Pete a little smile. It did seem like fun, but I wasn't naïve, I also knew it was naughty.

"Railway station scene?" Pete asked.

"Sure!"

Pete immediately walked into the hallway that led to the kitchen, paused for a moment, and then called out as he strode into the living room once again. "Sebastian, Sebastian, where have you been?" he asked in his Uncle Trowse voice.

I ran to him in character and threw myself into his arms. We hugged and simultaneously did the goofy little dance of greeting that Ray Hamm had suggested. Pete – Uncle Trowse – kissed my cheek as he released me from the hug, one hand on each of my shoulders.

"A finer lad I've ne'er seen," he said, as he looked at my body where my fancy, rich-boy clothes would be if I had been wearing them. As it was, I was wearing only my underwear, which made my line sound a bit ridiculous.

"Ah, Trowse, you know they makes me wear 'em," I said with a scowl.

Pete broke role at that point and just smiled at me. "I guess it's a little hard to do a scene about your clothes when you're not wearing any," he said with an impish grin as he tousled my hair.

I laughed at the irony myself as I stood there in my underwear. We had accidentally picked precisely the wrong scene for our limited attire, or at least, it seemed like it had been an accident.

"Wall scene, then?" Pete asked.

"Sure," I replied, as I looked around the room for anything that would suffice for a wall. Pete's living room had a fireplace with a mantlepiece, and we both seized upon it at the same time.

"This could work, but it's not tall enough," he lamented as he walked toward it. "Oh, well. Let's give it a go."

We both knew the scene very well by now, so without saying anything we walked "off stage" down the hall, looked at each other, nodded, and began striding side-by-side into the living room.

"They're over yonder, Trowse, in the garden," I said, as Sebastian McCardle.

"Hurrah, keep your voice down, lad," Uncle Trowse replied. We both crept closer to the fireplace, which was serving as our garden wall.

"Peer over and tell me what you see, lad," said Uncle Trowse in a stage whisper.

For this scene, Pete was to lift me up on his right shoulder while I grasped the top of the wall and peered over into the garden. We had choreographed exactly how he would lift me, and exactly what I would do to perch on his shoulder, but the mantelpiece was a bit lower than the top of the wall. If Pete put me all the way up on his shoulder, I would bang my head on the living room ceiling.

"Here," said Pete, out of character, as he hoisted me up, supporting me with his hand underneath my underwear-clad bottom. I grasped the mantlepiece with both hands and pretended to peer down into the garden below.

"What do you see, lad?" asked Uncle Trowse. I could feel his hand on my butt cheeks as I pretended to spy on my mother and her friends.

"They're here, Trowse," I replied in a stage whisper. "Mum, and all them. Lady Benjamin, too."

"Lady Benjamin," growled Uncle Trowse. I felt his hand squeeze my butt as if in anger. "And the Marquess?"

"She's there, too," I replied as Sebastian. Pete lowered me to the floor, and we silently made our way off stage once again.

"Attaboy!" said Pete, as he immediately went out of character and tousled my hair. "That was great!" he said with a great big smile. "We had to improvise, but everything went fine. And we did it in one take!"

I grinned and nodded up at him, feeling quite pleased. It really had gone well. We had made things up as we went, and everything had worked out fine in the end. Our improvisational acting had been good enough for a live show.

"Again," said Pete. I nodded, and we both prepared to stride into the living room a second time. The scene played out much as before, but this time when Pete hoisted me up to see into the garden, his hand was positioned a bit differently, and I could feel his fingers beneath my scrotum as I sat perched on the palm of his hand. Despite the location of his hand, I recited my lines just as before. The show, as they say, must go on.

When the scene was over and we were again "off stage" in the hallway, Pete leaned down and gave me a hug. The hug was skin-to-skin, of course, as we were both in our underwear. I didn't mind at all as he pulled my smooth body against his hairy form. I always enjoyed Pete's attention, and it didn't matter to me what I was wearing when he gave it to me.

"That was great, Davey!" he enthused. "Two takes, and I think either one of them would have been perfectly fine for the play. See how easy this is when you have confidence?"

I didn't know whether it was all due to us being in our underwear, but the scenes really had gone well. Maybe Ray's absence had something to do with it, but there was no doubt that I was feeling more confident. Beyond that, I was having fun.

"Yeah," I replied with a nod, as I stood there in my white briefs. I was growing more comfortable by the minute with the idea of being dressed only in my underwear. It just didn't seem like a big deal to me. A lot of that probably was due to the fact that it didn't seem to be a big deal to him, either.

"Let's do the final scene, second act," suggested Pete. I nodded and looked about the room. That scene also took place at the train station, but this time outside on the platform, with the steam and noise from the train coming from the left of the stage.

Pete saw me looking. "Here, by the sofa," he said. I knew what he meant. The scene called for me to run to him as he knelt to receive me in his arms. Stacked next to us would be my big steamer trunks – empty for the play, of course, but looking every bit like I was going on a long, overseas voyage. The sofa would be a good stand-in for those.

As Pete positioned himself by the sofa, I went back into the hallway, which had been functioning as the right side of our "stage." Pete made a "chugga-chugga-chugga-hissssssssssss," sound, and on that cue, I stepped into the living room, onto the station platform, and pretended to search for my beloved uncle.

"Trowse!" I yelled, as I ran to him, flinging myself into his arms as he knelt by the sofa. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I clung to him, pressing my right cheek to his chest so my face could be seen by the audience. I could feel his chest hairs and the warmth of his skin as I leaned in for the hug. He stroked my bare back as my eyes glistened with conjured tears.

No other words were spoken as the two of us held our embrace. Trowse looked up at the ceiling with tears in his eyes as he continued to stroke my back. This was the final scene in the entire play, and it was designed to evoke an emotional response from the audience. We were to hold the embrace as the stage went dark, and continue to hold it as the curtain closed in on us.

After the requisite time had passed, Pete released me from his embrace. He remained kneeling on the floor as he grasped my upper arms and held me there.

"That," he declared, "was fantastic. Absolutely fantastic, Davey. You were great!"

I couldn't help but smile. So far, all the scenes we had rehearsed in our underwear had seemed to go flawlessly. "Was it really good?" I asked, fishing for more of his praise.

"It was better than good, Davey. If you do it like that, just like that, there won't be a dry eye in the house. Not one."

I was feeling good about things and just stood there, beaming at my friend and mentor as he held me by my upper arms. His eyes still glistened with the remnants of his tears, which he had also conjured up on cue. As I think I've mentioned, Pete was a very good actor.

"I always thought it would be even better if Uncle Trowse kissed Sebastian good-bye in that scene," Pete said softly. "After all, they're not going to see each other again for years, and maybe not ever. Back then, you could never know for sure. It wasn't like they had telephones like we do now, and they had to travel by boat for months to get anywhere."

I shrugged. Whether I was kissed or hugged made no real difference to me. "You could ask Ray," I offered. Ray was strict, but one thing he always made clear to the troop was that he was open to changing parts of scenes if it made the play better. What he didn't like was improvisation. Any changes to the script needed to be approved by him in advance and then rehearsed.

Pete released my arms and rose to his feet. He shook his head. "Nah, he'd never go for it," he said dismissively. "It's the final scene of the play. I'm sure the writers put a lot of thought into it. They probably tried a few things until they got the best audience reaction."

"You can ask him, though," I encouraged.

"You think so?"

"Why not?"

Pete looked pensive for a moment. Then his expression changed, and he looked more determined. "Alright, fine. Let's give it a shot and see what happens."

Since we didn't yet have Ray's approval, I was a bit surprised that Pete wanted to do the scene differently, but we returned to our starting positions with Pete by the couch and me in the hallway.

"Action!" said Pete, as he began to make the train noises once again. In the play, the script called for authentic steam-engine train sounds and smoke to come from the left side of the stage. I strode into the room, looking desperately for my favorite uncle.

"Trowse!" I yelled. I ran to him as he knelt for me. As I willed more tears to form in my eyes, I pressed my cheek against his chest. This time, our hug was cut short as Uncle Trowse took my head in his hands, looked straight at me with tears in his eyes, and planted a kiss on my forehead. He continued to hold my head, both of us gazing into each other's eyes, as the scene came to an end.

"What did you think, Davey?" Pete asked, as he tousled my hair. I smiled.

"It's good," I replied, nodding my head. "Do you think Ray will go for it?"

Pete looked pensive. "I don't know." He stood up with a groan as he hefted his tall body up from his kneeling position on the carpet. "Wait," he said. "I have an idea – let's do it again."

I padded on bare feet back to the hall and prepared for Pete's artificial train sounds. When they came, I strode into the room, willing myself to look worried and longing at the same time.

"Trowse!" I yelled, as I ran to the sofa straight into Pete's arms. I placed my cheek against his bare chest once again, the hairs there tickling the side of my nose as we embraced. As before, Pete broke our embrace early and grasped my face in his hands. This time when he leaned toward me for the kiss, it was delivered directly to my lips. I felt his lips atop mine as we stared into each other's eyes. I remember to this day how warm they felt.

We held the kiss for several seconds as the "stage" faded to black and the curtain drew across.

"Now that was good," said Pete as he released my face. "You know, I have half a mind to tell Ray I think we should do that. I really do. What do you think, Davey?"

I didn't really know what to think. Pete's kiss had surprised me, since he had delivered it directly to my lips. I wasn't sure how that would look to an audience, either. But I was an actor, a true thespian, and I took it all in stride.

"I think it's good," I said, a bit uncertainly. I didn't want to ruin Pete's idea. "I mean, it's better with the kiss."

"You think so?"

"Yeah," I replied with a shrug.

"Let's try it one more time."

We resumed our positions, and once again I flung myself into Uncle Trowse's arms. I placed my crying face against his bare chest, and as before, he took my face in his hands and drew us together, his lips firmly planted atop mine. As before, we held the kiss, both of us motionless, and held it, and held it, and held it. Finally, it dawned on me that we had been holding the kiss long enough for the curtain to have closed, opened, and closed again about three times, and I started to grin. At that point, Pete released my face and broke the kiss. He was smiling ear to ear.

"Hey!" I said, still grinning at his little prank.

"Hey, what?" he asked innocently.

"You know."

"I know what?"

I just grinned at him. We were both being playful, and we were both in our underwear. To an 11-year-old kid, it was all great fun.

Pete continued to kneel beside the sofa. "I'm definitely taking this idea to Ray, kiddo," he said. "You know, there's only one thing I can think of that would make this scene even better."

"What is it?"

"Pretend you just ran into my arms," he said, as used my shoulders to push me back a step. "We don't have to do the entire scene."

"Trowse," I said, deliberately saying my line lamely. I stepped forward and pressed my face to his chest as he swallowed me in his arms once again. Taking my face in his hands and peering into my eyes, he brought his lips to mine once again. This time, however, his head tilted a bit to the side as we made contact. I felt his lips move against mine, opening, and then I felt the wetness of his tongue against my lips.

My eyes went wide with surprise as Pete continue to kiss me gently, and wetly, on my lips. I was too stunned to react. After a few moments, he broke the kiss. He remained on his knees, holding my face in his hands, staring at me.

"I don't think our audience is ready for that quite yet," he said in a whispered voice. "But I liked it."

I didn't know what to say. I could still feel the wetness his tongue had left on my lips as we stared into each other's eyes. He had kissed me so tenderly and lovingly. He was my friend. "Me, too," I whispered back, my eyes fixed on his. He continued to hold my face in his hands.

"I knew I picked the right boy," he said softly, almost to himself. Still holding my face, he drew us together once again and pressed his lips to mine. They parted as before, and I again felt his tongue. This time, I opened my lips as he had done with his. I don't know why I did it. I'd never kissed anyone like this before, certainly not an adult, certainly not a man. His tongue gently flicked at mine, and I did the same back to his. I could feel my heart beating in my chest. For the first time since I had disrobed, I felt a little cold in my undies as my upper arms broke out in goosepimples.

Pete didn't move. He simply held my face and kissed me, his head tilted slightly to the side, his lips moving against mine, his tongue working between my lips, then parting them. I opened my mouth for him, allowing him inside. His right hand slid from its position on my lower jaw, around behind my neck to the back of my head. He held me to him as his left hand also slid from my face, down my neck to my shoulders, down my spine to my lower back, and then, after a pause, to my underwear-clad bottom, where he squeezed my butt cheeks as we continued to kiss. I could feel his fingers as they squeezed and kneaded my butt. I must have flinched a little bit as his fingers explored between my legs, drifting tantalizingly down my crack before traveling further downward to my scrotum.

He broke the kiss then, his right hand still on the back of my head, his left hand retreating a bit to cup my butt cheeks. Our mouths were only inches apart as he spoke.

"I liked that, too," he whispered.

I swallowed and gave him a reassuring little nod. I think it reassured both of us. "So did I," I replied, my own voice a whisper.

"Look," Pete said, as he removed his hands, gently pushed me back a step and gestured toward his groin. When I looked down, his plaid boxer briefs were jutting up from his groin, tented by what could only be a man-sized boner. My eyes must have gaped open in surprise at the sight.

"Told you I liked it," Pete said. "Do you want to see?"

I didn't know what I wanted, not exactly. I had never seen an adult erection before. This was 1977, well before the internet, and my exposure to anything of the sort to that point had been precisely nil. While other kids my age claimed to have seen girly magazines, I hadn't. I didn't even know if girly magazines had men and penises in them, that's how naïve I was. I had seen several adult penises in the YMCA locker room, but never any erect ones. I had seen my own erection several times, of course, but no one else's. At 11, my erection was about the size and thickness of one of Pete's ring fingers. The thing tenting out his boxer shorts was many times that in length and girth. I almost couldn't believe its size.

My mouth felt dry and eventually I simply nodded, unable to speak. Pete rose to his feet and, taking me by the hand, pulled me the short distance to the sofa where we sat down next to each other. With no further ceremony, he pulled the waistband of his boxer shorts down and tucked them under his balls. His massive adult cock – well, it seemed massive to me – flopped free, erect and wobbling up from a thick, tangled nest of pubic hairs at his groin.

I'm sure my eyes were wide as I took in the sight of his adult erection. I had been right about the size of the thing. Pete's cock was about seven inches long, with a veiny, textured shaft and a bulbous, helmet-shaped, purple-colored head. His cock wasn't terribly thick, but it was several times the diameter of mine, and that's all I had for a frame of reference.

The waistband of his boxer shorts pushed his balls up, displaying his wrinkly, dark-colored scrotum to my gaze. His balls seemed large and pendulous, almost like golf balls, although I'm pretty sure they weren't quite that big. Mine were the size of marbles, and my scrotum was still high and tight to my groin, light pink in color (I was a very light-skinned boy, to go along with my blond hair), and utterly devoid of any crinkly hairs like Pete's.

I had never seen anything like this before, and I must have stared at Pete's cock for a long time. My heart was pounding in my chest. Although I'd never heard a Stranger Danger lecture, part of me knew instinctively that what we were doing was taboo, as much or more because we were two males than because Pete was almost 40 years my senior. In 1977, the gay rights movement was only just beginning, and virtually nobody was out of the closet. There wasn't a sixth-grade boy in the entire country who wanted to be labeled homosexual or called a fag, and I was no different in that regard.

Yet, I couldn't look away from Pete's cock. To the man's credit, he didn't rush me, or try to talk to me, or do anything other than simply take in the sight of his cock jutting from his groin, as erect and proud as could be. It was only when he began to flex his groin muscles – making his erection sway and undulate like a cobra – that my trance was broken. I looked up with a grin and a little laugh.

"You like it, Davey?" he asked in a soft voice.

I still didn't trust myself to speak, so I nodded. I wasn't sure exactly what he meant by his question. Did I like looking at it? Did I like it in the way that got kids teased at school for being fags? Did I like it because it belonged to him, because he was my friend? Did I like it because it was big and handsome? I didn't know what he meant, but I also didn't care. I liked Pete, and I trusted him. In that moment, at least, I also liked his cock, and that's what I told him with my nod. None of my classmates were around, and I didn't really much care if liking Pete's cock made me a fag. I knew Pete wouldn't call me by that name, anyway.

"Do you want to touch it?" he asked softly.

I wasn't sure about that, either. Part of me did. I wanted to see what it felt like. First, I shrugged. Then I nodded, largely because I felt safe with Pete. I could feel my heart beat a little faster in my chest. My stomach clenched. Although I wasn't exactly an expert in such things, I knew that touching it was wrong. Would touching it make me a fag? I didn't know, but a very big part of me didn't care. Not in that moment, anyway.

"Here," he said, as he lifted his hips off the sofa and skinned his boxer briefs down and off his hips, down his legs. He kicked them to the floor. As he sat back down, completely naked, his erection was jutting straight up from his groin, wobbling to his movements. He flexed his groin muscles once again, making it move and me laugh.

"Why don't you take yours off, too?" Pete asked me. "Somebody in there is yearning to be free."

I looked down at the crotch of my Fruit-of-the-Looms and saw that he was right. My own cock was standing at attention, bravely tenting out my y-fronts with every bit of its slender, 2.5 inches. I hadn't even realized I had a boner. The knowledge made me grin.

I rose from the sofa and in virtually the same motion, swiped my underwear down my legs and off. I was naked, my slim, hairless body now fully on display, my 11-year-old cock nail-hard in my excitement. I sat back down on the sofa next to Pete.

"Here, try this," said Pete, as he took my hand and placed it on his shaft. I grasped it and was immediately surprised by its silky texture, as well as the heat emanating from it. Taken together, it was warm and soft, not at all what I had expected.

"Go ahead and squeeze it," said Pete. "You won't hurt it." I did what he suggested, squeezing his shaft with my thumb and fingers. My hand was much too small to get all the way around it, but I was still surprised by how smooth and soft it felt, and how warm.

Pete's hand closed over mine, helping me to squeeze. "What feels really good is when you go like this," he said, as he began to move my hand up and down his seven-inch cock. At the base of his shaft, my hand descended into his thick, tangled bush of dark, crinkly pubic hairs. At the top, I felt his corona and the scar from his circumcision. Of course, since I'd never even seen an uncut cock, I had no idea that a scar was what I was feeling. I thought all cocks just naturally came that way.

Pete stroked my hand all the way up and over his cockhead. I felt wetness there, a certain stickiness that made it more difficult to slide my hand down his shaft. "That's precum," he explained. "It comes out of your cock when you get older to help makes things more slippery."

It didn't seem to make things more slippery to me as my hand was tacky with the stuff and wasn't gliding as smoothly as before, but I wasn't about to say anything. Instead, I was remaining quiet and taking everything in. All of this was new to me and my senses were on high alert.

"That feels really nice, Davey," said Pete as he used his hand to help mine stroke his cock. I felt good that he was feeling good. I had played with my own penis before, and I knew how sensitive it was and how tingly and tickly it could feel. Pete really seemed to like what I was doing with his. I wanted him to feel good, just as I wanted to keep doing what we were doing. It was way more fun than rehearsing for the play. Way, way more fun.

Pete moaned softly as we continued to stroke his cock together. Then he sat up suddenly and slid to the floor next to the sofa. "I want to do the final scene again, Davey," he said as he reached for my spike and gave it a playful downward tug with his finger. My little cock was so hard when he touched it that it sprang back to its former upright position almost with an audible "boing" sound.

I scampered from the sofa, completely oblivious to my nudity now, and entered the hallway. Without waiting for any train noises, I raced back into the room and ran to the man. "Trowse!" I exclaimed as my naked body collided with his kneeling frame. His arms encircled me as I pressed my cheek to his chest, but this time only perfunctorily. A moment later, Pete had my face cupped in his hands. He leaned in hungrily, his own head tilted on an angle, and pressed his lips to mine.

We kissed deeply then, man and boy, as Pete opened his mouth and pulled me against his face by the back of my head. I could feel his beard and moustache as they rubbed against my skin. His mouth enveloped mine and our tongues jousted, the two muscles slithering against each other with the aid of our combined saliva.

As before, Pete's left hand reached around behind my body and alighted on my now bare-naked bottom, his fingers squeezing and kneading my cheeks as he kissed me. There was no stopping his fingers as they spread my cheeks apart and traced lightly down my cleft. I moaned into Pete's mouth as his fingers drifted across my hole, stopping just long enough to press on the puckered indent before they moved away, only to return to the exact same spot a few moments later.

The living room was silent now but for the sounds of our kissing, wet smacking sounds joined by the heavy, nasal breathing of two males in lust. Pete added some moans to the mix, and I responded with some of my own. I wasn't sure exactly why, but it seemed like the thing to do, and anyway I had never felt so tingly and excited before, nor had my penis ever been quite so hard.

Pete continued to play with my butt, fondling and squeezing my cheeks, kneading them, running his fingers down my cleft and across my hole, then dropping his hand further down to my taint and testicles. Our mouths continued to be locked together in a wet, sloppy kiss. Neither of us seemed to care where our tongues went so long as they were gliding and slipping against each other inside our conjoined mouths.

Showing remarkably good balance and strength for an older man, without breaking our kiss even for an instant, Pete somehow managed to rise to his feet with my naked body cradled in his arms. I clung to his neck as he supported my bottom with his left hand, which continued to fondle my butt cheeks and play with my hole even as he began to walk. Still kissing me, he took me to the staircase and began trudging up the stairs, one at a time, then down the hall to his bedroom.

As we entered our destination, we broke the kiss as if by mutual agreement and I looked around at Pete's bedroom. It seemed obvious that he lived alone, although I had never actually asked about a Mrs. Pete. I didn't know then to check for a ring, but if I had, I wouldn't have seen one on Pete's left hand. I would come to learn that the man was a lifelong bachelor, for reasons that are probably obvious to the reader even if they weren't to me back then. His sparsely decorated room also spoke to the lack of a feminine touch.

"If I'd known you were coming, I'd have made my bed," he said with a smile as he laid me down on the rumpled sheets and immediately climbed in on top of me, straddling me with his adult body. I lay still, looking up, naked and erect, as he smiled down at me. I smiled back.

"I could kiss you all day long, Davey," he said, as he leaned down as if to do just that. As our lips joined and then parted, I reached up and encircled his thick neck with my arms.

As we kissed, Pete brought his legs against mine and lowered himself to me, still supporting his weight with his knees but also touching me with as much of his body as he could bring into contact with mine. I closed my eyes, allowing myself to be enveloped in his manliness. I could taste his saliva in my mouth, and I could feel his penis against mine, pressing down and gliding as he gently undulated his hips. My hands slid from his neck to the sides of his upper back, touching his skin. I ran my fingers through the hairs I found there, then returned to his neck and massaged him there, only to repeat the same pattern all over again.

I had never done anything remotely like this with anyone before. Truth be told, I'd never even thought about it. Yet I instantly loved the feel of Pete's body again mine, the taste of his mouth and tongue, the smooth intrigue of his cock in my hand. I wasn't even sure what we were doing. Was this sex? I thought it was, but I wasn't entirely sure. At only 11 years of age I had no road map, no frame of reference. We were naked and kissing, touching and rubbing our bodies against each other. I was pretty sure this was sex, and while having sex with a man almost certainly made me a fag, I couldn't have cared less. I really liked Pete. I trusted him and I liked what we were doing. That's all that mattered to me in that moment.

We continued to kiss and snuggle for a while, Pete's body atop mine, smothering me in his strong embrace, his tongue jousting with mine. I remained nail-hard throughout, my little spike quivering with lust. To this point in my life, I'd never had an orgasm. I didn't even know what an orgasm was, but I could feel the tingle of arousal in my body just the same. It felt like a giant ball of excitement in my tummy, spreading outwardly to my loins, causing my penis to strain upwards from my body, stiff as a board. All I cared about was catering to that sensation, that pleasure.

Pete's kiss was wet and deep, but after a while his lips and mouth pulled away, drifting wetly over my chin, licking and sliding down my neck as his hands alighted on my shoulders. As he kissed, licked, and mouthed his way down my upper chest, his hands slid down my arms to my wrists and held them tightly, immobilizing me for the moment as he continued to suckle and savor my body. Now he began sliding his cock in the little crevasse formed between my legs. His erection fit nicely into the groove and left a little trail of precum on my skin as Pete slowly made his way down my body.

I couldn't help but gasp as Pete's wet, warm, sucking mouth began to bathe and lap at my nipples, first the right and then the left, as he forcibly raised my arms above my head, pinioning them there with his powerful hands. Restrained now, I was helpless against his ministrations, but I loved every minute of it, and when his mouth and lips alighted on the smooth, hairless hollows of my armpits, I moaned with pleasure even as I writhed against the tickling sensation his tongue produced.

I was in boy heaven as Pete licked and sucked his way down my body. He brought my arms from above my head down to my sides as he repositioned his own body lower on mine, finally abandoning his undulations but still straddling my legs as he continued to lick and suck. I tensed and sucked in my tummy as he licked me there, his lips grazing my soft skin and flicking his tongue at my naval before lowering his mouth to a full-on French navel kiss. His knees continued to straddle my lower legs on either side, preventing me from moving much at all as he continued his southward exploration.

It was as his mouth moved from my belly button to my groin that I sensed – no, somehow I knew – that his ultimate destination was my boy cock, and that once his mouth arrived there, I would be treated to the most wonderful of sensations. My penis twitched in anticipation as Pete licked and mouthed his way across the softness of my lower belly, moving ever closer to the destination that apparently both of us craved. I moaned with pleasure and encouragement as Pete suckled my skin. I'd never felt anything so amazing in my life, yet I simply knew that it would get even better when Pete's warm, wet mouth arrived at my cock.

Finally, Pete's teasing tongue reached the base of my groin, where my hairless rod emerged from my body at the junction of my legs. He kissed and suckled that very spot for a while, still holding my wrists and using his knees to keep me immobilized. I wouldn't have moved if I could. I was virtually paralyzed with the pleasure of Pete's grazing mouth and hairs of his beard and moustache tickling me as they slid across my sensitive skin.

And then, without fanfare, the man leaned up and swallowed my spike to the root, eliciting an involuntary groan of pleasure from me. I lay still, consumed by passion and lust as Pete's soft, wet, warm mouth sucked at my boyhood, bringing me the pleasure that I had so coveted only moments before. It was better than good. It was the best, most amazing feeling I had ever experienced. It seemed like every nerve root in my entire body was contained within the surface area of my slender erection. I simply couldn't believe the intensity of what I was feeling. The sensations were so nice, so powerful.

Pete continued to suck and tongue my penis, eventually pausing to lean down and gobble my testicles into his mouth along with my shaft. He released my wrists as he repositioned his hips, his mouth never losing contact with my cock for so much as a single moment. His new position allowed him to raise and lower his head, which he proceeded to do as he continued sucking on my shaft, the combination bringing heightened pleasure to my young loins. With his free hand, he reached down and began to fondle my scrotum, which was still wet from his recent oral ministrations.

Pete showed no sign of stopping as his adult mouth serviced my young cock with an up-and-down sucking motion. I had heard about cock-sucking before, but the notion had been entirely vague to me before now. The saying "Suck my cock, fag," was as ubiquitous among my 6^th-grade classmates as "Eat shit, asshole." Heretofore, I had placed both concepts in the same unsavory and never-to-be-performed category. But with Pete working on my penis, the concept of cock-sucking took on a whole new meaning to me, now representing pleasure beyond my wildest imaginings.

Then, as Pete continued to service me, to my surprise it started to feel even nicer. More tingly. More urgent. I had never felt anything even remotely so pleasurable. As Pete worked his rough-yet-soft tongue and wet, slurping mouth over my shaft and cockhead, I began to experience a different kind of tingling sensation unlike any I had ever felt before. It was also better than anything I'd ever felt before, even on that very special day of firsts and new experiences. As the sensation continued to grow and heighten, I began writhing atop Pete's bed. Involuntary moans escaped my mouth. The sensation was so intense that I wanted it to stop but for the desire to know where and how it might end.

It ended simply enough with a kaleidoscopic explosion of pleasure in my loins so intense that I gasped and tried to push Pete's head away from my groin. My mouth gaped open in surprise at the intensity of the sensation even as my eyes closed and shudders of pleasure washed convulsively over my entire body. My first, incongruous thought was that somehow, Pete had broken me. He had sucked on my penis so well, so nicely, that my bodily systems had overloaded and were now shutting down. He lifted his head up as my hands tried to push him away, and suddenly I could feel the cool air on my twitching, glistening boner.

"Ohhhh," I gasped, as my body continued to spasm with pleasure. My hips bucked once or twice as my cock futilely strained to expel what my testicles were still too young to manufacture. I knew none of the physiology, of course, even as the intensity of my first orgasm was still shuddering through my loins and radiating out across my body.

When I opened my eyes again, Pete was smiling at me as he used his hand to wipe a trace of glistening wetness from his beard. He climbed toward me on the bed and lay down beside me, propping his head up with one hand while he gently ran his other hand over my tummy and chest.

"That felt good, huh, Davey?" he asked.

"Yeah," I nodded. I didn't know what else to say. My chest was still rising and falling, as if I had exerted myself. In a way, I guessed that I had.

Pete poked my nose. "You're a cutie, Davey. I thought so from the moment I saw you take the stage as Charlie. I wanted you."

I turned my head to look at him. "You wanted me?" I asked, feeling and probably looking confused.

"Well, I wanted you for the role of Sebastian," he said. "I knew you'd be perfect, and I was right. You're an excellent actor, Davey," he added, as he leaned over and planted a chaste kiss on my lips. "But I also wanted you for what we just did. I wanted to experience that with you. Did you like it as much as I did?"

I paused for a moment as I digested what Pete had just told me. He had wanted to do this with me ever since the school play? I was flabbergasted, but I knew I still needed to answer his question.

"It was- it was great," I said, for lack of a better word. How do you describe something like what I had just experienced when you have no frame of reference? It was simultaneously the best, most-intense, most-incredible, most-surprising experience of my entire life. "Great" hardly began to define it. The word simply was inadequate.

"Sex is great, Davey. It's the best. Nothing feels better," he said, as he slid his hand down my body and grasped my now-softening penis. He gave it a squeeze. "What we just did," he said with another squeeze, "will feel even better when you get a little older and can cum. Right now, you're just shooting blanks, but in another year or two, watch out, stud!"

"Wait," I stopped him, thoroughly confused by his words. "What do you mean?"

The man continued to finger my unresponsive boyhood as he answered. "When you get a little older, your balls produce sperm and semen," he said as he gave my scrotum a gentle squeeze, "and when you have sex or jerk off, it comes shooting out up here," he explained, as he fondled my cockhead between his thumb and fingers and ran his index finger across my piss slit. "It's the absolute best feeling in the world – for a guy, anyway."

My curiosity was piqued, and I sat up a little on the bed. I had always wanted to know about this stuff – sex stuff – and it was obvious from what we had just done and the conversation we were now having that Pete was more than willing to explain it all to me. I wasn't about to miss out on the opportunity.

"So that's the stuff that makes babies?" I asked him.

Pete chuckled. "Yup, but most of the time, it just spurts out on your stomach and chest when you're jerking off. You'll do that a lot when you get older," he said with a gentle chuck to my nose. "Couple times a day, at least."

"Do you do that?" I asked him with a curious smile.

"Every chance I get," he confided with a conspiratorial grin. "Unless I find someone to have sex with. That's even better than jerking off."

"Somebody like me?" I asked him. Even if sex with another male was wrong, I felt more than a little proud to be Pete's somebody.

"Well, what we did wasn't sex, or not exactly. I just gave you a blowjob. Some people consider that sex, and some don't. Real sex is when you put your dick inside somebody else," he said, as he gently massaged my still-soft little worm.

"Like when a guy puts his in hers," I replied sagely. I was eager to demonstrate my vast, 11-year-old knowledge of such things.

"Right. Or when a guy puts his in his. It can happen either way." I'm sure I looked confused at that statement, but Pete didn't elaborate, and I didn't push the issue.

"How much stuff comes out?" I asked.

Pete chucked my nose again. 'Want to see?" he asked in a teasing voice.

Boy did I! The truth was that I had always wanted to know these forbidden, adult secrets, and if Pete was willing to tell me about them and demonstrate, I was all in. I sat up eagerly on the bed, my flat, tummy wrinkling as I brought my legs up underneath me Indian-style, my soft penis shaft draped over my balls between my smooth thighs.

"I take it that's a yes," chuckled Pete as he turned from his side to lie on his back. His cock, I saw, was still very hard and still dribbling wetness from its sunken pee slit. "Here," Pete said as he tugged me by my arm. He spread his legs and bade me to climb between them. Then he grasped his penis at the base of the shaft and began stroking it from bottom to top. He did this several times, pausing every few strokes to run his palm over his drooling cockhead and smear the liquid into his hand.

"It feels even better when someone else does it for you," Pete suggested gently after a time. With a sheepish grin, I repositioned my nude body between Pete's hairy thighs and grasped his shaft with my right hand. It was still smooth and warm to the touch.

"Use both hands, Davey," said Pete. "That way you can really stroke it."

Using both hands, I began to glide up and down the man's cock, applying gentle pressure from the very bottom to the very top of his shaft. With a smile and a lustful groan, Pete leaned back and placed his hands behind his back.

"Keep doing it just like that, Davey," he said. "I'm going to let you do all the work. You keep doing it just like that and I'll shoot a big load for you."

I wasn't sure what a big load was, but I wanted to see that stuff come out of Pete's cock. I had an intense expression on my face as I masturbated the man with both hands. As I worked his penis, Pete rewarded me with enough grunts, moans, and sighs to let me know that I was doing at least something right. I had been stroking his man cock for several minutes when Pete finally spoke again.

"You want to try sucking it, Davey?" he asked in a soft voice. "You don't have to."

I wasn't surprised at the question, especially considering what Pete had just done for me. Part of me wanted to try sucking on it, and I'd even thought about doing it unbidden, but the little droplets that kept oozing from Pete's piss slit made me wary. I wasn't sure I wanted that in my mouth. I didn't know what it would taste like. At 11, I wasn't even sure it was edible. Maybe it was even poisonous.

"Is it … okay?" I asked, but the words didn't come out exactly right. What I meant was, is that stuff okay? Can you put it in your mouth? Can you eat it?

Pete seemed to know instinctively what I was worried about. He took his right hand out from behind his neck, reached down to his piss slit, and gathered up a quantity of the translucent liquid. "Not only is it okay," he said, as he poked his finger into his mouth and licked it clean, "it tastes pretty darn good. Some people think it tastes kind of sweet. Go ahead and try it."

Seeing is believing, and so, with a look of uncertainly and morbid curiosity on my young face, I dipped my index finger in the little pool of liquid forming in Pete's sunken piss slit and brought my finger up to my eyes. I studied the glistening substance for a moment before popping my finger into my mouth. With a quizzical expression on my face, I evaluated the flavor. Pete was right; it wasn't bad at all, and it did taste a little sweet.

"It's good," I proclaimed with a nod. I felt relieved that I could handle the taste in my mouth. I didn't want Pete to think I was a baby.

Pete chuckled at my appraisal. "I'm glad you liked it!" he said with an approving grin. "You know, you're an awesome kid, Davey," he added. "I really like you. You're super fun to be around, really cute, and adventurous, too. On top of all that, you're a darn good actor."

I couldn't help but smile as I basked in the man's praise. Pete was my friend, and I looked up to him. I glanced down at his penis, which was still very much erect and hovering over his groin. I wanted to make Pete proud of me. I wanted to make him feel good, too. With renewed energy and confidence, I leaned my head down and took Pete's entire cockhead inside my mouth.

"Oh, fuck, Davey, that feels incredible!" Pete said with a groan of pleasure. "Watch your teeth now. Don't worry about taking too much – just use your tongue on the head and swirl it around a little bit. Use your hands to stroke my shaft."

I listened as Pete's instructions came in rapid-fire succession and did my best to accommodate them. Pete's cockhead was big, and it filled virtually my entire mouth. I could taste more of the precum liquid on my tongue and taste buds as it leaked from his piss slit. With my hands, I stroked his thick shaft while I tried to swirl his purple helmet with my tongue. I was worried about my teeth. His cockhead was so big in my mouth it already seemed to be almost resting against them, but Pete didn't say anything about that. He just moaned and breathed, his chest and stomach rising and falling as I sucked.

I worked on Pete's cock for several minutes, my hands gliding up and down his shaft as I held his cockhead in my mouth and teased it with my tongue. I did my best to please him, but as I look back on my very first blowjob, my small hands and inept, 11-year-old mouth probably weren't providing enough friction or sensation to be all that stimulating to the man. Pete didn't seem to mind, however. He had managed to get his cock in my mouth, and just the knowledge of how willing I was to do this for him probably was stimulation enough. After all, I had been willing to try everything he had suggested so far. His moans and involuntary little hip thrusts told me that he was enjoying my inaugural effort at fellatio.

"Davey, I'm getting close, baby," he told me. His voice sounded urgent and his teeth seemed almost clenched. He'd never called me baby before. I pulled off.

"Is it going to shoot out, now?" I asked him eagerly.

"Yes, and unless you want a mouthful, you'd better just use your hands."

I really wanted to see the stuff come out of Pete's penis, and since I wasn't exactly keen on having it in my mouth, I lifted my head and concentrated on masturbating the man to the best of my ability. I already had some experience with the motion, so I focused on being steady and uniform with my efforts. It wasn't until much later that I learned there was a word – handjob – for what I was doing.

Pete's grimaces and groans intensified as he approached orgasm. I didn't know exactly what to expect, but I could tell that things were about to come to a climax both literally and figuratively. I continued to sit between his legs, my naked butt resting on my heels as I used both of my hands to rub his penis. My inexperienced fingers stroked the entire length of his shaft from his pubic bush to his cockhead. Exactly as he had demonstrated, every few times my hands summitted Mt. Cock I grazed my palm over his cockhead to extract the leakage from his piss slit. Pete had been right – a good quantity of that stuff made his penis even more slippery and easier to stroke.

Pete's orgasm took me by surprise, as he gave no real warning of it. With a groan of pleasure and a twitch of his hips, his penis flexed in my grip and then exploded, huge ropes of cum sluicing from the piss split with the audible "thwitttthhh … thwitttthhh" sound of a squirting liquid under pressure. Under pressure it was, as Pete's engorged penis fired the first two volleys of his ejaculate high into the air, the first making like an arcing arrow for the bedroom wall behind his head, and the second doing a crazy, end-over-end somersault some three feet in the air before splashing down on the side of his chest and the mattress below.

I wasn't sure what to do during this display, so I just kept stroking Pete's cock, taking care to aim the head away from me as three or four more jets of cum shot from the piss split and splatted down on his chest and neck. I'd never seen anything like this before. I never even knew this was a thing. The stuff was both whiteish and clear, looking very much like the loogies that kids liked to hock up on the playground – usually with lots of exaggerated, throat-clearing noises accompanying the effort. The only difference was that there was a lot more of this stuff than one kid could spit. Even when Pete's cock stopped spurting, several additional globs of the stuff continued to ooze from his piss slit like a slow, creamy white lava flow. I was impressed. What 11-year-old kid wouldn't be? I had no idea that dicks could be used for such amazing tricks.

For his part, Pete groaned and grunted through his orgasm, his eyes first clenching closed and then opening again as his cock coated his chest and abdomen with the viscous white goo. Finally, he pushed my hands away from his twitching, glistening, softening member. It now lay directly on his belly instead of hovering like a maglev above it – that hovering being no small feat considering that Pete's belly was well-rounded from all the extra pounds he was carrying on his big frame.

"Fuck, Davey – that was amazing, baby," he said, as his chest continued to rise and fall. I smiled at his praise, but I could have told him that I already knew that. I looked down at my right hand, the back of which was coated with a thick glob of the man's semen. I wasn't sure exactly what to do with that, but I knew for certain that I had enjoyed what we just did together, and I wanted to do it again.

Chapter Two

The play went off without a hitch a few weeks later. Unlike my school plays, the adult troop gave several performances of "Parasols at Night" to sold-out audiences at the town theater across the street from the church where we held our practices. Pete never did propose to Mr. Hamm to change the final scene, but every time we held our embrace as the curtain closed in front of us, I thought he might ad lib a kiss on my lips just like the ones we had practiced so many times at home in his living room. I think we both had to remind ourselves that we weren't alone and naked to do whatever we wanted but rather clothed and on stage before a live audience.

I attended extra rehearsals at Pete's house every Saturday in the weeks leading up to the play. He did give me some acting tips here and there, but mostly we spent our time together touching, sucking, and exploring each other's bodies. It was an absolute given that whatever rehearsing we did would be in the nude, and we were both rock-hard with excited anticipation from the moment we walked into his house. I know that I couldn't get my clothes off fast enough. There was something incredibly liberating in doing so, just being nude and alone with Pete, and knowing how much physical pleasure we would soon bring to each other.

I know it seems strange given our vast difference in age, but over those weeks of rehearsals and sex play, Pete Volcker became my best friend in the whole world. The fact was, I didn't have any close friend my own age, and certainly none who shared my love of acting, much less any I could get naked and intimate with. Pete also filled yet another void in my life, that of a father-figure. He was funny and kind, smart and knowledgeable, and willing to tell me things that I had never heard from any other adult. Although he could be protective and paternalistic at times, he never talked down to me or treated me like a child.

I had sex with Pete every Saturday we got together after the troop rehearsal and even once on a Wednesday night, when I used the church's pay phone to call my mother and tell her that Pete and I really needed to work on a scene, and couldn't I please, please, pretty please go to his house for an hour or so even though it was a school night? It ended up being almost two hours before Pete drove me home, and I spent nearly the entire time nude in Pete's bedroom. I loved every minute of it, and my mother was none the wiser because Pete always made sure to clean me up and make sure that I didn't have any of his cum or the smell of sex on me when he drove me home.

My relationship with Pete integrated seamlessly into my young life. What we did together was so obviously a secret between us that we never even spoke about the need to keep it that way. Being labeled a "fag" by your peers was social suicide in my elementary-school circles, but I didn't even come close to worrying about that when I was with Pete. I think it helped that he was so much older. The age difference kept us from being peers; we weren't having sex as lovers, but more as a continuation of our dynamic as friends. It was just something we did together in the privacy of Pete's home, an extension of our friendship. He never had to warn me to keep what we did between us, and I never worried for an instant that he would tell anyone himself.

When I say we had sex together in the weeks leading up to the play, I don't mean to imply that we had intercourse. Looking back on it, Pete didn't try to push things at all, and in those early weeks he seemed perfectly content to lick and fondle my body and then suck my little spike to multiple dry orgasms, sometimes as many as three or four times per visit. He seemed to love touching and licking every part of me – and I do mean every part, from my toes to my earlobes, and everywhere in between. I also got a lot better at fellating him by taking more of his penis in my mouth and becoming more active and skilled with my tongue. Pete was usually good for two or even three orgasms himself depending how long our Saturday sex sessions went. He never ejaculated in my mouth, though, as I was still wary about that. But I loved to see the cum shoot out of his cock, especially the first time he ejaculated, which was always his best and strongest orgasm of the day. Between blowjobs, while he was resting and recuperating, I touched and explored his naked body so much that I knew where every hair, scar, vein, and spot was located on his skin.

The only additional sex act that Pete introduced me to during those weeks leading up to the play was rimming, which he liked to perform on me while I was lying face down on his bed with my legs spread wide. He would part my butt cheeks and lick and probe at my butt hole with his tongue, his beard and moustache tickling my thighs, butt cheeks, and scrotum the entire time. It felt weird to have his wet tongue licking me on what was probably my most private part of all. He even pushed the very tip of his tongue inside my butt hole, which surprised the heck out of me the first time he did it. It even hurt a little bit, too, but after that first time I got used to it and it became part of our routine. Pete would sometimes spend a full 10 minutes with his face buried between my butt cheeks while his mouth and tongue worked on my cleft and hole.

I really looked forward to our Saturday sessions, and not only because I got to have sex with Pete. I also really like his company, and each Saturday I had him all to myself. He became not only my acting instructor but also my mentor, my closest confidant, and my best friend. I simply loved being with him, and I worried a lot about what would happen after the play had run its course.

The last performance of the play was on a Saturday evening, and even though we had no rehearsal that day, I persuaded my mother that I needed to go with Pete as usual for extra practice. Pete picked me up at my house and drove me to his, where we spent the next three hours having sex in his bedroom. Pete rimmed me and sucked me to three dry orgasms, while I masturbated and fellated him to two of his own. After his second orgasm, we remained in his bed fully naked and talked about the future.

"I don't know if my Mom is going to let me keep coming over after today," I told Pete glumly. In truth, we hadn't even spoken about it, but I knew my mother's tendencies and I was sure she would have a lot of questions about it once the play was over and there was no obvious need for any more special weekly rehearsals. She had come to every one of the performances and I knew she was very proud of me, but I was deathly afraid she wouldn't approve of me continuing to visit Pete.

"I've only just met your mother in passing," Pete replied, "but do you suppose she would still let you come over if we told her I was giving you actual acting lessons? I wouldn't charge anything, of course. It's always been a dream of mine to open an acting school," he said as he gave my left butt cheek a little squeeze. "You could be my first pupil."

"Hey!" I said, as I reached for his flaccid penis and gave the shaft a retaliatory little squeeze. "No fair!"

"Oh, yeah?" Pete responded as he rolled over on me and pressed my slender body into the mattress while pinning my arms above my head.

I instantly started to erect as the man held me down. I tried to struggle, but I was no match for him, and we both knew it. We had been doing more of this kind of play lately, in which Pete held me down and either tickled my defenseless armpits or licked my face like a puppy.

"Grrrrrr!" I muttered determinedly through gritted teeth as I tried to get free. Given Pete's immense size and strength advantage, however, there was no actual hope of that happening unless he voluntarily let me go.

"Grrrrrrr, yourself!" said Pete, as he lowered his face to my right armpit and began to lick and kiss it, while turning his head side-to-side and deliberately tickling it with his beard and moustache hairs.

"Noooooo!" I squealed, as I thrashed left and right and began to giggle from the tickling sensation. I'm very ticklish on my underarms, and once Pete figured that out, I was completely at his mercy.

After a few moments of play, Pete rolled off me and propped himself up one elbow. His other hand gently caressed down my chest and tummy, gave my penis a little fondle, and then reached up to poke my nose.

"You know, I'm starting to get pretty attached to you, Davey Pierce," he said with a smile.

Mirroring his action and his position, I turned on my side to face him and propped myself up on my elbow. Both of us were semi-erect, but probably still too spent for another go right that moment.

"I like you, too," I told him, before planting a chaste little kiss on his lips.

Pete smiled as he slid his free hand down my bare flank to my bottom and gave my butt cheek another possessive little squeeze.

"I think this idea of the acting lessons might just work. But it would probably help if I met your mother properly and had a chance to talk to her."

"You could ask her out on a date!" I replied, as I aimlessly caressed Pete's hairy chest. I was mostly kidding, of course, but it had occurred to my 11-year-old brain more than once that my life would be made perfect if somehow Pete could marry my mother and become my stepfather. I knew it would never happen, but a boy can dream, right?

Pete tweaked my nose again and leaned in for another kiss on my lips.

"I'm sure she's a wonderful woman for raising such a great kid, but she's not really my type," he said, before adding in a conspiratorial tone, "if you know what I mean."

I grasped his spent penis once again and gave it a suggestive squeeze and a little caress.

"Is this what you mean?" I asked in a playful tone.

"Mmmmm," he moaned with a smile. "You know me only too well, Davey."

I smiled triumphantly as I started to stroke his flaccid cock with my free hand. "How can we then?"

Pete shrugged. "I had a few different ideas, but I think the best one might be to offer to take the two of you out to dinner. It wouldn't be a date, but it would be an opportunity for me to talk to her and thank her for letting you be in the play." Pete grasped my genitals and fondled them. "And for a few other things," he added with a grin.

"You better not!" I admonished him with a warning smile.

"Oh, I don't think she'd mind a bit."

"Pete!"

"I'm just kidding," he said as he leaned in and licked the end of my nose. "But do you think she'd let me take the two of you to dinner? Or I could just invite her to the cast party next weekend."

I pondered Pete's question for a moment before replying. I really didn't want my mother to come to the cast party, as I knew I'd be the only one there with my mother in tow. "I think she would," I answered. "I've told her a lot about you – you know, about acting and stuff."

"Not about this stuff?" said Pete as he again reached for my butt and gave it a squeeze, then leaned in with his mouth and licked my lips, chin, and cheek.

"Pete!" I said again as I turned my face away and wiped away his saliva. "Jeez."

"Then what did you tell her?"

I shrugged sheepishly. "That you were a really good actor. And good at teaching me."

"That's perfect, Davey. I'll call her and invite her to dinner. I just hope I can keep my hands off your sexy little body while we're eating."

"Pete!"

"Kidding."

Pete did call my mother, and the three of us ended up going out to dinner at the Bonanza Steakhouse the following Wednesday night. It was an absolute homerun. Throughout dinner, Pete was friendly, charming, and talkative. He was embarrassingly complimentary of me, praising my maturity as well as my acting skills. He repeatedly thanked my mother for letting me act in the play. When she thanked him in turn for taking me under his wing and spending so much time helping me with my acting, he looked both bashful and pleased.

"The pleasure was all mine, ma'am," he said, as Uncle Trowse before giving me a little kick under the table. He was so charming it was all I could do not to roll my eyes.

It was a good dinner, and I could tell that my mother really liked Pete. It was hard not to like the man. He was funny and quick-witted, and when he spoke about anything related to acting, his passion was both obvious and real.

"I think Davey has real potential as a stage actor, Mrs. Pierce," he told my mother. "I can't emphasize that enough. I'd have him as a full-time member of the troop if I could, but most of our plays don't have any roles for kids Davey's age, and in any event, we have an age-18 minimum to join the Players as a cast member. There's no way I can get that waived, even for Davey."

"But I'd like to continue working with your son," Pete continued. "If it's okay with you, I'd be happy to continue coaching him on Saturdays, just as we've been doing. There'd be no charge, of course. That's how highly I think of Davey."

"Mom, he's always wanted to open an acting school," I added enthusiastically. "Tell her, Pete."

Pete chuckled at my boyish excitement. "Well, that is true, Ma'am. I've learned a lot about acting over the years, and I'd like to pass that knowledge on to the next generation. I told Davey that he could be my first official pupil – that is, if it's okay with you."

"Please mom, can I?" I chimed in.

In the end, my mother had no choice but to agree. Between Pete's charm and my desperate enthusiasm, there was no way she could say no. She knew how much I liked Pete and she had no clue that our affection for each other went well beyond the platonic. This was 1978, after all, and the idea of a single, never-married older man spending lots of time alone with a young boy was not the red flag that it is today. She even offered to pay for my acting lessons, but Pete wouldn't hear of it, which I think came as a relief because money was a bit tight in our household.

"That's not necessary in the least, Mrs. Pierce," he told her. "My only payment will be watching Davey grow and mature as an actor. And as for you," he said turning to me with a smile, "when you make it big on Broadway, don't you forget about your first acting coach, you hear?"

I nodded and smile as wide as I could. "I won't!" I replied exuberantly. I was so happy that I wanted to hug them both. My Saturdays with Pete could continue!

The very next Saturday was the cast party, which is the traditional celebration following the last performance of a play's successful run. We had one at my elementary school after the final performance of "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory," but the cast party for "Parasols at Night" would be a barbeque at the home of one of the cast members, Milton Chambers. Mr. Chambers had had only a small part in the play, but just like Pete he was a long-time member of the St. Claire Players and had previously held many starring roles in other productions.

Pete arranged with my mother to pick me up on Saturday morning for my weekly lesson, after which he would take me to the cast party at Mr. Chambers' house. As for me, I couldn't wait for Saturday to arrive! Any time I could be with Pete was a plus as far as I was concerned, and I was looking forward to the cast party with enthusiasm. Mr. Chambers had a pool at his house that he said we could use during the party, and I loved to swim. It would also be fun to see all the cast members in such an informal setting.

When Saturday morning finally arrived, I packed my swimsuit and towel and waited eagerly for Pete to arrive. My mother could tell I was excited for the day ahead.

"Davey, my goodness," she commented. "I hope you're not going to be this riled up all day. Remember to mind your manners and thank your host."

"I will, Mom," I replied dutifully.

Soon after that, Pete pulled into our driveway in his maroon Mercury Marquis. I jumped up from the couch to say good-bye to my mother, but she insisted on walking outside with me to speak with Pete.

Pete stepped out of his car when he saw my mother approach.

"A finer lad I've ne'er seen!" he said with a smile as Uncle Trowse. "And no finer lady, Ma'am."

My mother smiled and laughed at Pete's antics.

"Ah, Trowse, you know they makes me wear 'em," I said with a grin as I waved dismissively at my shorts-and-tank-top attire. Tube socks and sneakers completed my cast-party ensemble.

"You two," my mother said in mock disapproval with another smile and a shake of her head.

"Morning, Mrs. Pierce," said Pete jovially as he approached and offered his hand to my mother. "Fine day for a party," he added as they shook. He turned to me. "You ready, Davey? Remembered to pack your swimsuit?"

"Got it right here!" I said, as I tapped my bag.

Pete turned back to my mother. "I'll take good care of him, Mrs. Pierce."

"Oh, please, call me Sharon."

"Sharon it is. Oh, and say, Sharon – the party may go a little late tonight. I was going to–"

"I can pick Davey up early," my mother interrupted. "It's no problem at all."

I groaned aloud at the thought of missing any of the party, and at the idea of my mommy picking me up early in front of all my adult friends from the troop.

"Well, actually, I was going to suggest that he spend the night at my place, if that's okay with you," Pete said. "That way he could stay for the duration if it goes late, and I can bring him back first thing tomorrow morning."

"Oh, no," replied my mother. "I wouldn't want to intr–"

"Oh, Mom, please, can I?" I interjected. I was nearly jumping up and down with excitement. "Please, please, please?" I begged, while clasping my hands together as if in prayer.

"Well I–" began my mother.

"It's really not a problem, Sharon," said Pete. "My house is on the way back from Milton's. I have a big ol' soft couch in the living room that Davey can stretch out on," he added with a twinkle in his eye.

"Please, Mom?" I begged. "Nobody else's mom is picking them up early from the cast party."

Pete chuckled. "I hadn't even thought about that as an issue," he said, still looking at my mother. "I just figured I'd save you a late-night trip out into the boondocks. It's really no trouble, Sharon."

Once again, my poor mother didn't really stand a chance. With the two of us working on her, it was only a matter of time until she agreed, which she finally did. She knew I loved being a part of the troop and had been looking forward to the cast party all week. She also knew how much I liked Pete, and she must have figured that a sleepover at his house would be fun for me. Little did she know how we would spend it.

My mother insisted that I bring my toothbrush and toothpaste with me, so I sprinted back inside to get them as Pete remained outside engaging my mother in conversation. I think I set a land-speed record retrieving the items from the upstairs bathroom because I didn't want her to change her mind on the sleepover while I wasn't present. But when I flew back out the front door, both adults were laughing and chatting like old friends.

"I guess someone's a bit eager," said Pete, as my mother looked at me with an exasperated expression.

And boy was I! I said good-bye to my mother and gave her a quick hug, threw my bag in the back and hopped into the front passenger seat of Pete's car. Pete said good-bye to my mother, joined me in the car, and we were off to his house. The party didn't start for several hours, and until then I had Pete all to myself.

"I wasn't sure that was going to work," Pete confided in me as we dove.

I grinned conspiratorially at how well things had gone. "She hasn't stopped talking about you since the dinner."

Pete placed his hand on my bare thigh and squeezed it, then reached for my crotch and squeezed me there through my shorts and briefs. My mother, apparently, already was forgotten.

"Ready for some fun?" he asked me. "Little Pete could use some relief."

"Yeah," I replied, blushing a bit as Pete was rarely this overtly frisky prior to our sex play.

"When we get to my place, I've got something I want to show you," he said as he turned his head to look at me with a smile.

"What is it?" I asked, with the eagerness of the 11-year-old child I was.

"You'll see," he replied, while caressing the smooth skin of my bare thigh once again.

We pulled into Pete's driveway and entered the house, whereupon I immediately began stripping off my clothes in the living room, just as I did every Saturday. Meanwhile, Pete retreated into his den only to re-emerge a few moments later carrying a small box.

"Head on upstairs, Davey," he said as I lowered my shorts and briefs to the floor.

Leaving my clothes scattered on the floor right where they had fallen, I scampered past him toward the staircase fully naked. I was too slow to avoid a playful smack on my butt as I ran by.

"Hey!" I squealed with mock indignation as I clutched my butt protectively with my right hand and climbed the stairs as quickly as I could. I ran to Pete's bedroom and dove onto his bed. By the time he arrived, I was lying on the bed, naked and grinning, my head resting on a pillow, my legs stretched out and crossed, my hands behind my head, and my hairless erection levitating from my groin. I was the perfect picture of boyish relaxation and comfort.

"Now that's a sight for sore eyes," Pete said, as he entered the room and drank in my naked form. He walked over toward the bed and dropped the box on the mattress, then matter-of-factly began to remove his own clothes.

My eyes were glued to the box and I immediately sat up, full of curiosity.

"What is it?" I asked, as I suddenly remembered from the car ride that he had wanted to show me something.

"Take a look," he said, as he tossed his shirt on his dresser and started to undo his belt.

I pulled the box toward me, pulled the loose flaps apart, and peered inside. In the box was a stack of magazines, about 15-20 in all. The top one was called Blueboy, and its cover featured a headshot of a teenage boy with long hair. I sifted through the stack to see other titles, such as Boy, Nudist Moppets, Lolitots, and Drum.

I looked up at Pete, who was now naked and semi-erect as he gazed down at me with a smile on his face.

"What are these?" I asked innocently.

"Take them out and see for yourself."

I reached into the box and extracted the entire lot, then dealt them out on the mattress like playing cards. More titles flashed by, such as Freeboy, Lad, and Rookies. There turned out to be 21 individual magazines from nearly a dozen different publications.

"Where did you get these?' I asked, as I randomly picked up the one called Freeboy. I began flipping through the pages, most of which contained black-and-white photographs. Depicted in the photographs were naked boys around my age as well as some both younger and older. The boys were pictured alone, together with other boys, and together with naked men. They were shown both indoors and outdoors, at swimming pools, ponds, and beaches, in gymnasiums and parks, riding bicycles, throwing balls, and playing volleyball. They were all fully naked, except sometimes for footwear. They all looked as natural as could be and seemed to be having fun

Pete didn't answer my question right away, but I didn't even notice. I was mesmerized. As Pete stood nearby watching me, I put Freeboy down and began turning the pages of Lad. The boys in Lad weren't just naked and frolicking, they were engaged in with sex play with other boys and men. I saw younger boys sucking adult cocks, boys engaged in mutual masturbation, and then, in a set of color photographs in the very center of the magazine, boys being anally penetrated by men. I'd heard about buttfucking before, but I'd never seen it before or frankly even visualized it. Now I was looking at color pictures of boys and men doing it with each other.

I didn't realize that Pete had sat down on the edge of the bed and was watching me with a peculiar smile on his face and an erection jutting from his groin.

"Pretty cool, huh?" he asked me. "I thought you might like looking at those."

I looked up, hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Where did you get them?" I asked again in an awestruck tone.

"Oh, here and there," replied Pete noncommittally. "Friends, mostly. Some of them are foreign. You can't even get them here." He reached for one called Slemme Dreng and handed it to me. "This one's Danish," he said.

I took the magazine from him and began flipping through the pages. It depicted boys in various types of restraints and ligatures in different settings, some of which appeared to be factories or even dungeons. Most of the boys were older than I, but there were some around my age or even younger. The boys were chained, caged, in stocks, handcuffed, shackled, tied to posts, spread-eagled on walls, and placed in bondage positions on tables, in chairs and slings, and across beds and mattresses. In several photographs, the boys were in the process of being whipped or beaten, and they appeared to have wounds and marks on their bodies from this treatment. They all looked very uncomfortable and unhappy. Many appeared to be crying or looked like they recently had been. Menacing men in black-leather outfits stood over them in threatening poses. Some of the men were hooded.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. "Is this real?" I asked Pete in astonishment.

He smiled and shook his head. "No, they're just acting. But it's pretty convincing stuff, huh?"

"Yeah," I said, as I flipped back through some of the pages. It looked real enough to me. "What did- why are they doing this?"

Pete chuckled. "That's called BSDM. Bondage and sado-masochism. Some people are really into it. Some boys like it, and others don't. But all of what you see there is fake, so it's nothing to worry about. None of those boys are actually being hurt … unless they want to be."

"But why are they like that?" I asked, as the bridge of my nose wrinkled in confusion. I didn't understand at all.

Pete shrugged. "Some people like the feeling of being tied up and punished," he explained. "It makes them feel even more excited during sex play. Other people are the opposite, and they like the feeling of tying somebody up and punishing them. Think of it as sex-acting."

I must have looked hopelessly confused, because Pete gently pulled Slemme Dreng from my hands and put it back in the box.

"I shouldn't have showed you that one," he said softly. "I'm not even sure why I have it. A friend gave it to me, so I just kept it."

"I mean, it's okay," I replied, not wanting him to think I was a baby. "I just don't really get it."

"And you don't need to get it, Davey. It just another thing people do," he said as he reached out and gave my bare shoulder a little squeeze. "But I like what we do," he said with an impish grin.

I gave him a nod and a reassuring look. I liked what we did, as well. Very much, in fact.

"The party doesn't start until 1 o'clock," he reminded me. "What do you say we have some fun until then?"

I smiled and nodded, then began loading the magazines back into the box. "Thanks for showing me these," I said.

Pete helped me put away the magazines. "I'm glad you liked them, Davey. I thought you'd like to see some of the other things that guys like to do together."

I nodded. "Can I look at them again later?"

"Of course you can," replied Pete as he put the last magazine away and spirited the box away to his dresser. "Any time you want."

I lay back on the bed with my hands behind my head once again, waiting for him to join me. I was still fully erect.

"Roll over on your stomach," he said as he sat down on the bed next to me.

I did as he asked and then spread my legs wide apart for him.

"You know what I want, don't you, Davey?" he asked as he knee-walked himself between my legs and then lowered himself to a lying position with his legs dangling off the end of the bed.

I put my head down on the pillow and waited. Pete's hands spread my butt cheeks apart as I felt his warm breath on my bottom. Then he pursed his lips and blew a stream of air directly against my butt hole.

"That feels so weird," I murmured into the pillow as I felt myself relax.

"Have I ever told you that you have the sexiest little ass I've ever seen?" asked Pete.

I smiled at Pete's foul language and the concept. At 11 years of age, I didn't think of butts as sexy; to me they were just butts – functional, a little dirty, and always very funny.

"You've told me!" I replied with a giggle as Pete brought his mouth to my hole and gave it a kiss. I felt his beard and moustache hairs scratching at my inner thighs as his tongue came out and poked at my opening. "Ahhhh," I sighed contentedly as he began to lick and probe my puckered indent with his tongue. I turned my head to the side and rested my cheek on the pillow above my folded arms.

Pete lifted his head up from between my cheeks. "You like it when I do this, don't you Davey?"

"It feels weird."

"You like it, though. It feels good."

I did like it, and it did feel good, so I sighed in surrender. "Yes."

He slathered my hole and taint with his tongue for a moment, then lifted his head again. "You could try it on me," he said casually.

I shook my head. I knew every inch of Peter's body by now and his butt crack was hairy, as was his hole. I didn't have any interest in licking it. "Unh-unh," I replied.

Pete lapped at my hole as I spoke, then lifted his head. "Why not? Yours is so tasty!"

"Ewww!"

"I'm serious."

I shook my head no, unconvinced.

"You don't know until you've tried," said Pete. "Besides, don't you want to make me feel good, too?"

I paused before answering. Pete had never put it quite like that before. I shrugged and clenched my butt cheeks together at the same time. "Yeah, but … not like- not that way."

Pete kissed my hole once again. "It's not dirty," he said. "You could try it fresh from the shower," he observed. Pete and I often showered together after sex.

I still didn't want to. "Maybe," I replied noncommittally. I was willing to think about it, but for now I wanted to kick that can down the road as far as I could.

"Good boy," said Pete, as he brought his mouth to my butt once again and resumed licking and kissing my hole.

I put my head down on the pillow and just relaxed and enjoyed the sensation. It was a good 10 minutes before he rolled me over and took my steel-hard boner in his warm, wet mouth. It didn't take nearly that long for me to shudder with a pleasurable orgasm, and then it was Pete's turn to be sucked by me.

Afterwards, we spent some time recuperating, talking and goofing around naked on Pete's bed. Once he had recovered enough for round two, we fellated each other all over again on our sides in a long, slow 69. My alone time with Pete flew by as it always did, and soon enough it was time to get dressed and head over to the cast party.

I had a great time at the party. All but one member of the cast came, and everyone was in a jovial mood. Several members of the troop made a point to tell me that they had enjoyed working with me on the play and that I had done a really good job. Even the director, Ray Hamm, was smiling, friendly, and complimentary. He told me that he would be pleased to work with me on another production someday and that I should keep the St. Clair Players in mind for when I got older. That made me feel good, because I hadn't been sure that Mr. Hamm really liked me all that much. Maybe he was just being nice, but it was good to hear all the same.

Even though I was used to being among the adults by now, when the party's host realized that I would be the only kid at the party, he went inside to invite his grandchildren over. They lived just down the street, and shortly after he called, they arrived in swimsuits and flip flops holding their beach towels. Ellen was 12 years old, and Benny was 10, so they were the perfect ages for me to have fun with. I quickly went inside to change and then spent the bulk of the next four hours in the pool playing with his grandchildren. Aside from using the springboard for cannonballs, I only got out of the pool a total three times, once to wolf down a hot dog and some potato chips, and twice to use the bathroom. I was having that much fun!

It was a warm day, but only two of the adults joined us in the pool and only for about 20 minutes or so. Somewhat to my disappointment, Pete never came in for a swim, even though he had brought his swimsuit and had said he would. He told me later that I looked like I was having so much with Ellen and Benny that he didn't want to interfere with our play. He also said that we had to be a bit careful because we spent so much time together and were such good friends, we didn't want anyone to suspect that there was anything going on. I thought about that for a moment and concluded that he probably had a point, even though I wasn't sure how anyone could possibly know about the sex stuff we did together in the privacy of his home.

The cast party went strong from about 2 o'clock to after eight in the evening. Ellen and Benny left around 6:30 p.m., and I finally got out of the pool around 7 o'clock and spent some time talking to the other cast members while downing two full cans of Coke. Eventually, people started leaving the party in ones and twos.

Pete walked up to me as I was seated on a pool chair in my swimsuit. "What do you say, Davey?" he asked me as he ruffled my hair. "About time to head out?" Then his voice changed to a whisper. "I've been watching you running around half-naked all day. Little Pete needs to get home and take care of some business."

I couldn't help but grin at his whispered words. "I'll go change," I said, as I started to get up.

"No, don't," said Pete, still in a low voice. "I want to take your suit off myself when we get back to the house. Just throw your shirt on over it."

That's exactly what I did, and a few minutes later, we were both saying good-bye to Milton Chambers and thanking him for hosting the party. A few minutes after that and we were in Pete's Mercury Marquis heading for home.

"You were teasing me pretty good back there, Davey Pierce," said Pete as he grasped my thigh.

"I can't help it if I'm sexy," I said with a smirk.

"Just wait till I get your sexy little butt home."

"Ooh, a threat," I taunted him.

"It's not a threat, it's a promise."

I giggled. "What are you gonna do?" I asked him.

"You'll just have to find out," he replied in a sinister tone.

We bantered back and forth for the few minutes it took to drive to Pete's house. When we arrived, I gathered up bag and went inside, although I was quite certain that we soon would be enjoying a clothing-free evening together.

As soon as we entered the house and the door closed, Pete picked me up off the ground and planted his mouth over mine, kissing me hungrily while kneading and squeezing my bottom hard with both hands. My lips parted and I returned his kiss as my penis came to life in my still-damp swimsuit. Pete moaned into my mouth and continued squeezing my butt cheeks as he walked me toward the stairwell. I wrapped my legs around his middle and clung to him like a baby monkey as he began to carry me upstairs.

When we arrived in his bedroom, Pete tossed me unceremoniously on the bed and immediately began kicking off his shoes and removing his clothes.

"You were teasing me all day with your sexy little body, Davey Pierce," he said ominously while pulling his t-shirt off. "Don't you dare deny it."

I giggled and stretched out on the bed with my hands behind my head, fully intending to tease him some more.

"You think it's funny, do you?" he said with a smile. "Acting like a little tart, all sexy and cute."

"Was it 'cause of my swimsuit?" I asked, as I swiveled my hips on the mattress to the left and right a few times, showing off my light-blue trunks.

Pete grunted as he stepped out of his shorts and boxers, once again displaying his hairy, adult body to me. I grinned in anticipation as I saw that his cock already was hard.

"A finer lad I've ne'er seen," he said, as Uncle Trowse.

"Ah, Pete, YOU makes me wear 'em!" I replied as a giggling Sebastian McCardle.

"And now I'm gonna makes ya take 'em off!" he said as he suddenly dove onto the bed and crawled across toward me.

"Eeeeeeeek!" I squealed as I tried to roll away, but I was too late. Pete straddled me and pinned my arms above my head.

"Oh, I'm going to enjoy this!" he said menacingly as he leered down at me.

"No, no, help!" I said as I squirmed and giggled. "Help me, please! A big gorilla has me! Help!"

Pete held my arms down and drew his legs together as he sat down on my thighs, pinioning me to the mattress. I couldn't move a muscle.

"A big gorilla, huh?"

"Yes, a great big hairy, naked one!"

"Dead boy!" he said, as he lowered his head and burrowed his face into my left armpit. I still had my tank top on, but my underarms were exposed, and Pete's mouth and tongue went after them with a vengeance. He knew how ticklish I was, and his actions instantly reduced me to shrieks and giggles as I squirmed helplessly beneath him.

Pete lifted his head for a moment. "A finer lad I've ne'er EATEN!" he said, as he resumed his attack, this time on my right armpit.

"N-no … st- stop!" I giggled breathlessly as I struggled and squirmed.

"I don't think we need this anymore!" said Pete as he let go of my wrists and unceremoniously yanked my tank top up over my head and off. Then he pinned my arms over my head once again and resumed licking and slurping at my armpits in turn. Pete's wet tongue soon had me squirming, giggling, and gasping like nobody's business.

"N-no! Heheheheheh! Pete! Hahahahahaha! St-stop!"

Pete didn't stop. His mouth moved quickly from one armpit to the other, licking and mouthing them one at a time. I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe, but he continued his assault, blowing raspberries against my sensitive underarms to make me squirm even more.

Finally, he lifted his head and looked down at my red, smiling face. "What will you give me to stop?" he teased.

"Nothing!" I replied defiantly with a giggle.

"OK, I can do this all day!"

Pete's mouth was back at my armpits at a flash, licking and lipping my smooth, sensitive skin. In seconds, I was reduced to breathless giggles and helpless squirms all over again.

"St-st-stop! Stop! Hehehehehe!"

After ravishing my armpits for several more seconds, Pete lifted up again. "So, what will you give me?" he teased as he pinned my wrists to the mattress to either side of my head.

"Anything! Anything you want!" I gasped in surrender.

"Anything?" he asked, his left eyebrow cocked.

"Yes! Yes! Anything!" I giggled as I squirmed underneath him.

"Hmmm," said Pete as he let my wrists go and sat back on my thighs. He was fully erect, his 7" cock straining up from his hairy groin. "Anything I want, huh?"

Still grinning, with my bare chest rising and falling and delight in my eyes, I nodded.

"Well then, the very first thing I want is you naked" he said in a commanding voice, before adding in a stage-whisper "of course, I always want you naked, so it will have to be something else, too."

I giggled as I reached for the string tie at the front of my trunks, but Pete brushed my hands away.

"Oh, no," he said as he began to untie the knot himself, "I've wanted to get you out of those myself all day."

I put my arms back behind my head and watched as Pete started to tug my swimsuit down off my hips. My penis was fully erect, and it snagged on the mesh fabric of the swimsuit's crotch as Pete pulled my suit off.

"Ahh," I gasped as the suit caught my boner.

"Someone's a little excited, isn't he?" teased Pete as he lifted the front of the swimsuit up and dragged it past my erection.

I smiled but said nothing as Pete yanked the trunks down and off my legs.

"Ahh, now that's what I like to see," said Pete. "Naked boy."

I grinned and pumped my hips up at him, making my airless boner wag from my groin.

"Little tease!" he said.

"Big, hairy gorilla!"

"Dead boy!" he said as he lunged for me once again, causing me to squeal and turtle on the bed. But Pete had other things in mind, and after only short moment of tickling me, he suddenly dismounted the bed and headed for the bedroom door. "I'll be right back," he said.

When he returned, Pete was carrying another box. The one from earlier with the magazines in it was still on his dresser, but this one was a bit larger and it looked worn and older. He set it down on the dresser next to the first box. I sat up a little as he grabbed a handful of the magazines from the first box and tossed them on the bed.

"Anytime you want to look at these, just ask me buddy, okay?" he said.

I picked up three of them and shuffled through the titles. Rookies, Lolitots, and Slemme Dreng.

"What's in the other box?" I asked as I began to turn the pages of Rookies. Inside were more black-and-white pages of naked boys posing in various settings.

"I call this my toy box," said Pete as he reached inside and extracted a slender, white object about six inches long. "Dildos in various sizes," he said as he tossed it back in the box. "Butt plugs, same," he said, displaying a smaller object, black in color, before also tossing it back in the box. He extracted a metal ring and held it up. "Cock ring."

I stared at each of the objects but didn't have the slightest clue what any of them were for.

"Ball gag," said Pete as he held up what looked like a leather harness with a red ball in the middle of it. He tossed it back in the box. "Blindfold," he said as he held up a black piece of fabric.

"Wait, what's that for?" I asked. I suddenly had the thought that the box contained props for a magic show. After all, magicians used blindfolds, right?

"You'll find out," replied Pete. He reached into the box once again and extracted a couple of shiny pairs of manacles. "Two pairs of handcuffs." He dropped them back in the box and extracted a tangled wad of white rope. "Various restraints and tie-downs."

Now I was sure this was stuff for a magic show. I had read in a book once that Harry Houdini used items like these in his escape routines, and that was the quickest association my 11-year-old brain could form.

Pete reached into the box and extracted a black-handled item with straps hanging down from it. "Obligatory flogger," he said, in what might as well have been a foreign language.

"What's that for?" I asked. I didn't think Houdini used one of those.

"All in good time, my dear boy. All in good time."

He extracted what looked like a tube of toothpaste and a small jar of Vaseline. "Lubricants," he declared before dropping them back in the box. He peered into the box and appeared to be rifling through the contents. "Oh, and clothespins," he said as he pulled a handful of wooden clothespins from the box. They were the kind with the metal hinge in the middle that opened and closed with tension. "Lots and lots of those."

"What is all this stuff?" I asked, now thoroughly confused.

"I already told you, this is my toy box."

"But what do you do with it?"

"I play with the toys, of course."

I really wanted to know what the items in the box were used for, and I was getting mildly irritated that he wouldn't tell me. "Come on, Pete. What are they for?"

Pete sat on the bed and placed his hand on my semi-hard penis, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"They're sex toys, Davey," he explained. "Just like little kids play with kid toys, adults sometimes play with sex toys. It can make what we do feel even better. It makes things more exciting, too. More fun."

It was at this point that it finally dawned on me then that I had seen some of the items in Pete's toy box in the magazine of tied-up boys from earlier. The same magazine, Slemme Dreng, was lying on the bed. I picked it up.

"Like in this?" I asked.

Pete nodded. "That's more extreme – boys acting out roles to make it look like they're really being punished – but yes."

I flipped the magazine open and thumbed through a few pages. "So, they're acting?" I asked, curious about this new information.

"Right," replied Pete. "Sex acting, I guess you could call it."

"Because it's more fun?"

"Sometimes, a lot of times, yes."

"Are we gonna do that?" I asked.

"You did say 'anything,'" Pete reminded me in a sing-song voice.

I grinned bashfully. The idea of doing sex acting with Pete appealed to me. We were actors, after all, and combining acting with sex would combine two things that I really enjoyed doing, especially with Pete.

"Okay!" I said with a big grin.

Pete looked very pleased with me. "Lie down on the bed with your arms above your head," he instructed. I immediately complied. "No, scooch down a little bit, like this," he said as he grasped my lower legs and dragged me a closer to the foot of the bed.

Repositioned now, I watched, smiling and excited, as Pete reached into the box and extracted a length of rope from the box, along with a pair of handcuffs. He crawled onto the bed once again and over my body, straddling me.

"Arms together," he ordered, and when I drew my hands together above my chest, he promptly clicked the handcuffs shut on my wrists. "Now I have you right where I want you!" he said in a sinister Uncle Trowse voice.

I giggled at his antics as he tied the end of the length of rope to the handcuff chain, then fed the other end between two vertical rails on the headboard and back out between two more. He tied the rope off and climbed off the bed. He went around to the foot of the bed, grasped my ankles and pulled my body down the bed until the handcuffs pulled my arms straight back behind my head and my body was stretched taut across the mattress.

"That's nice and tight," he said in his normal voice. "Are the cuffs digging into your wrists?"

The cuffs were tight, but not uncomfortable. "No, they're alright," I replied.

I watched as he went back to the box and extracted two additional lengths of rope. He tied one length to each of my ankles, then pulled the ropes tight and affixed the other ends to the short end caps at each corner of the foot of the bed. This left me tied helplessly on the bed, my body stretched and taut in an inverted Y position. My penis was full erect, levitating above my stretched, sunken tummy.

Pete returned to the box and extracted the harness thing with the big red ball in the center.

"You will be gagged, boy," he informed me as Mean Uncle Trowse.

"No, no, please! Please don't gag me!" I begged as Terrified Sebastian McCardle. Pete had been right about the sex acting. I was finding this fun beyond measure!

He pushed the ball into my mouth and set about adjusting and securing the straps behind my head. The ball was big, and it spread my jaws wide apart. It was also quite effective in subduing any effort at speech.

"Uuummmmugggg uuggggg," I said.

"Silence, slave!" said Mean Uncle Trowse as he finished with the straps.

I watched in silence as Pete returned to the box once again, this time extracting the blindfold. In short order he had folded the fabric several times and tied it across my eyes and behind my head, leaving me sightless.

"Uugggg uuuhhhh," I said.

"Silence!" he bellowed.

I went quiet. I couldn't see and I needed the silence to hear. There was a brief pause, and then I felt the mattress move as Pete climbed onto the bed with me. He was silent and so was I, as I waited with anticipation for whatever would happen next.

Then I felt a cool jet of air waft over my erection, then another. Pete was blowing on my penis! I didn't know exactly where he was or how he was positioned, but that just added to the thrill. It was somehow exciting to know that my naked body was splayed out for Pete and that he could do anything to me that he wanted.

I felt another cool breeze, and then Pete took my rod in his mouth. He bobbed up and down, noisily slurping my shaft and swirling his tongue over my sensitive glans.

"Unnhhhh," I moaned, as he worked my penis with his mouth. Pete didn't respond, but instead continued to suck me. I couldn't move a muscle, but my immobility just seemed to heighten the pleasure I felt in my loins.

Pete kept at it, never varying his technique, taking my penis to the hilt in his mouth before sucking back up my shaft and swirling over my piss slit with his tongue. It felt divine, and soon I was bucking on the mattress in the throes of another dry orgasm, trying desperately to thrust my penis deeper into Pete's mouth and throat.

"Uhhhhhh," I sighed contentedly into my gag as I felt Pete dismount the bed. I thought he would take my blindfold off then, but it remained in place. I lay still, trying to listen and anticipate what would happen next.

I gasped in surprise as I felt Pete pinch my left nipple with his fingers, and then I felt an object there as a different pitching sensation replaced his fingers. I instantly knew it was one of the clothespins! It pinched, but not too much. It didn't really hurt so much as it felt weird.

Then Pete did the same thing to my right nipple. I gasped in surprise as the clothespin bit into my tender flesh. Pete made no sound, and I could neither see nor hear anything. I was on a knife's edge of anticipation as I waited to see what he would do to me next.

Then I felt the skin of my upper left side pinching together as Pete applied another clothespin there. I gasped into my gag as it gripped my flesh. He applied another clothespin to my other side. Then I felt him crease the sensitive skin of my left inner thigh before placing yet another clothespin there. Next, he applied one opposite to it on my right thigh.

I now had six clothespins pinching my skin in different places. None of them hurt individually, but collectively they were triggering pain receptors seemingly all over my body. But Pete wasn't done. He applied still more clothespins in sets to my upper chest, my triceps, and another set to my inner thighs. He even applied a pair to my earlobes.

Throughout it all, Pete remained entirely quiet, as did I save for occasional grunts of surprise and mild pain. Pete's complete silence added to the mystique of what he was doing. I had no way of knowing where the first clothespin in each set would go, but once that one was placed, I could anticipate another being applied in symmetrical fashion. In this way, Pete left me guessing where the first clothespin would go, while dreading the application of the second.

I lost count of the number of clothespins as Pete continued to place them on my body. I knew I had as many as five running down each of my inner thighs. Those hurt the most, probably because there were so many of them, but I was never in any acute pain. Rather, the clothespins provided a dull, throbbing baseline of pain that I could feel across my entire body.

Just when I thought Pete had to be done, I felt him touch my scrotum as he applied a clothespin there. "Uhhhhh," I moaned as it pinched my skin.

Another clothespin followed on the other side of my ball sac, then another, and another, and another, until it felt weighted down with them and I could feel the ends of the clothespins dangling against my inner thighs. I now felt a dull, aching, throbbing pain seemingly everywhere. But when I flexed my groin muscles, I could tell from the wobble that I had another full erection.

Still, Pete did not speak. A full minute went by in silence, and then another. I neither moved nor spoke, but simply lay there decorated with clothespins, fully erect, and unable to see. I knew that I was completely at Pete's mercy, and all I could do was wait to see what he would do next.

Then I felt one of the clothespins on my upper left side flip up and flop back against my skin. The clothespin maintained its grip on my fold of skin, but I could feel the pinch point more intensely where it tugged. Then the one on my left nipple bounced, then another one on my right inner thigh. Pete was flicking at the clothespins at random, one at a time, lifting them up, causing them to tug on my sensitive skin, heightening the pinching sensation.

"Unnggg, ungggg," I moaned through my gag as the flipping continued. I didn't know where the next tiny jolt of pain would come from. Then Pete flicked one of the clothespins a bit too hard and it lost its grip, pinching my skin painfully as it snapped away.

"Unggggg," I sighed, as Pete immediately reapplied the clothespin in the same place as before.

In complete silence, Pete continued to flick the clothespins randomly all over my body as I moaned softly through my gag. Then, suddenly, he stopped. I went completely still and silent as I listened intently for any signs of what would happen next. I thought I heard soft footfalls and the barely perceptible creak of floorboards as if Pete was moving away from me. Then I heard nothing at all.

I lay there on the mattress, stretched out, completely immobilized, gagged, and helpless. As best I could tell I had well over four dozen clothespins attached to little folds of skin all over my body. The combination of those pinch points and Pete's flicking of them had produced a dull but constant pain all over my body. I felt a little bit like a pin cushion.

Pete must have returned without my knowing it as I next heard a click followed by a clunking sound, then a high-pitched, mechanical whir. The sound originated very close to me, but I didn't know what caused it. I heard it again, then again, and then once more for a total of four times. I was mystified, and my body was quivering with anticipation as I waited for Pete's next move.

Suddenly, one of the clothespins on my upper side near my underarm flicked up and back, causing me to moan into my gag.

"I think it's time for these to come off," said Mean Uncle Trowse. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, my little slave?"

I nodded my head vigorously up and down. "Unnggg, unggg," I gasped into my gag.

"Do you admit that you teased me at the pool today with your sexy little body?"

"Unggg, unggg," I replied, as I nodded once again.

Pete flicked at one of the clothespins, causing me to moan. "So, your punishment is richly deserved, is it not, little slave?"

I nodded my agreement.

"And, as your uncle and master, I can do anything I wish to you, true?"

I paused for a moment, then nodded. I wasn't sure how Uncle Trowse had become my master and I his slave, but we were ad-libbing as we went along, and it was exciting and fun.

"Well then, my sexy little slave," said Mean Uncle Trowse, "let us remove the punishment devices."

I felt a pinch in my upper right thigh as Pete lifted one of the clothespins fastened there and wobbled it back and forth, causing me to moan. Then I felt my skin tug as he slowly pulled the clothespin away from my body. It pulled free with a snapping sound and a sharp pinch of pain.

"Unnggg," I gasped, as I flinched in my binds.

I felt a tug on my ear as Pete pulled the next on free. It snapped off with another nip of pain, causing me to moan. Then I realized that he intended to remove all the clothespins by tugging them off slowly, one at a time!

"Ungggg, unggg," I gasped as I shook my head no.

"Oh, but yes!" replied Mean Uncle Trowse. "Sexy little slave boys who tease their masters are to be punished most severely!" he said as he tugged a clothespin free from my scrotum, causing another sharp bite of pain.

Pete continued to remove the clothespins one at a time as I lay moaning and quivering on the bed. I felt a momentary but intense nip of pain each time he pulled one free. Pete took his time, maximizing my uncertainty and torment by randomizing the removal sequence. I didn't know which clothespin would be removed until I felt the bite as it pulled free from my skin. In fact, I didn't even know where on my body the clothespins were still attached, as the ones that remained had made the skin underneath go numb.

It took a while for all the clothespins to be removed from my body. Throughout it all, Pete remained silent and mostly still, although I could feel his body moving the mattress as he reached across me or repositioned himself. That was the only warning I received that another clothespin was about to be removed, and even then, I had no idea where.

Finally, I felt Pete grasp my penis and give it a little squeeze. I was still rock hard, which I hadn't even realized. "Somebody seems to like being a slave," he said in a teasing Pete voice as he gave it a little stroke. I didn't try to reply verbally, but I flexed my muscles down there to make my penis move in his hand and let him know that I was listening.

"Good boy," said Pete. "Good little slave."

Pete unhanded my cock and I could feel the mattress move again as he repositioned himself. I felt the soft touch of his fingertips brush over my chest, then down to the hollow of my stretched tummy, then back up across my chest to my underarms. He wasn't moving quickly enough or pressing hard enough to tickle, but I tensed, nonetheless.

"Have you ever noticed how little difference there is between touching and tickling?" he asked in a teasing tone of voice.

"Unggg," I responded, as I shook my head no. I was completely defenseless in this position, and if Pete started to tickle me, I knew there was nothing I could do to defend myself.

"No, you don't know?" he teased, as if he didn't understand.

"Ungggg, unggg!" I answered, shaking my head violently side to side.

"Well, then let me show you," he said, as his fingers lightly caressed my chest and tummy. "This is just a touch. See how soft and gentle it is? How good it feels?"

I shook my head no as his fingertips continued to graze over my soft skin. It did feel good in a tantalizing kind of way, and my nipples responded by hardening with goosepimples. I could feel even more goosepimples forming on my sides and elsewhere.

"But this," Pete said in an ominous tone, "is a tickle." With that, his fingers pressed into my tummy and proceeded to tickle their way all over my abdomen, sides, and underarms. Instantly, I was reduced to helpless squirming as I tried desperately but ineffectively to protect my defenseless body.

"Unggg, ungggg!" I grunted into my gag as his fingers had their way with my most sensitive places. Pete didn't stop, or even slow down, as his fingers and hands raced across my body, tickling, poking, and prodding everywhere. I could do nothing to stop him. Eventually, even my desperate grunts of protest were silenced as the tickling drove the air from my lungs.

"Little slaves who tease their masters get punished!" he said gleefully, as his strong fingers roamed all over my body, even reaching down to tickle the insides of my thighs and under my knees. He tickled me this way for probably about 20 seconds although it seemed like an eternity to me. Finally, his fingers stopped, even as they remained on my chest, poised to resume.

"Breathe, little slave," Pete commanded.

I sucked in a big breath through my nose, then immediately exhaled it. "Unggg!" I protested. Another big breath followed. "Unggg! Unggg!" I grunted into the gag as I shook my head from side to side.

"What's that? You want more?" Pete asked.

"Un-" I started to say, as Pete's fingers resumed their assault on my bound body, tickling me every bit as vigorously as before. I squirmed and writhed as much as my binds would allow but was again utterly unable to protect myself. This time, the tickling didn't last for quite so long before Pete paused once again.

"Breathe, slave," said Pete, as I indeed sucked in a much-needed breath.

"Ungggg," I protested. I shook my head from side to side, signaling that I was done.

"More?" asked Pete, in an incredulous voice.

"Unngg! Unggggg!" I grunted, as I shook my head violently from side to side. I didn't think I could take anymore tickling, not like that, anyway.

Suddenly, I felt my head being lifted from the mattress as Pete's fingers worked to remove the gag. In a few seconds he had the harness part undone and the ball extracted from my mouth. The blindfold remained over my eyes and before I could utter a word, Pete pressed his lips to mine, and we were locked in a kiss. I immediately felt Pete's tongue probing at the junction of my lips, and I opened my mouth in invitation. His tongue slid inside, slippery and wet, as mine joined the action.

We kissed like that for several minutes as Pete's hand gently masturbated my still-hard penis. I remained bound and cuffed to the mattress, unable to move, but those restrictions did not apply to my head, mouth, or tongue, and I eagerly engaged Pete in a long sloppy, wet kiss. Finally, he disengaged from my mouth and I felt the mattress move as he rolled to the side.

"You are amazing, Davey Pierce," he said to me as his fingers began to caress my chest. "Do you have any idea how proud I am of you?"

I still couldn't see, but for the first time in a while, I could talk. "Why are you proud of me?"

"For the way you handled yourself during the production. For the way you interacted with all the adults. For the way you've made me so happy these past few weeks."

My heart almost leapt from my chest. I had done those things, and apparently, I had done them well. Consequently, my best friend and mentor was proud of me. It was heady stuff for an 11-year-old.

"It was fun," I replied. "I liked it, too."

"You look so sexy all tied up," Pete said as his fingers drifted over my nipples. "I think I'll just leave you like this until morning."

"Pete!" I replied with a grin, as I shook my head no.

"Oh, well, why not? What are you going to do about it?"

I grinned at his teasing. "What if I have to pee? Then you're cleaning up the mess!" I replied triumphantly.

"You want to try something new?" Pete asked me, changing the subject.

"What?"

His hand left my chest and I felt the mattress shift as Pete repositioned himself once again. His body touched me in various places as I could feel him straddling me once again, his knees to either side of my torso. His fingers lightly touched my lips.

"Open your mouth, Davey."

I wasn't sure what he had in mind, but I opened my mouth in a wide O. I felt his body shift on the bed as he presented the tip of his cock to my lips, smearing them with his wetness.

"Mmmmm," I moaned, as I lifted my head off the mattress and took his entire cockhead in my mouth. I could taste the slightly metallic tang of his precum on my taste buds.

"Good boy," Pete whispered, as he pointed his cock downward and fed it to me. It was a little difficult to hold my head up at the proper angle, however, and my neck muscles strained with effort. "Let me help," said Pete, as he reached down and supported the back of my head with the palm of his hand. That took the strain off my neck and improved the angle for his cock to enter my mouth.

"Mmmmm," I moaned again as I began to swirl his cockhead with my tongue. I knew he liked that from the times I had sucked him before.

"Oh, that feels nice, Davey," he whispered. "Keep doing that, baby. Good boy."

I continued to work on him with my tongue as Pete used his hips to slide his cock slowly back and forth between my lips. His hand at the back of my head assisted in the effort, pulling my face a bit closer each time he thrust forward. Aside from the movement of my tongue across his glans, Pete was doing all the work.

"You have no idea how sexy you look right now," said Pete as he continued to move his cock gently in and out of my mouth. He was feeding me a bit more of his shaft now, pressing his cockhead to the back of my mouth as he controlled the movement of my head with his hand.

"Mmmmm," I moaned again as I swirled my tongue across his piss slit. His precum mixed with my saliva to help lubricate his entry.

Apparently, Pete hadn't been kidding about getting turned on watching me swim at the cast party, as it didn't take him long at all to approach orgasm. "I'm getting close, baby," he said in a tight whisper. "Do you want to take my cum?"

I knew exactly what he meant, but I still wasn't sure I was ready for that, especially blindfolded and bound as I was, so I shook my head no – or at least as much as I could shake it with Pete's hard cock sliding between my lips.

"That's alright," Pete replied as he continued to work his cock slowly in and out of my mouth, but there was an unmistakable tone of disappointment in his voice. I already knew that Pete wanted to cum in my mouth. He had offered and asked several times before and I had always turned him down. Suddenly, I simply felt like I should stop saying no. I didn't want to disappoint my friend any longer. I nodded and tried to verbalize my assent.

He immediately got the message. "Is that a yes?" he asked excitedly. "That's a yes! Oh, Davey."

Pete immediately upped the pace of his undulations and I could tell from his breathing and little grunts that he was very close to orgasm. I knew what would be coming. I had seen cum shoot out of Pete's cock dozens of times now, and I knew he made a large quality of it, especially the first time he climaxed. But despite what I knew, or thought I knew, there was absolutely no way I could prepare myself for what happened next.

Pete's cock simply erupted in my mouth. One moment, he was moving his member back and forth between my lips, and the next, my mouth was filled to overflowing with his thick spunk. It happened so fast that even though I was prepared for it, it took me a split second to figure out what it was. I had just started to swallow some of it out of necessity when the next spurt followed the first into my already-full mouth, causing cum to leak out of both sides of my mouth, down my neck and onto the mattress below. Meanwhile, Pete continued to hold my head to his groin with the palm of his hand.

I tried to swallow, but it was a lost cause right from the start. It was in that moment that I learned firsthand that it's one thing to watch a load of cum spurt from a cock, but it's quite another to try to swallow it all down. There was just too much of it, and even with half of it leaking out of my mouth between my lips, the amount that remained was enough to make me choke.

I was in the process of trying to swallow at least some of it when Pete sent another volley of the stuff straight down my throat. This was too much for me to handle. I couldn't breathe! I tried to move my head away to let Pete know that I was in distress, but he was in the throes of his orgasm and his cock continued to pump cum into my mouth as he palmed the back of my head. Even as I spluttered and bucked beneath him, Pete didn't let up until he had fed me his entire load. I nearly threw up as I choked on the stuff, and by the time Peter withdrew his cock from my mouth, I was coughing and gagging and his cum was coming out of both my nostrils.

Afterwards, Pete cleaned my face with a pillowcase while he comforted me, telling me that he was proud of me and that his latest orgasm had been the best of his life. I was upset and more than a little bit mad at what had happened, but I was still tied to the bed and it wasn't like I could go anywhere and pout. He gently caressed my chest as he spoke to me, soothing me and making me feel better. He praised my maturity and thanked me profusely for making him feel so good. I just couldn't stay mad at him, and I did feel proud, even if it had been an unpleasant introduction to swallowing. I didn't care at all for the flavor of the stuff, either, which was still lingering on my taste buds. Little did I know then just how used to that taste I was going to get.

Chapter Three

Everything was going well and then my mother lost her job. I remember the date – February 10, 1978 – almost as if it was yesterday. For the past decade, she had worked for a man named Eugene Hannaford, who owned a handful of independent gas stations in our area. My mother did everything required in the back office. She ordered the gas and inventory for the convenience stores, handled payroll, paid the taxes, answered the phones, wrote letters, and scheduled compliance and weights-and-measures audits. Essentially, she did everything, and eventually, she made pretty good money doing it. She made enough to afford a house in the suburbs, enough to feed and clothe both of us, and even enough left over for a vacation here and there and some of the extras that make life a little more fun.

But as it turned out, she made too much. Gas shortages throughout the 1970s, but especially in 1977 and into 1978, had cut into profits at gas stations, especially the independent owners who relied on gas sales to attract patrons to their convenience stores. The gas itself was sold not that much above cost, but the convenience-store sales – beer, soft drinks, snacks, and especially cigarettes – had high margins and generated much of an independent gas station's profits. Lower gas sales meant lower convenience-stores sales, which meant lower profits, which meant that my mother became too expensive. She was laid off from her job with a mere two weeks of severance, which Mr. Hannaford apologetically told her was all he could afford under the circumstances.

My mother losing her job was a calamity for our little family. I should explain that my mother had raised me on her own from the time I was two years old. I don't remember my father and might as well have never even have met the man. My mother rarely spoke of him, and when she did, it wasn't positive. Most of what I know about him I learned from my grandmother (my mother's mother) before she died. Apparently, my father drank, couldn't hold a job down, and had been ornery and disagreeable with my mother almost from the day they were married. Over time, any feelings the two had once had for each other were long gone. My father's drinking eventually got so bad that he became violent on more than one occasion. That was enough for my mother, who scooped me up, moved in with my grandmother, and filed for divorce.

I'm not sure I ever saw my father even once after that. He gave up custody of me, and to my knowledge never tried to see or contact me again. I probably should have felt resentful about that, but I didn't. From my perspective, I never had a father, and I did just fine with my mother. In my house, she was the breadwinner, and she was the one who put food on the table. I didn't know any other way, certainly not when I was 11 years old.

But then she lost her job, and things changed almost immediately. Among other changes, it was clear from the outset that we wouldn't be able to keep the house. Each month, the mortgage payment ate the largest component of my mother's paycheck, while we lived on what was left. The mortgage was sacrosanct; my mother was never even so much as late with a payment, but she was never in position to get ahead on payments, either. She listed the house for sale the week after she lost her job. I think she made one further mortgage payment before the house sold. Two weeks later, we moved into a small apartment on the west side of town. The apartment was much smaller than our house, meaning that we couldn't take most of our furniture and appliances with us. My mother sold some items and gave others away. The rest we just left in the house for the new buyers to use or dispose of as they saw fit.

Moving to the apartment wasn't the only change we endured. My mother looked for work, but 1978 was not a good time to be unemployed in small-town America. As well as my mother had done working for Mr. Hannaford, she had only a high-school education and not very much else on her résumé. The only jobs she seemed qualified for paid literally a quarter of what she had been making ffrom Mr. Hannaford. Looking for a new job for the first time in 10 years was hard on her, and unlike the last time she had been unemployed and looking for work, she no longer had my grandmother to fall back on for assistance. Grandma had died when I was eight, and her house had long since been sold. It was just the two of us now.

Mom eventually got a job working at the convenience store of one of the rival independent gas stations that were in competition with those owned by Mr. Hannaford. It was a humiliating demotion from her prior position, and it came with the aforesaid three-quarters reduction in our family income. The truth was that my mother had gone almost overnight from making a comfortable living to earning barely above minimum wage. That was a shock to me, as was the knowledge that we now received public assistance, including food stamps. Even my school lunches were paid for now, which was particularly embarrassing to me each day in the lunch line.

All of this played out over the span of just a couple of months. My mother did what she could to right the ship, but the changes took a toll on her. Gone was the happy, confident, self-sufficient woman I had grown up with. In a matter of a few weeks, the pleasant and energetic mother I had known my entire life was replaced by a dour-faced, unhappy, tired-looking woman who came home from work exhausted each day and wanted a drink to relax. Or perhaps I should say, needed a drink.

My mother's drinking started to become a real problem about two or three months after she lost her job. She kept it in check enough to get to work in the morning, but the stress of losing her position with Mr. Hannaford and everything she had worked so hard for was too much to cope with alone. She sought solace in a bottle, and things gradually became more distant between us. She still provided for me, doing my wash and things like that, but her involvement in my life began to diminish in both quantity and quality and continued to diminish steadily thereafter.

Meanwhile, I was spending more and more time with Pete. My new apartment was within biking distance to his house, and I started visiting him not only on Saturdays for my acting lessons, but also sometimes after school. He was a sympathetic ear when I needed it, and I began turning to him for answers to life's little problems and concerns. Many of those involved my mother and her drinking, and my naive hope that things someday would get back to normal. I guess as an 11-year-old kid I didn't understand that sometimes things don't get back to normal, not ever. They keep getting worse and worse, which is what happened with my mom.

I continued to have sex with Pete just about every time I saw him. It was just a thing we did. While there may have been a few visits where we didn't have sex, I don't remember them. Usually, I would be naked shortly after I walked into his house – even sooner if I couldn't stay too long. I got better and better at giving him blowjobs. After that first time on the bed, I began swallowing nearly every time. Every once in a while I didn't feel like it and would race off his bed to spit the stuff in the sink of the master bathroom, but that was rare. Mostly I just drank it down. I never really came to like the taste, but Pete often would tell me not to waste it. "It's good for you – makes you grow up big and strong," he would say. Even then, I didn't really believe him.

Our tie-up games continued, as well. We always took on roles for this, with me as the poor, helpless child, and Pete as someone in a position of authority over me. We played schoolboy-and-schoolmaster, Scout-and-Scoutmaster, kidnapper-and-victim, invading-general-and-captured-boy. A favorite for both of us was pirate-and-cabin-boy, which could involve all sorts of accents and voices. In many of these scenes, Pete would spank my bottom and punish me with a multitude of heinous tortures. It was all good fun, and Pete made sure to keep any pain well under my tolerance threshold – usually, at least.

I didn't realize it at the time, of course, but as we were role-playing I pretty naturally fell into the role of the submissive in our relationship while Pete equally naturally assumed the role of the dominant. Given the big age difference between us and Pete's large size (I remained small and at 11 was quite undersized for my age) it was only natural that this occurred. I didn't have a full understanding of this dynamic at the time – I thought it was just part of our play – but Pete gradually transitioned his dominant tendencies from the role-play scenes we imagined together to our everyday interactions. He rarely called me Davey anymore. Even when we weren't technically playing, I was "my little slave" or "boy." I thought it was fun to stay in-character like this, and it mostly was.

A couple of months after everything happened with my mom, I was lying across Pete's lap, fresh from a pirate spanking or punishment of some sort or another, when he drew his finger very deliberately down my cleft and across my anus. I flinched and clenched my cheeks together, as he rarely ever did that. I thought it might have been an accident, but he pulled my cheeks apart with the fingers and thumb of one hand while he ran the forefinger of his other hand down my crack once again, pausing on my opening there.

"You know, slave, it's about time we started introducing your cute little butt to some new fun and games," he said as he prodded at my little pink hole.

I was still only 11, but I wasn't ignorant about such things. I had been through Pete's entire magazine collection several times by now, and I knew about anal sex. I had even seen pictures of men doing it to boys, both my age and even younger. In Slemme Dreng, the boys were in bondage when the anal sex occurred. Even though I knew about anal sex, Pete had never once suggested that he wanted to try it, and because it seemed nasty and dirty to me, I was perfectly fine with that. But now it seemed that things were about to change.

"What do you mean?" I asked him, not altogether innocently. I was pretty sure what he had in mind, but perhaps he meant something different by "fun and games."

"I think you know exactly what I mean," he said, as he lightly circled and prodded at my puckered hole. It felt weird, and I clenched my cheeks once again.

"Stop that, slave!" Pete commanded. He punctuated his instruction with a sharp slap to my bottom. The sound reverberated in the bedroom and the pain stung my behind. I gasped aloud and relaxed my cheeks, as he continued to pry them apart with one hand while probing at my hole with the forefinger of the other.

"You know exactly what I mean, little man," said Pete in a softer tone of voice. I did know, or at least I thought I did. But I had some concerns.

"Will it fit?" I asked him skeptically.

"Of course it will fit. Butt holes are stretchy. Especially boy butt holes."

I wanted to ask him if it would hurt, but I was pretty sure I already knew the answer to that.

"Don't worry, Davey. We'll get you ready, open things up a little down there," he said, as he slid his hands softly over my upturned cheeks. Pete rarely called me Davey anymore, and I could tell he was trying to be gentle and sympathetic.

"How?"

"You'll see. It's easy."

I remained quiet for a moment. I didn't know the answer to that one, and I couldn't conjure it up in my mind.

"Does it hurt?" That had been foremost on my mind, after all.

"A little at first," said Pete. "Nothing a tough slave boy like you can't handle," he added as he delivered a spank to my bottom, followed by another. "Right?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, master."

"Good slave." Pete spanked me again, not as hard. "Are you my little slave?"

"Yes, master."

"Do you want to please me in all things?"

"Yes, master." I could feel my cock erecting as I lay across his lap.

"This will please both of us, slave."

I nodded. I wasn't so sure of that.

"Do you believe me?"

"Yes, master."

"Good then," Pete replied as he pried my cheeks apart and placed his forefinger on my button. "Saturday. Come early. Bring your butt with you."

I laughed at this, as I usually did when Pete made a joke. Pete always knew he could keep me in stitches with silliness like that.

"If you came without your butt, what fun would that be?" he persisted.

I giggled again and tried to turn over, but Pete was having none of it.

"Where do you think you're going, slave?"

"To the bathroom – come on, Pete!" I whined.

"That's 'master' to you, slave. Slaves who disrespect their masters are punished!" With that said, he delivered five medium spanks to my bottom.

"Pete!" I squealed and squirmed. "I gotta go."

"'Master!'" he replied, before spanking me again. I tried to intervene with my hands, but he grasped both of my wrists in an iron grip and pulled them away. Then he delivered five sharp spanks in quick succession to my already-spanked bottom.

"Owwwwwwwww!" I howled. It actually hurt.

"Say, 'I'll come early on Saturday and I won't forget to bring my butt'."

"Pete!" I protested as I tried to pull my arms free.

"Say it!" he commanded as he brought his hand down on my red cheeks with another sharp report.

I cried out and squirmed in his grasp. "I'll-come-early-on-Saturday-and-I-won't-forget-to-bring-my-butt!" I gasped breathlessly.

"'I won't forget to bring my butt, Master' – say it!"

"I won't forget to bring my butt, Master!"

"'Because it's the cutest little butt ever.'"

I rolled my eyes. "Because it's the cutest butt ever."

"'Cutest LITTLE butt ever,'" Pete demanded.

"Cutest little butt ever!"

"And whose butt is it?"

I paused. What was he talking about?

"Mine?"

"No!" thundered Pete, as he brought his hand down in a hard spank across both of my butt cheeks. His other hand simultaneously held my wrists together and kept my squirming body across his lap.

"Yours!" I almost shouted. I was squirming frantically now, but I couldn't break free.

"That's right – mine," Pete replied as he squeezed my butt cheeks possessively. "All mine!" he cackled in a heinous evil-scientist voice. "All MINE! Ha ha ha ha ha ha haaaaaaaaaaaa!"

My butt hurt, but I couldn't help but grin and giggle at Pete's shenanigans. Of course, now I really did need to pee, and I told Pete that.

"Go!" he said, as he pulled me off his lap and hoisted me upright. He gave me one last spank on my butt as I scurried away to the master bathroom. "My butt!" he called after me before adding his sinister laugh. "All MINE!"

I don't remember if I showed up early the following Saturday, but I'll never forget the day itself. It was the day I lost my virginity. I rode my bike to Pete's house that morning as a naive boy whose best friend happened to be a grown man in his fifties. When I rode home that afternoon over 10 hours later – being careful that my sore butt never once touched the seat – I was changed. I guess that happens to most people at one point or another in their lives. For me, it happened at the age of 11.

I came in through the back door as I always did. "Living room," I heard Pete call out, and when I entered. I found that he was dressed as Uncle Trowse from Parasols. He must have gone to the costume room and retrieved his outfit. Lying neatly on the couch next to him was one of my costumes from the same play, complete with my knickers, stockings, vest, and overcoat.

"A finer lad I've ne'er seen," Pete said as Uncle Trowse. "Put it on," he added, as Pete.

I didn't know what he had in mind, but I was used to stripping right in front of the man, so I did just that, removing my clothing down to my briefs, before replacing it with my Sebastian costume. It took me a bit to costume up, as the knickers and stockings always were a bit tricky. Pete had even brought my shoes. I stepped into them.

"A finer lad I've ne'er seen," he repeated.

"Ah, Trowse, you know they makes me wear 'em," I replied with a little grin.

"Train station scene," said Pete.

I rolled my eyes.

"Do it!" he commanded. "Enter from the hallway."

Rolling my eyes once again, I did as he asked and retreated to the hallway so I could make my entrance.

From the living room, Pete made a "chugga-chugga-chugga-hissssssssssss," sound, and on that cue, I stepped into the living room, which was serving once again as the train station platform. In character now as Sebastian, I pretended to search for my beloved uncle. I spotted him by the sofa.

"Trowse!" I yelled as I ran to him, flinging myself into his arms as he knelt down to receive me. This was the final, poignant scene of the play, and the script called for me to press my right cheek to his chest so my face could be seen by the audience. On such short notice I simply wasn't able to manufacture the tears that the scene called for, but Pete stroked my back as he held me close, comforting me.

After the requisite time had passed, Pete released me from his embrace. He remained kneeling on the floor as he grasped my upper arms and held me there.

"There's a break in the track up yonder near Walton," he said. "The train can't depart the station till it's fixed."

I had to think fast to come up with an ad-libbed line. "Uh, is it bad?"

Trowse nodded. "Very bad. The train can't leave for hours. Gives us time for a proper good-bye."

I nodded. "I- I wanted to say good-bye."

"I know you did, Sebastian. I've rented a room – we can wait there until the train is ready. And say our good-byes. Proper like."

I nodded again, thinking fast. "That's- that's good."

"Come," he said, as he rose to his feet and offered me his hand. I took it, and together, we walked toward the staircase and headed up to the second floor.

When we arrived in his bedroom, I immediately noticed that there were lengths of rope tied to the slats of the headboard and the posts at the footboard. Pete had tied and cuffed me to the bed several times during our games, and I fully expected more of the same.

"Take everything off, Sebastian," Pete said as Uncle Trowse, as he began to remove his own clothing. I had just put mine on, but I immediately began taking it right back off. As it always did when we played our games together, my penis started to stiffen underneath my knickers.

"You've always been my favorite, Sebastian," he said, as he stepped free from his trousers.

"And you're my favorite Uncle," I replied, as Sebastian McCardle, as I removed my shirt.

"We may not see each other for a long time – or ever again," he said as he continued to undress.

"Don't say that, Uncle Trowse," I replied as I unbuttoned my knickers and stepped out of them.

"I want you to remember me."

"I'll never forget you, Uncle Trowse."

"I want you to remember this day."

"I will," I replied solemnly.

"Yes," Pete replied, as he removed his boxers. His cock was fully erect. "Climb up on the bed, Sebastian."

I skinned my Fruit-of-the-Loom briefs down my legs and climbed naked into the bed. Like Pete, I was fully erect, my 3" [7.5 cm] penis like a little railroad spike with a pinkish-purple head.

"On your back," directed Pete as Uncle Trowse as he stepped closer to the bed.

I rolled over onto my back and brought my hands up and placed them either side of my head.

"Good boy," he said, as he took my right wrist and secured it with a length of rope affixed to the headboard. He did the same to my left wrist, and just like that, I was tied to the bed. My penis flexed with excitement.

Then Pete did something that he had not done before. He grasped my left ankle and bent my leg back toward my head. My right leg moved in sympathy, leaving me on my back with my legs and feet above me. Taking a second length of rope he tied my left ankle off and pulled it back so the top of my foot was almost touching the mattress. I was pretty flexible at that age, so the position didn't hurt, but my body was effectively folded in half. Pete then walked around the bed and did the same to my right foot.

I was now completely immobilized on the bed, even more than the times Pete had tied me spreadeagled. In this position, my butt was raised and spread, almost parallel to the ceiling. Pete paused to gaze down at my body.

"You'll always remember this day, Sebastian McCardle," he said to me as Uncle Trowse.

I smiled up from between my own legs. This was fun. It was a different take on our characters from Parasols, to be sure. An X-rated take, as the kids from school liked to say. (At school, everything even remotely sexual or taboo was "X-rated" to my preteen classmates and me.)

I watched as Pete walked to the foot of the bed once again. He was still sporting a full erection and I could see a drop of precum glistening in his slit. He took a longer length of rope that was secured to the right side of the footboard and fed it between my folded stomach and the tops of my thighs. He then pulled it down, snugging it to my hips. Grasping my thighs, he pulled me down toward the bottom of the bed, pulling the ropes holding my wrists and ankles to the headboard tight. I gasped as my body stretched and my bottom strained upward even more.

"Nice and tight," said Trowse, as he took the other end of the longer rope and secured it to the other side of the footboard. Now I had four ropes pulling my wrists and ankles toward the headboard while the longer rope pulled my hips down toward the footboard. I was definitely secure, more so than I had ever been before during our games. It was mildly uncomfortable to be in this position, but I was a pretty flexible kid and my pencil-hard erection made clear that I was not unhappy with my predicament.

Pete stopped to survey his handiwork. "You're a beautiful boy, Sebastian McCardle," he said as Uncle Trowse. "A finer ass I've ne'er seen."

"Ah, Trowse, you know … " I said as my voice trailed off. "I can't think of a good line," I replied as I broke character with a sheepish grin."

"Shhhhh," said Pete. "Don't talk, boy." He reached to his dresser and held up the ball gag with the leather harness and the red ball. I opened my mouth as he drew near, and he popped the ball into my mouth before securing the harness around my head with various clasps and buckles.

"Ahhh uhhhhh," I intoned, testing my ability to be heard.

"Silence, Sebastian!" Pete replied. He reached for his dresser and extracted what he had earlier told me was a riding crop. He'd used it on me, too, and my eyes widened with mock fear at the memory. I shook my head no.

"No?" asked Uncle Trowse with an incredulous look. "No? You wear your fancy-boy clothes, and act your fancy-boy ways. Forgetting your roots. Forgetting where you came from, living your fancy-boy life."

Pete was good. Maybe he'd had time to think of all these lines, but I was pretty sure he was just ad-libbing. I wanted to reply, to act my role, but the ball gag made that impossible.

I shook my head no, denying his accusations. I'd never forgotten my roots! I'd never abandon my kin! It was a horrible thing to say about Sebastian McCardle. "Uuhhh uhhhhh," I spoke into the gag.

"Liar!" cried Uncle Trowse as he brought the crop down on my upturned bottom. The flat leather pad hit my right butt cheek with a "WHAAAP!" sound.

I jumped in my binds. It hurt. "Uhhh," I gasped into the gag.

"Fancy – WHAAP! – boy!" said Trowse, as he brought the crop down on the other cheek.

That hurt, too. But I shook my head no, remaining in role. Sebastian would never abandon his roots. He never wanted to be a fancy boy. He only wore the clothes because they made him.

"WHAAP!" the crop impacted with my butt again. Different place, same result – it hurt. I gasped into the gag.

"Fancy boys – WHAAP! – get what they deserve," said Trowse. "Don't they?" he asked as he looked down at me with a menacing gaze.

I was breathing harder as the sharp stings from the crop registered in the pain receptors in my brain. "Uhhhh," I intoned into the gag. I shook my head no once again.

"Yes – WHAAP! – they – WHAAP! – do!" exclaimed Uncle Trowse, as he brought the crop down on my upturned bottom. It hurt a lot. My eyes glimmered over with unbidden tears as my butt cheeks flexed. I emitted a little moan of pain.

"You're a fancy boy now, aren't you?" Pete demanded, as he gazed down at me with an imperious look. His cock remained fully erect with a little streamer of precum oozing from the tip.

I blinked the wetness from my eyes as I looked up at him, trying to determine how he wanted me to play this. I was a little worried that if I kept denying that I had become a fancy boy, Uncle Trowse might just keep hitting me with the crop.

After a brief delay, I nodded, and tried to look contrite. "Uhhh," I said.

Pete looked smug and satisfied. "That's right," he said with a nod. "Fancy – WHAAP! – boy – WHAAP!"

My eyes went wide as the crop struck each of my butt cheeks again. Then they watered with tears as I clenched my bottom, hands, and toes against the pain. I was breathing hard now. It hurt.

"And do you know what we do with fancy boys?" Pete asked as he leered down at me. "Do you?"

I shook my head no as my eyes flitted to the crop once again. Pete saw me looking at it and flicked my nose with it, then my head.

"You like that, fancy boy?" he asked. "Do you want more?"

I shook my head no. I really didn't want more. My butt was so hot it felt like it had to be smoking. From my vantage point between my splayed legs, I could see how red my butt cheeks were from the crop. Pete saw me looking there and grazed the crop across my penis and then my butt.

"I asked if you know what we do with fancy boys."

I shook my head no again. My heart was really racing at the intensity of the scene.

Pete tossed the crop away nonchalantly. "I'll show you what we do with fancy boys," he said. I watched with wide eyes as he walked to the bedside table and opened the top drawer. He brought out a tube, opened it, and squeezed some of the contents into his palm. Then he climbed onto the bed and knee walked to my butt.

"Trowse probably would have just used spit as a lube," Pete said in his normal voice, "but just pretend, OK?" With that, he began applying the cool gel from his palm to my butthole.

I was momentarily taken aback. Was Pete really going to do it to me, or was he just pretending? He had told me to come today and "bring my butt," but he had been playing around at the time. He was still playing around in our alternative-universe Parasols roles, but I didn't know how far he was planning to take things.

"This'll hurt a little at first, but I promise it will feel good, OK?" he said again as Pete, as his index finger circled my slippery anus. Before I had any chance to react or respond, he pressed the tip of his finger inside my puckered opening.

It. Hurt. I tried to arch my back, clench my cheeks together, kick my legs – anything – but Pete just slid his index finger inside me as far as it could go. The lube undoubtedly helped, but Pete's finger burned like a hot poker.

"Ahhhhhh," I gasped into the ball gag as I winced in pain. Tears once again wet my eyes. Damn that hurt.

"Shhhhh," he consoled me in his Pete voice. "This isn't really part of the scene – just hang on a second."

Hang on? It hurt. Pete twisted his finger inside me, then extracted it, coated it with more lube from his palm, and pressed it right back inside my ass until it couldn't go any further. I gasped again.

"Gotta open you up so it doesn't hurt," he said again as Pete.

I shook my head no. It hurt plenty already. "Uhhh, uhhhh," I intoned into my gag.

"Davey – almost done," said Pete in a soothing voice. "Trust me, you wouldn't like it without lube."

I didn't like it with the lube, and I tried to tell him so. But Pete kept working his finger in and out of my butt hole, twisting it left and right.

"One more time," he said, as he removed his finger and scooped up another glob of gel from his palm. He slid his finger back in my butt once again. It went in easier this time, but it still hurt.

"OK," he said as Pete as he pulled his finger from my ass. He rubbed both palms together now, smearing the gel between them. Then he reached down with both hands and applied the lube to his erection, which hadn't subsided since the moment we had started our play.

It was at this moment that I fully realized what he intended to do. I had seen enough magazines and Pete had dropped enough hints for me to know that we would get to this stage at some point; I just hadn't realized it would be so soon. I wasn't sure I was ready. Pete's cock was big, and my butt was not. There was a huge size discrepancy between us. Pete could almost palm both of my butt cheeks with one hand.

I didn't want to disappoint Pete, I really didn't. Part of me wanted the intimacy of what I knew was the ultimate act between two males. But I was worried about his size. I was worried about the pain. I was about to shake my head no when Pete spoke first.

"OK, back in roles," he said as Pete. "Trowse is about to show Sebastian what they do with fancy boys. You're upset about that. You're not a fancy boy. You never abandoned your father's family, never rejected that life. You didn't ask to dress like your mother's side of the family. You're not a fancy boy – tell Uncle Trowse."

I was still taking this all in, when Pete suddenly resumed the scene. "THIS is what we do with fancy boys!" he said in his Uncle Trowse voice.

With that, and without any delay, Pete brought the head of his penis to my butt hole. He sidled up a little closer to me on his knees, and I could feel his mushroom-shaped cockhead settle into my indent. This was really going to happen. I wasn't sure I was ready. In fact, I was pretty sure I wasn't. and I tried to tell him that.

"Uhhhhh, uhhhhhh!" I tried to speak into the gag. I shook my head no, more than once, violently. His cock was too big. My butt was too small. I was worried about it hurting too much.

"Good," said Pete with a little wink as he grasped my hips and pushed his penis even more firmly against my puckered hole.

He didn't understand. I wasn't in role. I wasn't trying to tell Uncle Trowse that I wasn't a fancy boy. I didn't care about any of that. I cared about the thing that was about to push its way into my behind.

I shook my head no. I struggled in my binds. But Pete had trussed me up so tightly, I really couldn't move an inch. "Uhhhhhhh! Uhhhhhh!" I said as I shook my head no.

That's when it happened. Holding his shaft in his right hand, Pete simultaneously thrust with his hips as he pulled my right hip toward him. I felt a tremendous pressure against my hole, and then a searing, burning pain as his cockhead pushed past my anal ring and inside my bottom.

I thought I was going to die. I had never felt anything nearly so painful in my entire life. It felt like a hot poker had been rammed in my butt. I learned in an instant that my concerns about it potentially "hurting" had not even come close to the mark. This was agony. I screamed.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" I yelled into the gag, which of course rendered all of my words indecipherable. I'm not even sure myself what I was trying to say. Some combination of "Take it out! It hurts! Take it out!" probably was what I intended, but it came out as a pair of long, indecipherable screams.

My eyes glazed with tears. I couldn't breathe. My bottom felt like it was on fire.

"THIS is what we do with fancy boys!" shouted Uncle Trowse triumphantly as he gave his hips another thrust, sending his cock even deeper into my bowels.

I howled with pain as I shook my head violently from side to side. It hurt so much. I couldn't believe the amount of pain I was feeling. I almost couldn't comprehend it. It felt like I was being split in two. It really felt like Pete was killing me.

"Oh, you're not a fancy boy, is that it?" taunted Pete. "You wears the fancy clothes! You talk all fancy. You go to fancy school. You're fancy alright," he said, as he pressed deeper inside me with a grunt of effort.

I couldn't breathe. I clenched my eyes shut as I tried to draw a breath. I think I almost passed out. I shook my head from side to side and tried to tell Pete to take it out. But nothing came out. Not even a gasp. I had no air in my lungs.

Pete – Uncle Trowse – nearly spat his next words at me, punctuating each word with a forward thrust of his hips. "Fancy (thrust) boys (thrust) aren't (thrust) so (thrust) fancy (thrust) are they (thrust)?" he hissed. And with that, Pete bottomed out in my ass. I could feel his pubic bush pressing against my butt cheeks as he lay across my folded body, his hands on either side of my head helping to prop up his upper torso.

The pain was unbearable. I managed to draw in a breath and release it again as a sobbing moan. My eyes were glazed with tears, replacing the ones that were dribbling down my cheeks. I couldn't think about anything except the pain. There were no roles to play. No Sebastian. No Uncle Trowse. There was only pain, and lots of it.

Pete levitated over me for a few seconds with his cock buried in my bottom and then withdrew a bit before pressing right back in. I could feel his thickness as he withdrew. It was like taking a baseball bat in my rectum. When he thrust back in, I moaned in pain.

Pete began to fuck me then, thrusting and withdrawing, his body leaning over mine. He pressed deep inside me, undulating atop me as he grunted in pleasure. I was not grunting in pleasure. I was moaning in pain as his thick cock battered my insides. My anus felt like it had been lit on fire. I was sure I was split open and bleeding. I knew there was no way it could hurt that intensely without me being injured.

Pete continued to thrust his cock in and out of my butt. He never completely withdrew, nor even most of the way. Each withdrawal was followed by a full penetration as he sank his cockhead deep in my bowels. There was no more Uncle Trowse as he fucked me. Even he was no longer in role.

It seemed to go on forever, but in reality, I don't think Pete fucked me that first time for more than a couple of minutes. He began to groan with every thrust and I could tell he was getting close. Finally, he thrust deep inside me, grunted, and then exhaled a long breath as he came. I could feel his cock twitching as he leaned his weight on my body and filled my bottom with spunk. I almost thought I could feel the stuff spurting into me. I remember thinking idly through my pain that since it was his first orgasm of the day, there was bound to be a lot of it.

I was panting for air as Pete finished ejaculating inside me. I looked up through my tears and saw that Pete was panting, too, and that his forehead and neck were glistening with sweat. His face was flushed. Slowly, he knuckle-walked his hands down my body to either side as he regained a kneeling position. Breathing heavily, he leaned back and his softening member plopped free from my bottom.

From my position, even without lifting my head, I could see that my butt hole was gaping open and leaking cum. The parts that weren't obscured by the whitish goo looked red and inflamed both from the riding crop and from Pete's penetration. I was so relieved that the burning, searing pain was over that I just lay there trying to catch my breath. It wasn't like I could move much, as I remained trussed to the bed.

"That was incredible," said Pete as he crawled away and stepped from the bed. "Be right back."

I looked up at the ceiling as I tried to take a mental inventory of the damage to my butt. I clenched my cheeks together, which caused my anus to burn, but I forced myself to do it a second time. I guess I was glad that I could still do that, but everything felt slippery and wet and oozy between my butt cheeks.

Pete returned with a damp washcloth and proceeded to clean his cum from my crack and cheeks. "Don't need this fouling the bed," he said with a little laugh. I was in no mood for laughing. But I remained gagged and couldn't speak.

"You were awesome, Davey," he told me with a little smile. I looked away. I didn't want to see him or talk to him. He knew what he had done.

"Oh, don't you give me an attitude, young man," Pete said in stern voice as he continued to clean me with the washcloth. When he was finished, he balled the cloth into one hand and placed it on a magazine on the bedside table. The he reached for my gag and began to unbuckle it. "Open," he said as he tugged the ball free.

"Don't … " he said, bringing a finger to his lips then taking it away "… say anything. It's my turn to speak. I have the floor."

I looked up at him sullenly but remained quiet. I was willing to hear what he had to say. In any event, I remained trussed to the bed, folded in half like a bi-fold wallet. It wasn't like I was able to go anywhere.

"I know you're mad at me, but hear me out," Pete said. "That was your first time. It hurt. I know it hurt. But the truth is, Davey, it always hurts the first time no matter how you do it. No matter how slow you go, how nice you try to be, it always hurts."

"Now look," he continued. "Drawing it out, making a big deal out of it – it's still gonna hurt. Going real slow, being gentle, talking you through it – that's all a bunch of bullshit. It just makes it take longer and hurt more."

"I actually did you a favor," he explained. "Now it's out of the way. Now you don't have to worry about it. The first time is always the worst. It gets better every time from here."

"I'm not doing it again," I told him with stern resolve.

"Yes, you are," contradicted Pete. "You absolutely are. You'll like it now that we have the first time out of the way. You'll see."

"I'm never doing it again," I said sullenly. I was feeling very sorry for myself. "I didn't want to do it the first time."

"You know what?" said Pete, his voice rising a bit in anger. "This isn't all about you. What did you think, huh? You saw the magazines. You knew the deal before you even came here today. You're not stupid."

"I didn't think you were gonna do that! Not without even asking."

"Asking?" Pete repeated sarcastically. "I told you to come early today and bring your butt. What the fuck did you think was going to happen? If you didn't want to do it, why did you even come?"

Hearing Pete swear like that stunned me into silence. It also gave me a moment to think about what he had said. He had indeed told me to come early today and bring my butt. Was that some kind of code? I thought he was joking. How was I supposed to know what he meant?

"I didn't-" I started to say.

"You didn't what?" asked Pete. He was still very angry. I had never seen him this way before.

"I didn't know-" I started to say again.

"Oh, you know what?" interrupted Pete. "Fuck it." He rose from the bed, came toward the headboard, and immediately began untying my left wrist. His manner was not gentle as he pulled at the knot, freeing my arm. He then began doing the same for my ankle.

"You're obviously not old enough to handle it," he said as he worked on the knot. "That's fine." The knot came loose and my leg was free. Pete strode angrily to the other side of the bed, and roughly grabbed my left wrist. "Play time is over," he said. "It was fun while it lasted."

I listened, but I wasn't fully sure what Pete was saying. He was angry. I'd never seen him so upset before. He freed my wrist and turned to my left ankle, which was the only part of me that remained tied to the bed.

"You could have asked," I said meekly.

"Yup," Pete replied simply, as he loosened the last knot. My leg was free. I sat up on the bed.

"Get dressed," he ordered. "I've got things to do." He walked out of the bedroom into the bathroom and closed the door.

I was alone in Pete's bedroom now, still naked, sitting on his bed. My head was spinning and I had a pit in my stomach. My butt hurt, but I hardly cared about that. Pete was angry with me. He had never been this way before. Not only was he angry but he apparently wanted me to leave. It was still early on Saturday, and I usually spent most of the day with him, at least into the afternoon. Saturday was our day together. But now he wanted me to go home.

As angry as he was, I couldn't tell if he wanted me to leave just for the day, or for longer than that. The pit in my stomach grew as I worried. What had I done?

I slowly extricated myself from the bed and stood up. My butt hurt, but I didn't care. My head was spinning. I looked for my briefs, picked them up, and started to step into them. In the bathroom, I could hear the water running in the sink. Pete had moved on to other things.

I continued to get dressed, my mind fraught with worry. Pete was my best friend. He really was. I spent more time with him than anyone else save my mom, and ever since she lost her job, things had been different between us. In the months since, I had started leaning even more heavily on Pete. I'd been spending more and more time with him. Pete hadn't changed, even if my mother had. Everything had been going well.

Now what? Pete was angry. I had said some things to him that I shouldn't have. I regretted those things now. I wished I could take them back. I had been angry, but I wasn't any longer. My anger had been replaced with a deep sense of foreboding. How angry was Pete? Was it permanent? Could I fix it?

I didn't know what to do. I felt like crying, but I knew that was dumb and childish. Pete had explained why he did it the way he had, but I had been rude in response. I had made my anger known. But Pete had never lied to me, not once, not ever. No wonder he was upset.

I pulled my shorts up. I was almost dressed. Pete wanted me to leave. Would he ever want me back? Was our friendship over? I felt anxious and scared. I didn't know what to do. My cheeks burned with shame at what I had done. Friends gave friends the benefit of the doubt. I hadn't extended that courtesy to Pete. I had been rude and disrespectful, yet Pete was my friend – my best friend.

I heard the water turn off in the bathroom followed by another sound of water swirling in the sink. Suddenly, my eyes misted with tears as I contemplated the end of our friendship. I blinked them back and wiped my eyes with the backs of my hands. My socks and sneakers were still on the floor, but when I looked down at them, everything was blurry. I wiped my eyes again.

I couldn't just leave. Even if Pete never wanted to see me again, I had to tell him I was sorry. I had to apologize. My eyes filled with tears again and I used the hem of my shirt to dry them. I couldn't get the sense of foreboding doom out of my mind. It felt like the world was closing in on me.

Still barefoot, I walked to the bathroom door, hesitated for a moment, and then gave two small knocks. "Pete?" I said, my mouth inches from the door as my eyes misted with tears once again.

The door flung open. Pete's face revealed his anger. He had a towel wrapped around his waist.

"What?" he asked coldly.

Tears cascaded from my eyes as I stepped into the bathroom and embraced him in a silent hug, my face pressed to his abdomen as I wept.

Chapter Four

I hugged Pete like I never wanted to let him go. After a while, he unlocked my arms from around his torso.

"Wait for me in the bedroom," he said in a neutral voice.

I went back to the bedroom and sat dejectedly near the foot of the bed with my feet dangling above the floor. I was not a happy boy. Pete had become my everything, my rock, especially after my mother lost her job. He was my best friend, my mentor, and a father figure to me all wrapped up into one. I couldn't bear the thought of losing him. I think I cried some while I waited for him. I was that upset.

Pete took his time in the bathroom, leaving me to stew in my juices and wallow in my misery. I heard the water in the shower start and the sound of the sliding door clicking shut. Pete's shower seemed endless. Often, after sex, we showered together, but not this time. This time, Pete showered alone while I sat on his bed, waiting and worrying, alone with my thoughts.

It probably was at least 30 minutes before the bathroom door opened and Pete came out. I had stopped crying by then, and I looked up at him as he re-entered the bedroom. He looked clean and fresh in his terrycloth bathrobe.

"We need to talk," he said simply, as he walked to his dresser.

"Pete, I-" I started to say.

"No – I talk, you listen, capiche?" said Pete.

I didn't know what "capiche" meant, but I knew I had better shut up. Pete sat down at the head of the bed, pulled his legs up after him, and propped a pillow behind him. He stared at me for a moment without saying anything. I couldn't bear his gaze and looked away.

"I'm not happy, Davey," he said after a while.

I knew he wasn't. I felt small. I didn't know what to say.

"I think I've been a good friend to you – a mentor," he continued. "At least I've tried. I've done my best. But I don't think this is working out. Not anymore."

With a lump in my throat, I looked over at him. I was on the verge of tears, but my eyes remained dry. I felt like I was being sucked into an endless whirlpool. My chest tightened. I couldn't have replied to him even if I'd had something to say. I felt like my entire world was caving in around me.

"You've changed, Davey. I'm not sure what happened. I'm not sure where I went wrong. But you haven't been the same since Parasols ended."

I didn't know what he meant. I searched my brain for an answer. How had I changed? What had changed? What did he mean? I still couldn't speak, and in any event, I didn't have anything to say.

"Or maybe it was the move," he said.

I knew that "the move" he referred to was the sale of our house when my mother lost her job. But what had changed? I had seen more of Pete since we moved, not less. I didn't know how I had changed, but I had to admit it seemed possible. My mother had changed, after all, and not for the better.

"I know you've been going through some rough times, Davey," Pete continued. "You've been coming over more – and I've been there for you, haven't I."

Tears threatened my eyes once again. Pete had been there for me. I didn't trust myself to speak, so I simply nodded.

"I've been here when you dropped by after school, right?"

I nodded again. I had only started doing that after we moved.

"We've never missed a Saturday together, have we?"

I nodded again. It was true.

"We've talked about your mom, what's going on at home, at school – a bunch of things, haven't we?"

I couldn't deny any of that. Pete had really been a good friend and sounding board for me. I nodded again, glumly.

"I've tried my best. Davey. I really have. You're a great kid. I love talking to you. I like spending time with you."

The lump in my throat was the size of a grapefruit. I felt like Pete was saying good-bye. It felt exactly like I was losing my best friend. The pause went on for a long time and I knew I had to speak.

"Me, too," I said in a small, whispered voice. It was all I could do to hold back my tears.

"But there's a problem, isn't there?" asked Pete.

I simply didn't know what he meant. I searched my brain, but I couldn't find it. I thought everything had been going well. I didn't know about any problem. I didn't think there was one. Obviously, with what Pete was saying, there was a problem that I didn't know about. I couldn't deny its existence, but I didn't know what it was. Once again, I couldn't answer him, so I just shrugged noncommittally.

"What does that mean?" Pete persisted.

I still didn't know what the problem was. I looked down glumly. Nothing had happened that had ever indicated to me there was a problem.

"I dunno," I said in a whispered voice.

"Look at me," Pete demanded.

I looked up and over at him from my spot at the foot of the bed, nervously and sheepishly.

"We're having a conversation here," he said.

I maintained eye contact with Pete and gave him a little nod. "I know," I replied.

"What is it, Davey?" he asked. "What's going on?"

The tears came then. I couldn't stop them. I was confused, upset, and afraid. I was afraid of losing my best friend in the entire world, my best friend ever. And I didn't even know what had come between us. I didn't know what was wrong.

Pete made no move to comfort me or dry my tears. He just sat there at the head of the bed, propped up on a pillow, looking at me.

"I'm r-really sorry," I said in a hitched voice.

"For what?" demanded Pete.

"For … for what I said."

"I don't care what you said," replied Pete. "I want to know what's going on."

I still had no idea what he was talking about. I had never felt so confused. I couldn't find any words as tears rolled down my cheeks. I didn't bother to wipe them away. I shrugged.

"You won't tell me?"

I sniffled. What could I say? I wanted to say I was sorry, but I knew Pete didn't want to hear my apologies. I shifted on the bed. My butt still hurt, but I didn't care about that at all.

"I thought we trusted each other, Davey," said Pete.

Through my tears, I nodded. I did trust Pete. I really did. More than anyone except my mom.

"Really?" he asked. I nodded again.

"Then why, Davey? If you trust me so much why the attitude? Tell me, 'cause I really want to know."

The lump in my throat widened. I wasn't sure what Pete was talking about, but that word – "attitude" – I knew he had used it before, earlier, after … after we did it. Right before he took the gag out of my mouth. I had looked away from him as he cleaned me with the washcloth. I had been sending him a message that I wasn't happy with what he had done to me.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, don't you?" Pete prodded.

I was pretty sure I did – maybe. With the tears still rolling down my cheeks, I nodded.

Pete looked away for a moment, shaking his head. "You know, I just don't get it, Davey," he said. "I really don't."

I looked down. Twin tear droplets fell directly from my eyes to my shorts. Once again, I found that I couldn't speak.

"I thought we trusted each other," Pete said in a softer voice, "but I guess not."

I felt like he had slapped me. I trusted Pete. He was my best friend. I had told him more things about me, about my life, about my concerns and fears, than anyone else. I trusted him more than anyone, even my mom.

I wanted to go to him. I want to hold him. I needed to hold him. But I didn't. I couldn't move. I simply sat at the foot of the bed with tears in my eyes, my cheeks burning with shame.

"It's OK, Davey," he said.

But it wasn't OK. It wasn't OK at all. I hadn't meant to hurt him. I could feel his disappointment as he gazed at me. I felt like I had let him down.

"I'm sorry," I said as another tear trickled down my right cheek.

"Don't be," he replied. And then there was only silence. It lasted for a long time – a long, long time. It was as if we were saying good-bye to each other without actually speaking. At least, that's what it seemed like to me.

"I trust you," I finally said in a small voice.

"No, you don't," Pete said matter-of-factly. I wasn't sure what to say. It seemed like Pete had made up his mind about me and there was no way to salvage the situation.

"Yes, I do," I replied. My eyes still were wet with tears, so I reached up with the palms of both hands and wiped them clear. But I still didn't look back at Pete. I simply couldn't.

"You didn't trust me today."

I suddenly felt very cold and my body gave a little shiver. Pete was right. I had been angry. I hadn't trusted him or given him the benefit of the doubt. I had said some things. Mean things. I wanted to take them back, but I knew it was too late for that.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"It's OK, Davey. I understand."

It seemed exactly like good-bye. It felt to me like everything was happening in slow motion. I searched for the right words but couldn't find them. So, I simply sat there, staring down at my shorts. I could see the damp spots in the fabric from my tears.

"You OK to ride home, or do you want me to drive you?"

I didn't want to go home. I didn't want to leave. It was Saturday – our day to be together. But Pete was ending it. I felt a rush of dread and doom wash over me. The world seemed to constrict around me. It sounded and felt like Niagara Falls was inside my skull.

"Davey?" asked Pete in a soft voice.

"I- I don't want to go home," I managed to whisper. I was still staring down at my shorts. I couldn't look at him. I was too ashamed.

Pete didn't reply right away. There was a fairly long period of silence. The only sound was my sniffling. My sinuses were all clogged up and I couldn't breathe properly through my nose anymore. The silence seemed endless, but I wasn't about to break it. I didn't want to go home. I wanted to stay. If I had to, I was prepared to sit on the end of Pete's bed all day.

Finally, Pete broke the silence. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

I wasn't sure exactly what he was suggesting, but I didn't care. Talking was better than going home. Talking was better than losing my best friend. Talking offered hope. I nodded.

"Why don't you come up here, next to me," Pete offered. Instantly, I climbed fully onto the bed and crawled to the spot next to Pete. There was plenty of room for both of us and I wasn't sure how close he wanted me, so I selected a spot somewhere in the middle of the headboard and sat down Indian-style, shaded as close to him as I dared.

We sat in silence for a few moments. Not nearly so long as before, but it seemed like Pete was waiting for me to speak. I couldn't, though. I didn't know what to say.

"Davey, I know things are tough at home right now," said Pete. "With your mom and everything, the move and all. I understand that. Life sucks sometimes, it really does."

I was looking down at my lap again. My eyes felt sore from crying and my butt still ached and stung a little bit, but I didn't care about either of those things. Not right now.

"But you can't dwell on the bad things," Pete continued. "They'll eat you from the inside out. They make you bitter, Davey. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

I wasn't honestly sure if I understood, or not. Pete and I had talked about my mother a lot. We'd talked about a lot of other things, too, like my new school, my difficulty making friends. I nodded, hoping that Pete would continue, which he did.

"You're going through some tough times right now, Davey. But hey – that's when you look to the good things. The friends you have, the people you know you can count on, right?"

I nodded. Pete's logic made perfect sense to me, or it seemed to, anyway. The only problem was, I didn't have many friends, or any friends, really. None other than him.

"You'll always have your mother, Davey. She loves you. But it's hard for her right now. She's been through a lot. You understand that, don't you?"

I knew he was right. My mother had been through a lot and more. I knew that my mother loved me, but things had been different for weeks now, more like months.

"Yeah," I replied. I fidgeted a little on the bed as my sore butt found that sitting Indian-style was not to its liking.

"Have you thought about how hard this has all been on her, Davey?" Pete asked.

Of course I had. I knew. She had lost her job. I shrugged. I knew all of that.

"So, what have you done to help?" Pete asked gently.

Pete's question froze me on the spot. What had I done to help? Well, I had … I had done … essentially nothing. My cheeks tingled as I blushed. The truth was, I had done absolutely nothing. But then my excuses kicked in. What was I supposed to do? What could I have done? I was 11.

"Loving someone is a two-way street, Davey," said Pete after a pause. "It's not just all about you. It can't be."

Pete's words left me almost short of breath. I felt bad. I felt inadequate, like I had failed. Once again, I didn't know what to say.

"Have I ever talked down to you, Davey?" asked Pete. "Have I ever treated you like a little kid?"

I shook my head no. Pete had never done that, not ever. It was one of the many things I liked about him.

"Well, then, I hope you won't take this the wrong way, then," he continued. "I don't mean this as a criticism. You're a really good kid, Davey. But you're still young. You're 11. It's hard to see the whole world at 11. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

I didn't understand, not yet anyway. But I nodded nonetheless and waited for Pete to continue.

When he did continue, his words sliced me like a knife. "Sometimes, Davey, you can be a little selfish. And I get that. I really do. Like I said, it's hard to see the whole world at 11."

I was selfish? My cheeks burned. I hadn't meant to be selfish. Pete's words stung because I realized there was an element of truth to them – perhaps more than just an element. Had I tried to help my mom, or had I just worried about how everything would affect me? I already knew the answer to that question, and it made me feel ashamed.

"Do you want to talk about earlier?" Pete asked me gently.

I paused, hesitating, and then nodded. I was embarrassed by how I had acted earlier, but I thought so long as Pete was still talking to me, there was hope.

"Davey, do you think I would ever do anything to hurt you?" Pete asked softly. I thought I could detect the emotion in his voice as he spoke.

"No," I said, barely whispering. I could feel the tears starting to well behind my eyes once again.

"I tried to make it fun for you today," he continued. "The costumes – I got them from the storage room."

I felt bad. I felt terrible knowing that he had done that for me. I nodded. "I know," I said in a whispered voice.

Pete chuckled a little bit. It was the first time I'd heard him laugh in the last hour and it was a welcome sound to my ears. "We sure had a lot of fun with Parasols, didn't we?"

The tears came then. I simply couldn't stop them. Rehearsing with Pete and the rest of the Players on that play had been the most fun I'd ever had. It had also given me my best friend in the whole world. I wiped at my eyes and nodded.

"It always hurts the first time, Davey," said Pete. "There's no way around it. I just wanted to make it fun for you. We'd been playing all those games … " he said, as his voice trailed off.

I nodded as I again wiped tears away from my eyes. We had played so many games, it was true.

"I thought you were ready," Pete explained in a sad voice. "I wanted to make it fun. We had so much fun together, didn't we?"

I wanted to hug him. Pete was making me so upset. Everything he was saying was true, but from his tone and his words, it seemed like it was all in past tense. I didn't want it to be. I wiped away more tears and nodded again.

"I guess I was the selfish one, Davey," Pete said. His voice now sounded a bit angry. He almost seemed angry at himself. "I wanted to share that with you. But you weren't ready. I should have known that. And now look – I've gone and fucked everything up, haven't I?"

I felt numb. Pete's words hit me like a sledgehammer. He was mad at himself, but I knew I had let him down. I had behaved earlier exactly like the child he never treated me like.

"You- you didn't do anything bad," I stammered through my tears.

"Yeah," said Pete. "But I did."

"I don't care," I said through eyes blurred with tears.

"But I do, Davey," he replied. "I love you too much to hurt you like that."

Pete had never used that word with me before: love. Neither of us had ever said it. But I already knew that I loved Pete. He was everything to me. Now, he had just used that same word with me.

I went to him immediately, closing the few inches between us and snuggling up against him on the bed. I wrapped my left arm awkwardly around his chest and pressed my face against his shoulder. Truth be told, I was trying to dry some of my tears against the terrycloth fabric as much as I was trying to hug him, but the real reason for moving in was for the hug.

"I love you, too," I said, my voice partially muffled by the fabric.

"You're a good kid, Davey," Pete said, as he brought his arm around to pat and stroke my back. "We've had a lot of fun together. But," he said before pausing, "a man has needs, Davey. At least I do. I always have. And that makes this really hard for me."

I brought my face around rested my right cheek against his shoulder. "What does?" I asked, with a little tremor in my voice.

Pete sighed. "What we did … earlier. I need that, Davey." He paused before continuing. "How can I explain it? It's like, the things we do together – it's so much fun, Davey. We have so much fun together. But it's like- kind of like … just playing. I guess that's the best way to say it."

I wasn't sure what he meant. I thought he liked what we did together. We always had fun. And he had always seemed to confirm that.

"I- I don't know what you mean," I said miserably. I wanted to understand, but I honestly had no idea what he meant.

"I know, Davey," Pete replied. "And that's, I guess, part of what we're talking about right now."

I was now more confused than ever. It was one of those conversations with adults that I sometimes had where nothing made any sense to me. I didn't say anything in response because I didn't have anything to say.

Pete sighed again and I could tell that the conversation was difficult for him. "When you get older, Davey, your body – well, I guess it's your body and your mind – they want certain things. They need certain things. We're all wired differently, you know?"

I nodded at this as I snuggled against my friend. That part made sense to me, at least a bit.

"So, my body and my mind … they need certain things," Pete said. "It's just the way I'm wired. It's really hard to explain, because you haven't had those feelings, yet. You will eventually, but not just yet."

I had a pretty good idea what Pete was talking about now. I was pretty sure he was referring to puberty – something that would happen when I got older and grew hairs on my body and stuff like that.

"I know," I said softly. Pete gave a little chuckle in response.

"When you get older, you'll figure out how you're wired, Davey. And it's so cool when you do. It's so liberating, you know what I mean?"

I nodded again. I wasn't sure what liberating meant, but everything else made sense to me.

"But the problem is, right now, I know how I'm wired, and you," he said as he gave a little poke to my side, "… you're not there yet. Make sense?

"Yeah," I replied with a nod.

"So, what we did earlier – the way I'm wired, Davey, I need that. I like doing that, and other things, too. And I don't think you're ready for that stuff just yet."

I thought about what he had said for a moment. I thought about what we had done earlier. It had hurt a lot. But I had seen photographs in the magazines of boys my age and even younger doing the same thing. I wasn't the first kid to do it, or the only kid. I could do it if I had to, especially if I wanted to keep Pete as my friend.

"We can do it, Pete," I said softly.

He chuckled in response. "You're sweet to offer, Davey," he replied. "But I don't think we can."

This took me aback. Why couldn't we? I thought that was what he wanted.

"Why?" I asked. I felt so confused.

Pete sighed. "Because it's not just a thing we do, Davey. It's way more than that. It's not just a friendship, but a relationship between two people – a commitment. It involves trust. It's a mindset and a lifestyle. And I just don't think you're ready for that. You're a great kid, Davey, but you're only 11, and nothing we do is gonna change that."

My head was swimming. None of this made any sense to me. What commitment? What relationship? What lifestyle?

"I'm ready," I insisted, although I was feeling bewildered and helpless.

"You're not ready to trust."

"Yes, I am."

Pete sighed. "This is hard for me, too, Davey. You get that, right?"

I nodded.

"You know the games we play?" he asked. "Pirates? Scoutmaster? Kidnapper?"

"Yeah."

"What do they all have in common?"

I thought about this for a moment. "We're acting?"

"Yes, we're acting. We're playing roles. What else?"

"We have fun?" I replied with a confused look.

"Right," said Pete. "But what else is always the same?"

I pondered this, the bridge of my nose wrinkling in concentration as I tried to figure out where he was going. "I dunno," I said finally.

"Have you ever noticed that I'm always the one tying you up, and you're always the one being tied up?"

I guess I had noticed that, although it didn't make any sense to me to do it the other way. I liked being tied up, and Pete seemed to like the other role just as much.

"Yeah," I responded. I still wasn't sure what he was getting at.

"That's not an accident, Davey. It's part of the hard-wiring I was telling you about."

I paused as I considered that. Then I nodded.

"Who does all the spanking and torturing when we play?"

"You do," I replied.

"That's not an accident, either."

I was hopelessly confused. Why was Pete talking like this? I liked what we did together. I loved playing out scenes, tied to his bed, as he interrogated and threatened me with torture.

"I like it when we do that," I replied.

Pete sighed again. "I know you do, Davey. But here's the thing: For you, it's just a game. We're just playing. Having fun. Practicing our acting skills, or whatever you want to call it. But for me, it's different."

It was different? How? I didn't know what Pete meant. He always seemed to have fun. We did voices. We acted our roles. We both seemed to like it.

"Do you understand what I'm telling you, Davey?"

"No," I answered truthfully. I felt miserable again. I didn't understand at all.

Pete nodded. "It's OK, buddy," he said softly as he reached over and patted my side.

"Tell me," I implored him.

"You're not ready," he replied.

I lifted my head from his shoulder. "I am ready!" I told him fiercely. "You said you wouldn't treat me like a kid!"

"Easy," Pete warned with a threatening look in his eye.

"Tell me," I begged.

"Fine," Pete said angrily. He reached around with his right arm, grabbed my upper left arm in a strong grip, and roughly pulled me around in front of him. My eyes were wide as he pulled his legs up and positioned me directly in front of him.

"Sit," he said. "Listen. Don't speak. Not one word, understand?" he said with a menacing gaze.

I repositioned myself for just a second, trying to find a comfortable spot for my butt. Then I went still and nodded as I looked into his eyes. He looked angry and determined.

"You're a kid," he said. "I'm a man. I have needs. Sexual needs. I like to fuck, just like we did earlier. I like the way it FEELS," he said with emphasis on the last word. "I've been doing it since I was 15 and I enjoy it." He looked away for a moment, breaking eye contact.

"I held off because I wasn't sure you could handle it," Pete continued. "But I told you to bring your butt today. I fucking told you what was going to happen. All those games … the magazines. Jesus fuck, Davey. I know you're only 11, but come on. Did you really need a goddamn telegram?"

I felt like Pete had slapped me. My eyes were wide. My heart was racing in my chest. I didn't know where any of this had come from. I couldn't even nod. It turned out I didn't even have to.

"I like to fuck. I like to tie people up. I like to spank and hurt them. And then I like to fuck them again. Capiche? Does this make any sense to you?"

I felt my cheeks burning as my face blushed red. I had never seen Pete like this. He was almost spitting his words at me. I gave a tiny little head nod. I felt almost paralyzed.

"Did you notice how I call you 'slave' and 'boy'?" he asked me.

I nodded again.

"Yeah, but did you notice I called you those things even when we weren't playing our silly little games?"

I paused and then nodded. I had noticed that, but … well, I didn't know.

"Well, that's the way I'm hard-wired, kid," he said. "That's the real Pete Volcker. Now you know."

But I didn't know. I didn't understand. God, how I wanted to. I couldn't comprehend why Pete was so mad at me. I simply stared at him, wide-eyed.

"I'm tired of pretending," Pete said. "I'm done with the games. If you want to keep coming here, you need to grow up real fast. No more 11-year-old stuff. Capiche?"

There was that word again. I still didn't know what it meant, but from context, I had determined that it meant something along the lines of "or else." I blinked, trying to keep back a wall of tears that was building up behind my eyeballs. I didn't want to cry. That was 11-year-old stuff, and I knew it.

"I will," I said softly. I looked down. I still wasn't sure what he meant, not fully. But I knew I didn't want to lose him as my friend.

"You're sure?" he asked me in a menacing voice.

I nodded.

"No more games?"

I nodded again. I scratched my nose with my hand where it itched. There was a pause, as neither of us spoke. Pete seemed to be pondering what to say. Finally, he spoke.

"Then strip," said Pete. "Outta those clothes, now!"

Wide-eyed, I scrambled off the bed, stood, and pulled at my clothes as Pete stood up. In seconds, my shorts, t-shirt, and briefs were on the floor. Unlike most times when I undressed for Pete, my penis was completely flaccid from the stress of the last hour. My little two-inch (5 cm.) cut penis hung over my bald scrotum like a one-eyed worm. I watched as Pete untied one of the lengths of rope from the headboard.

"Get over here and turn around," said Pete as he pulled the rope free.

I went to him, turning, and instinctively put my hands together behind my back. I had little doubt what he intended to do, but unlike the other times he had done it, this time I was truly scared. Pete wasn't acting, and we weren't play-acting roles.

He tied my hands behind my back, tighter than usual, the rope looping around and around he joined my wrists together. When he was done, he let go of me long enough to untie his bathrobe and let it fall to the ground. He was completely naked beneath the robe, and unlike me, his cock was hard as a rock.

"Get up here," he said, as he sat back down on the bed and pulled me up across his lap. In a few seconds he had me positioned with my butt up, my penis nestled between his thighs.

"This is going to hurt, slave," he said. "I didn't particularly like your attitude from earlier. You're going to be punished for that. Things are going to be different around here, and if you don't like it, you're free to leave. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes," I gasped meekly from my prone position.

"Yes, 'MASTER' – say it!"

"Yes, master!" I replied. But before I could finish the word, Pete sent his hand crashing down onto my upturned bottom.

"CLAAAP!" went his hand. I bucked on his lap as my bottom lit on fire. He had never hit me that hard before, and it hurt.

"Uhhh," I gasped. But I had little time to react to the pain.

"CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!"

In seconds, my bottom was ablaze with pain. I clenched my cheeks. I wriggled. I tried to interpose my hands. Pete grabbed the rope between my wrists, pulling my arms up and out of the way.

"CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!"

It hurt like fire. Just as I thought the pain couldn't get any worse, it did. And then it got worse again from there. Tears flooded my eyes.

"Uhhhh … please!" I gasped. I wanted to be brave for Pete. I didn't want to be 11. I didn't want to be an unworthy little kid. But it hurt so much, I couldn't help myself.

"CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!"

My bottom was on fire. I needed it to stop.

"Pete! Please! Please stop!" I cried.

"CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!"

"CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!"

I was crying and squealing now. I couldn't form words. I tried everything to wriggle and writhe and free myself, but to no avail. Nothing worked. Nothing softened the pain I was feeling on my bottom, either. I thought it would consume me.

"CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!" "CLAAAP!"

I was spluttering and weeping, wincing, crying. The pain was so bad. So ferocious. Finally, finally, Pete stopped, resting his spanking hand directly on my bottom. He didn't speak as I continued to gasp and cry. I kept clenching my butt cheeks together, trying to make the pain go away. It didn't work.

Pete said nothing. He continued to hold my tied wrists, keeping my hands away from my bottom. I really wanted them to go there. I wanted to knead and massage the pain away.

Finally, a minute or so after the spanking stopped, Pete spoke.

"Were you a bad slave earlier, boy?" he asked me coldly.

"Yes," I gasped breathlessly.

"What did you do wrong, slave?"

"I- my- I- … attitude," I gasped, as I struggled to use my words.

"You had a bad attitude?"

"Yes," I panted.

"Yes, 'MASTER,'" said Pete.

"Yes, master."

Even through the fiery pain, I felt Pete's hand caress my bottom. His touch was gentle.

"Go into the bathroom, boy," he said. "Top drawer, left of the sink. There is a green container with an orange top. Get it and bring it to me."

With that, Pete grabbed my arm and pulled me free from the bed. I almost fell but he held me upright by my upper arm until I gained my footing. With my bottom glowing ruby red, I ran into the bathroom.

My wrists remained tied, so I had to turn around and look over my shoulder to open the drawer, but I managed to do just that. Inside, just as Pete said, was a green container, somewhat oblong and oddly shaped, with a decorative white S-shape down the middle. The cap was bright orange. On the inner loop of the S was a single word: aloe.

I tried to reach into the drawer with my tied hands, but they could not reach high enough to get into the drawer. I strained and stood on my tip toes, but it was not enough. I was about to give up when another idea struck me. Turning back around to face the drawer, I lowered my head and tried to tease the cap of the bottle into my mouth. The sides of the drawer pressed on my ears, but it was just wide enough to accommodate my head. It took several tries, but finally I managed to get my mouth around the orange cap. Chomping my teeth down around the edge where the cap met the neck of the bottle, I managed to pull it free from the drawer.

I came back into the bedroom with my chin down and the bottle dangling from my mouth. The cap had a funny taste to it, like medicine or lotion. Pete laughed when he saw me struggling with the bottle in my mouth.

"Good doggie," he teased. "Fetch – bring it here."

I walked the bottle over to the bed where Pete was sitting. He was still naked, but his erection had subsided a bit. He gently extracted the bottle from my mouth. He gave me a little pat on the head before smoothing my blond bangs back.

"Good slave," he said, as he stood up. "Now, you go here," he added as he lifted me into the air with his hands on my sides and splatted me face down on the bed hard enough for me to bounce. He placed his hand between my bare thighs and flapped them apart.

"Spread 'em," he said as he sat down on the bed next to me.

"Want a pillow?" he asked, as he reached a pillow from beside me and helped me lift my head before sliding it underneath my chin. I lowered my head and my face sank into the foam. "Maybe not," he laughed, as he pulled the pillow free once again.

"This is going to be cold," he said as he flipped the little nipple up on the bottle and squirted some liquid gel into his hands. I could hear the gel smacking and popping as he rubbed his hands together. Then he placed them on my inflamed buttocks as I sighed and closed my eyes.

I didn't speak, and neither did Pete as he rubbed and massaged the soothing gel into my backside. The relief wasn't instant, but just the feel of his cool hands on my butt cheeks felt good, and when the aloe started to do its thing, the stinging, burning pain from my spanking started to subside.

"That feels good," I encouraged him after a while.

"Shhhhh, slave, no talking," he said, as he continued to massage my bottom, stopping only to replenish the gel from the bottle.

It did feel good. Pete's hands were big and strong, but his touch was gentle as he rubbed and massaged in the aloe. After a time, he climbed onto the bed and motioned my legs apart, widening the gap between my ankles, as he kneaded and caressed my butt cheeks. His thumbs began to work their way into my crack, starting at the top and easing their way down, avoiding my anus, but caressing the smooth, inner portions of my butt cheeks and the tops of my thighs. I sighed softly at the pleasure of it.

Then I felt Pete's thumbs graze over my butt hole even as his fingers continued to grasp at and slide over my buns. I tensed but made no effort to clench my cheeks shut. My legs were spread too far apart for that to do any good, anyway. Pete's thumbs drifted from my hole to the underside of my balls. There was an additional wetness there – different from the aloe – that I realized had to be Pete's cum still leaking from my hole.

Over and over Pete's strong hands, fingers, and thumbs rubbed the aloe into my skin, now supplemented with the liquid that was continuing to drain from my hole. I could smell the scent of the aloe and the underlying aroma of cum as Pete worked in silence. He stopped only to add more lotion to his hands. Eventually, my entire bottom, including my crack and hole, was slick and glistening.

"Do you trust me, slave?" Pete asked me in a whisper.

"Yes," I replied with my eyes still closed. "Yes, master," I added.

Pete stopped massaging my buns, and I could feel his hair legs as he moved closer between my legs. "Good slave," he whispered again, as I felt him place his cockhead at my opening once again.

I gasped in pain as he pressed into me. It hurt. Not as bad as before, perhaps, but it still hurt. I bit my lip and pressed my face into the mattress, determined not to cry out. Pete held his cock steady for a moment, then pushed more of his shaft into my rectum. I almost suppressed my groan of discomfort. I tried to, anyway.

"Shhhh, slave," whispered Pete as his still-slippery hands grasped me around my waist. I felt his knees against my inner thighs as he lifted my hips off the mattress, improving his angle for entry. He pushed in again. I could feel the girth of his cock as it spread me open.

Pete went slowly, working his cock deeper and deeper into my bowels until I could feel his pubis bush against my butt cheeks. I don't know how I managed to fit all seven inches (19 cm.) in my bottom. Pete's cock always seemed big to me when I handled or sucked it. Somehow, however, it fit. For the second time that morning, Pete was able to bottom out inside me. Given how small I was in stature, he might have been as surprised by that as I was.

"So tight, slave," he whispered. I turned my head for air and immediately reburied my head in the mattress. I was determined not to cry out, not to sigh, or moan, or groan, or do anything that would make Pete think I was an unworthy little kid. I knew I could do this; after all, I had done it before. Other kids had, too. I didn't want to be a wimp, and I didn't want to lose my friend.

Pete slowly withdrew his cock before thrusting forward once again. Then he began a slow, rhythmic humping of my backside, feeding me his cock deep inside, withdrawing about halfway, then thrusting forward once again.

I know this is the point in every story like this where the man's cock hits that special, magic button in the boy's butt that brings the boy great rapture and pleasure. I'm sorry to say that I had no such experience. As I lay there, face-down on the bed, all I could feel inside me was Pete's cock sawing away at my bowels. Instead of a mind-blowing kaleidoscope of prostate-centered pleasure, the only thing my mind was concentrated on was how much more my anus was going to hurt before Pete finished. Because at that moment, the lubricant was wearing a bit thin, and with every thrust of Pete's cock my anal ring felt like it was being sanded by a piece of industrial equipment.

Thankfully, however, the rest of the pain from my earlier experience was significantly lessened. The achy, penetrative pain from having something rammed deep in my butt was not nearly so bothersome as before. I think it was because I was more relaxed about what was happening and knew there were limits to the pain I would feel. Yes, it hurt, and it felt full, and achy. No, it was not like a hot fire-poker of agony like it had been before. I guess Pete had been right after all – the first time was the worst, and if you got it out of the way, all the times after that would be better.

Eventually, even the pain in my anus started to subside a bit. I think that was because I bled a little and my blood helped to lubricate Pete's cock. When I felt my hole afterwards, my fingers came back tinged pink, as well as wet with Pete's goo. I could take a little blood. I was a big kid, after all. I wanted to be brave for my friend.

Pete must have fucked me for almost 10 minutes that second time. He said almost nothing, just kept up a slow, rhythmic, methodical penetration of my butt. I didn't say anything, either. The only sound in the room was a gentle creaking of the bed and the occasional grunt or gasp that came from both of us. As Pete thrust into me, I realized that he had been right and I had been proven wrong a second time. I had told him that I was never going to do this again, and yet here we were, doing it for the second time in as many hours, just as he had promised. I hadn't even made it through the morning before his penis was back inside my butt, thrusting away.

It went on for a while, but then Pete's grunts increased as he got close, as did the urgency of his thrusts. My bottom hurt but the pain was manageable, and I felt proud that I had taken his cock so bravely and was helping him with his needs. If it felt like this every time, I was pretty sure I could do it.

When he got close, he leaned his entire body down atop mine and placed his hands on my shoulders. I could barely breathe from his weight, but I could feel his cock spasming inside me as he thrust deep and coated my bowels with his cum. He lay there, panting, his body warm, heavy, damp, and cloying on top of mine. I was struggling to breathe, but Pete was making no effort to move.

"Pete," I finally gasped from beneath him. "You're squishing me."

Chapter Five

Needless to say, things were different between Pete and me after that day. I rode home from his house a changed boy; my sore bottom never once so much as touched my bike seat. I did a lot of thinking on the ride, and afterwards, too. My mother was home when I arrived, but as usual she barely acknowledged my return. She remained distant, preoccupied with her own troubles. One of those troubles, I knew, was me. Pete was absolutely right – I hadn't been supportive of her. I had been a selfish, self-centered little kid. The problem was, I didn't know how to fix the situation.

Over the next several weeks, one of the ways I tried to fix it was by spending less and less time at home. My mother didn't seem to care where I went or how long I was gone, so I spent more and more time at Pete's house. Things had changed with him, too. Not in a bad way, but everything was different. For one thing, we didn't play act roles anymore. I was his boy and his slave, and he was my adult friend and my master. Sometimes, things were the same between us, like when we weren't having sex. He would laugh and joke, and ruffle my hair, and his eyes would twinkle as we talked. Sometimes he told me stories.

But our sex life was quite different. Unless we were pressed for time, Pete fucked me every single visit, and often twice. I got used to having his cock in my butt and became familiar with several different positions he liked to use. His favorite way to do it was with me on my back on the bed, with my legs spread and bent back toward my shoulders. Sometimes, he placed my heels on his shoulders as his hands rested on my waist or flanks. Other times he would grasp my ankles in his hands and spread them apart while pressing them down to the mattress. I was a flexible kid, but sometimes he stretched me so much and so wide that it hurt. I would gasp with pain as I tried to be a big boy for him and not cry out, and that's when he would usually relent a little bit. Usually.

I didn't feel a lot of pain from his penetration anymore, but I was still fairly small, so when he took me all the way, I could feel a pang of pain deep inside my body. I probably gasped from that, as well, but unlike with the leg-stretching stuff, if he wanted to fuck me balls-deep, that's what he did. When he came, it was always deep in my butt, and then he would pull out and roll over on the bed. Generally, he would just lie there, panting and recovering, as his slick, glistening dick softened against his abdomen.

I guess you could say that I grew to like being fucked by Pete. While I never felt the joys of prostate stimulation at that age, I was happy that Pete enjoyed himself. Fucking me gave him an outlet that I don't think I ever could have satisfied with my mouth alone. Looking back on it now, I'm surprised that he hadn't moved to the intercourse phase of our relationship any sooner than he did. Maybe he was afraid of scaring me off, or even worse that I would tell, but of course neither of those things would have happened. I absolutely adored Pete. I idolized him. He was so much more than my best friend that it would have taken me a long time just to count the ways he was important to me.

Meanwhile, on the home front, things were getting worse and worse. My mother had sunk into a deep depression. The loss of her job and the home that she had worked so hard to provide for both of us had been a terrible, devastating blow to her psyche. Despite Pete's lecture and what I think was desire to be supportive and helpful, I couldn't figure out a way how to do so. When my mother wasn't working at her dead-end job, she mostly just wanted to be left alone. We still spoke sometimes, but her manner was flat and listless. It seemed to me that she had lost some of the will to live, the joie de vivre that comes with every new day. Nothing seemed to cheer her up, except the bottle.

I knew about alcoholism and even knew some kids from school whose parents drank too much. One kid I knew, Robert Tucker, whose father was a notorious alcoholic, had been beaten so viciously by the man early in the school year that he had to be hospitalized for over a week. The news of what had happened spread all over the school like a wildfire. Even though parents hit their kids in the 1970s, this was too much even for that era, and Mr. Tucker was arrested. Alcohol was blamed, and the last I had heard he had moved out of the house where Robert lived, leaving Robert, his mother, and three other kids to fend for themselves. That could happen in those days if a father got reported for beating his kids, and that's why reports like that rarely happened. It wasn't at all clear how Mrs. Tucker was going to cope raising four kids on her own, the eldest of whom was 12 years old.

Pete didn't beat me, but he did spank me often. I knew these were still meant to be playful, like in our games before, but now they hurt. Not as much as that first time, but they hurt nonetheless. I never complained. Pete would often spank me as a warm-up to anal sex. He would say all kinds of things like "You've been a bad slave, haven't you?"

I would usually agree with him, with a meek "Yes, master," in reply.

"We're going to get this bottom all warmed up for my cock, aren't we?" Pete would ask, to which I would agree. He usually stopped short of the point where I would be thrashing and writhing in pain, but not always. It depended on his mood. On most occasions, there didn't seem to be any reason for the spankings, either, other than he wanted to give them to me. I understood that I wasn't being punished, although he occasionally did take me over his knee for some infraction or another. "This one's actually for punishment," he would say, as he would light me up. Those spankings always hurt more.

But I didn't really mind either kind of spanking. I guess as I look back on it now, I desperately needed someone like Pete in my life when I was 11. My mother was nonexistent. I still didn't have any close or real friends my own age, and as the year dribbled on toward June and the end of school, my prospects for the summer were actually quite boring and lonely if I didn't have Pete to fall back on. I knew without even asking that there was no money for me to do anything fun. I couldn't go to camp – not that I really wanted to, as that would have taken me away from Pete, or at least cut into our time together – but my mother didn't even have the money for an annual pass to the community pool for me to go swimming. I loved to swim, and this was disheartening to me, but Pete came through and paid for a pass for me. I think he bought a family pass, as the two of us sometimes went together, usually after we fucked. Pete would recharge his batteries for an hour at the pool, and then we would go back to his house and he would fuck me again.

"You know you drive me wild in that swimsuit, slave?" he would tell me on the drive home as he fondled my damp genitals through the fabric.

"You just like my cute butt!" I would tease him.

I knew what the man wanted from me, now, and I was more than willing to give it to maintain our friendship. At that juncture, I simply could not have overcome the loss of Pete as my friend. I truly believe that I would have been lost without the man, and what with the situation with my mother, I might very well have had a nervous breakdown or become suicidal if Pete had abandoned me. He had become everything to me. I worshiped the man on many levels and fell rather seamlessly into becoming his sex slave and concubine.

I know that I am supposed to feel that I was abused and taken advantage of by Pete, but I didn't at the time. Even to this day I know he wanted me for sex, but there is no question in my mind that he felt something for me, as well. Maybe he never loved me the way I loved him, but I know there was some affection there. It would be cliché to say that I became the son he never had, but there were elements to that in the way he treated me, apart from the sex, and some of the advice he gave me and the things he said to me. At least that's what I perceived at the time. I guess I would sum it up by saying if Pete didn't have an affinity for me that at least bordered on the paternal, he was a darn good actor. Then again, he very much was a darn good actor, so maybe I was duped. But I didn't think so then, and I don't really think so now, despite everything that happened. I know he liked me. I think he may have even loved me in his own way.

It really didn't really matter, anyway. At the age of 11, I was so dependent on Pete and starved for human contact that I probably would have continued to see him even if he had only been uncaring and abusive. I simply worshiped the man. I'm not afraid to say that I loved him. When I wasn't with him, which was nearly every day, I missed him. I knew that he needed his space from time to time, so I didn't come to visit every single day until school let out, but I wanted to. He never rebuffed me or sent me away, but every so often I sensed that he would rather that I hadn't come. Inevitably, though, we would have sex, and then I was pretty sure he was glad that I had.

Pete liked sex. As I have said, he was good for at least two orgasms every single time I saw him, unless we were especially crunched for time. Once he had successfully introduced me to fucking, that was how he achieved most of his orgasms. I would still suck him, but generally just as a warm-up to the main event. My butt got pretty used to the size and girth of his cock. He always used lube, and it got to the point where I could just lie on my tummy or my back as he penetrated me and did most of the work. It was always funny to me how spent he would be after he came inside my ass. He often collapsed on me with his full weight, panting as his cock spasmed the last of its load into my intestines. He knew he was squishing me, but he was just so tired, almost like a little kid up way past his bedtime. He often rolled over and took a short nap after sex before we moved to round two or jumped in the shower to wash off. I ended up taking most of my showers at Pete's house and my mother never even seemed to notice. At least, I didn't think she did.

There was one other thing that he introduced me to after our heart-to-heart conversation that I did not like to do, but Pete essentially told me it was non-negotiable, so I did it. Pete liked rimming. He occasionally rimmed me, especially if I was freshly bathed, but he loved to be rimmed even more. He had suggested to me a few times before our heart-to-heart talk that he wanted me to try it, but I had never taken him up on it. It seemed gross to me. Pete's cleft was full of ass hair, dark and almost downy, and his asshole was hairy, as well. To 11-year-old me, it just seemed yucky. But everything changed after our conversation, and thereafter rimming Pete became a regular if not daily part of our sex play. Pete liked to lie down on the bed on his stomach with his legs spread in a big V so I could rim him. Once I got over the ick factor, I guess it wasn't that big of a big deal. I never really came to like it, but Pete really did, and that was really all that mattered.

I went to Pete's house literally every day that summer, and I wouldn't just be there for a few minutes, either. I spent hours and hours with the man, a good bit of it fucking and sucking, but some of it just tagging along as he worked on something inside or poked around in his garden in the backyard. After school let out, he purchased an Atari 2600 console and a few games to keep me occupied when he needed some time to himself. I remember Space Invaders and a spaceship game, but my favorite was Missile Command. I could play that game for hours and hours. Pete tried his hand at the games with me a couple of times – mostly at my urging – but he didn't have much aptitude for them, and he really didn't seem all that interested. Looking back on it now, the Atari was probably just Pete's way of keeping a kid occupied when we weren't having sex together. I can't say that I blamed him. I was a young boy, and he was a grown man. Lots of parents bought game consoles for their kids to keep them busy, and Pete was no different in needing some alone time once in a while.

One day, probably around the end of June in the year 1978, I went to Pete's house to hang out and do the other thing we did together, when he surprised me by wanting to have a talk. He was quite formal about it, sitting me down at the kitchen table, pouring me a glass of milk, and taking out a sleeve of crackers for me to munch on. Ritz crackers, as I recall. They were all the rage.

"I've been working on something for a while, Davey," he said as he broke the ice. He rarely called me Davey anymore, but when he did, it usually meant no sex and listen carefully. I listened.

"I know money is tight for you and your mom," he continued, and "I was thinking about a way I could help with that. Now, your mom isn't going to take charity from me – and it would look weird, anyway – plus I'm not exactly independently wealthy," he said with a little chuckle. "But it occurred to me a few weeks ago that we have a little asset here that we might be able to capitalize on. You know what that little asset might be? Hmmm?"

Pete was in a playful mood, which I always enjoyed, but I had no idea what he was talking about. That wasn't uncommon for me. I was still learning a lot about the world. I was still three months shy of my 12th birthday in September.

"What is it?" I asked, with a look of confusion on my face.

"You," said Pete simply and triumphantly.

"Me?"

"Yes, you," he replied as he reached over and poked my nose. He was being jovial and fun. I loved it when he was this way.

"How am I an asset?"

"Well, for one thing, you can act. For another, you're absolutely adorable. And for yet another, your ass-set is as cute as the dickens." Pete was grinning ear to ear.

"Pete!" I complained, but not really. His playfulness was infectious when he was like this, and I couldn't help but grin.

"I'm being serious. I've been working on this for a while. Want to hear me out?"

"Sure."

"OK. Ready?" he teased.

"Yes!"

"I have some friends – more like contacts, you could say – in Chicago. Friends from my serious acting days. And after I had this silly little idea a couple of weeks ago, I reached out to a couple of them. My friend Aaron called me back yesterday."

I looked confused, which was not uncommon for me in those days when I was having any kind of serious conversation with an adult. It always seemed like they spoke in riddles.

"OK – who's Aaron again?"

"A friend from college," said Pete. "We used to be in drama club together. He went professional for a while after we graduated, off-Broadway stuff, that kind of thing. He never hit it big but made enough to pay the bills. Anyway, he's in the talent business, now."

"What's that?"

"You know, talent agents, the guys who discover the next big stars?" said Pete.

I stared at him blankly. "Like for actors and stuff?"

"For actors and stuff, also models, whatever's needed. Television spots, department store ads, that kind of thing."

The light kind of went on in my head then. "You think I could do that stuff?"

Pete smiled, obviously pleased at my perception. "I know you could do that stuff, Davey. That's why I called Aaron."

"What did he say?"

"He said he wants to meet you. I already sent him a couple of pictures, just to show him what you look like. He called me as soon as he got them. He wants you – I guess that would mean both of us – to come to Chicago so he can meet you in person."

I didn't remember Pete taking any pictures of me and didn't know how he would have any, but that seemed immaterial in the moment.

"To Chicago?" I asked, the bridge of my nose wrinkling in confused concentration.

"The one and only. Shytown. The Windy City. Capital of the Midwest."

I looked skeptical. "I don't think my mom will let me," I said. To be honest, I wasn't even sure how eager I was to go, myself. It seemed a bit scary. Chicago was hundreds of miles from St. Clair. I had never been there and didn't even know which direction it was. It just seemed like a big, scary city to me.

"That's where you and I will have to collaborate and be at our most-persuasive best, Davey my boy!" replied Pete. "We need to talk to your mom and persuade her – both of us."

I was still skeptical. "I don't know," I said, my voice trailing off a little bit. Chicago seemed so far away that it might almost have been on the surface of the moon.

Pete reached across the table and took both of my hands, leaned in, and peered right at me. "I don't think you understand what kind of an opportunity this is, boy," he told me, dropping the Davey bit altogether. "These are paying gigs we're talking about. You have to think in terms of money."

"How much?"

"Depends – I'm not sure. Depends what kind of gigs you can get. But whatever it is, it's more than you're making now, right? Capiche?"

There was that word again. I nodded, but I still didn't think Pete's plan would work.

"Aaron called me as soon as he saw your pictures. He said he has plenty of work for a boy like you. How do you like them apples?"

"What pictures?" I asked him. I honestly had no idea where he had obtained any of me.

"Just some pictures," said Pete, a little cryptically. "Let's just say that when I called him, he was polite but not real interested. After he saw your pictures, he called me the same day he received them, capiche? And now he wants to meet you in person."

"OK," I said, a bit noncommittally. I still wasn't sure how this was going to be possible. My mom wasn't likely to agree to it at all. "How far is Chicago from here?" I asked.

"About 300 miles, maybe a bit more," said Pete. "We're looking at an overnight. We'll have to stay in a hotel. I ain't driving 600 miles in one day, not in and out of Chicago, anyway."

"What are you going to say to my Mom?" I asked him.

"We're both going to tell her that this is a great opportunity for the Pierce family to capitalize on all of these free acting lessons I've been giving you, boy," said Pete with a smile.

I pondered that for a moment. Pete hadn't given me any acting lessons in weeks, but my mother had no way of knowing that. It was an angle that just might work with her. After all, what would be the point of taking acting lessons if I was never going to act?

"Do you think it will work?" I asked Pete. My mother had been pretty disengaged for weeks, and I had no idea how this idea would go over with her.

"I think so, Davey. Should I call her?"

I looked uncertain. "I'm not sure. Let me ask her first."

And so, I did. I waited until later that same evening to broach the topic with her. As was usual for her these days, she was sitting at the kitchen table in our apartment, with all the lights off except the one immediately above the stove. She had a mixed drink of some sort in her hand, complete with ice.

"Mom, can I ask you something?"

"Yes, what is it, Davey?"

I wasn't sure whether to turn on the light, but I opted against it. I pulled out the chair opposite to hers and sat down.

"Mom, you know how Pete and I've been practicing acting and stuff?" I didn't bother to tell her that the "and stuff" involved naked spankings, blowjobs, rimming, and anal sex.

She nodded. "You've been spending a lot of time with him."

I nodded back. "We're … friends," I told her. It was the truth, if not the whole truth.

Mom smiled. "What did you want to ask me?"

"Um, well, Pete said – if I'm interested, and it's okay with you – that one of his friends might have an acting or modeling job for me. I'd get money for it if it happens."

"Is that something you want to do?"

I shrugged. "I mean, I guess so. I never really thought about it. I didn't even know about Pete's friend." I paused for a moment, then leaned a little over the table, almost like I was telling her a secret. "Mom, if it pays any money, I could help out with stuff around here. You know."

My mother smiled again. "You don't have to worry about that, Davey. That's not your responsibility. Not at your age."

"But why does it always have to be your responsibility, Mom? I want to help."

The smile left my mother's face. It hadn't seemed all that real to me, anyway. More tired than real. She lifted the drink to her lips and took a small sip, but even that motion looked artificial and feigned.

"Tell me about this job then."

"I don't know much about it. Um, the other thing is, I have to go to Chicago for the audition."

My mother put her drink down. "Davey, we can't go to Chicago," she said, shaking her head. "My car would never make it, and I'd never get the time off. I just started there. I can't even put in for time off until I've been there six months, and even then, it's not a given."

"Pete said he'd take me," I said, perhaps a bit too quickly.

"Did he, now?" My mother did not look pleased.

"Mom, it's his friend. His friend Aaron. He would be going to see him, too."

"Where would you stay?" My mother seemed to know it would be an overnight trip.

"Pete said he'd pay for a hotel room."

"Did he, now?" my mother repeated.

I felt my cheeks blushing a bit as my mother seemed to be scrutinizing my every word. "Yeah, I mean, just for one night. Remember I stayed over at his house once before?" I wanted her to know that it would be fine.

"I remember," she replied, but in a tone and with a look that suggested she was not particularly enamored of the memory.

"He's my friend," I declared a bit fiercely.

Mom smiled again and took another sip of her drink. "When would this trip happen?"

I shrugged. "I'm not sure." Pete and I hadn't spoken about that.

"Is this something you want to do, Davey? Not what Pete wants you to do, but what you want to do."

I nodded. "I think so? But if I don't like it, I can always stop." I shrugged. "I'm not even sure I'll get the part. Or a part. Or any part."

"Have Pete call me," my mother said with a wan smile. I wished she would stop smiling like that because it looked almost creepy. Almost like she wasn't really there.

I nodded anyway. "Okay, Mom," I said as I pushed back the chair and rose from the table.

"You'll see him tomorrow, I assume?" my mother asked.

I paused, then shrugged. "Probably? I'm not sure." But I was lying. I would see him, and we would have sex. It was a daily occurrence now.

She smiled again but said nothing.

"I'll have him call you."

Looking back on this conversation as an adult, it seems likely that my mother already suspected something was going on between Pete and me. Not all the details, of course, but my mother wasn't naïve, and even in those days, a young boy wasn't supposed to have man in his 50s for a best friend. We hadn't met randomly, either. My mother certainly remembered that Pete had hand-picked me for the role in Parasols and immediately befriended me. So why didn't my mother confront me with her suspicions if she had them? I'm not sure I have the answer. She certainly knew that Pete was important to me, and maybe she sensed what it would do to me if I no longer could see him. Maybe she felt some guilt that I was growing up without a father. Maybe she had a mother's instincts about the type of boy I already was and would inevitably become. The answer remains a mystery to me to this day, but she never asked me about Pete or banned me from seeing him, even when the nature of our relationship must have become crystal clear to her.

Pete called her the next day, and if she said anything to him then, I never knew about it. I never heard any of the details of that conversation, and it was Pete, not my mother, who told me that the trip was on. I was excited to be going to Chicago, although it was going to be a short trip: one day to drive up, an overnight stay, and then the drive back. We were scheduled to meet with Aaron on the afternoon of the first day, stay overnight, then drive back to St. Clair the following day.

Pete scheduled the trip for July 13 and 14, a Thursday into a Friday. Pete booked the hotel for the night of the 13th and told me that he wanted to get an early start on the morning of that day. We would leave at 6:00 a.m., with Pete picking me up at my apartment. I asked Pete what I should bring to wear for my audition and interview, but he told me not to worry about it. Just a clean set of clothes – shorts and a t-shirt – would be fine.

I checked in with my Mom the night of the 12th and told her I would get myself up to go the next morning. My excitement grew and I had trouble falling asleep. I'd never seen a city the size of Chicago before, and once I knew I would be going, I wanted to see the tall buildings in person. I also wanted to experience first-hand why they called it the Windy City. Pete and I would be staying in a hotel with a swimming pool and eating our meals on the road. For a kid who hadn't visited many places or even been on too many trips, it was a lot to look forward to, and I looked forward to it all.

Pete picked me up at the appointed time and I raced out of my apartment and into the front passenger seat of his Mercury Marquis with a big smile on my face.

"Somebody's bright and cheerful this morning!" said Pete as he ruffled my blond hair. He still liked to do that after all these months together. "What's in the bag?" he asked as I placed my school backpack at my feet.

"Just some extra clothes and my toothbrush and stuff, and my swimsuit."

"Good boy," smiled Pete.

"Are you going to go swimming with me at the hotel?" I asked.

"We'll see," said Pete as he backed out of the driveway and headed out on the road.

The trip to Chicago was almost all highway, which made it kind of boring. We left early enough so that we would avoid rush-hour traffic leaving St. Clair but still be several hours out of Chicago to avoid the rush hour there. I didn't know anything about stuff like that, but Pete had lived in big cities before and was familiar with the traffic.

We made good time. It was a hot, Midwest summer day, and I was grateful for the air-conditioning in Pete's Mercury. It wasn't a luxury vehicle by any stretch, but compared to what my mother drove, it was a veritable Rolls Royce. The V8 engine provided a smooth ride, and the long, sleek look of the thing made it seem very classy to me. Here I was, driving to Chicago like a big shot, with my mentor and best friend at the wheel beside me. It felt good, and I was excited.

Pete and I had plenty of time to talk on the drive. He seemed to be in a jovial mood, and it occurred to me that he was happy for me and happy to do this thing for me and my mom. He had set it up on his own, calling his friends without even telling me about it and then arranging for me to audition. I was really grateful that he was taking the time to give me this opportunity, not to mention paying for the hotel and meals, and putting a ton of miles on his car. Gas still wasn't cheap that summer of 1978, and when we stopped to fill up at a highway rest stop, I got out to stretch and watched as he pumped a small fortune worth of fuel into the Mercury's tank.

Almost two hours out, we stopped at a McDonald's in Ann Arbor for breakfast. I got the hot cakes and sausage while Pete made do with an Egg McMuffin and a coffee. I didn't get to eat out much, and McDonald's was my favorite restaurant. I guess you could say I didn't have a very sophisticated palate. Pete didn't seem to mind.

Our appointment with Pete's friend Aaron was scheduled for 2:00 p.m. Pete hadn't really told me much about it, and I still didn't know if it was an audition or just an interview, or neither of the above.

"Will you be with me when I meet with Aaron?" I asked.

"Definitely for the first bit," said Pete. "But he may want to talk to you alone, and if that's the case, I'll just step out and go for a walk."

"What do you think he's going to ask me?"

"I've already told him some about you," replied Pete. "He'll probably just want to get a feel for you, what roles you might be good for, that kind of thing."

"Do you know what roles he's thinking about?"

Pete chuckled. "He's been doing this for a long time, so I'm sure he has some ideas. Aaron has a very eclectic and diversified client base, so we'll just have to see."

"What does that mean?" I asked. Sometimes Pete seemed to forget that I was 11 years old.

"It means that he has a lot of customers in a lot of different areas doing a lot of different things. Some of them might need a kid your age for an ad spot, a photo shoot, whatever. It just depends what they have going on and what their needs are."

"Would it be mostly modeling, or acting?"

"Aaron does both or certainly he caters to both," said Pete. "I don't think it really makes a difference to him which it is. He's more about the talent, finding the right kid for the right job."

"Does he only work with kids?"

Pete nodded. "That's his specialty. Everyone in that business has to have a focus, unless you're part of a big talent agency with a bunch of agents. Aaron's solo, so his focus is kids. Not even just kids, but specifically boys. That's why I called him, because, um, last time I checked, you're a boy, right?"

I had a big grin as I looked over and made eye contact with him. Pete had checked me out just yesterday – twice, as a matter of fact – and had personally verified my gender both times just as I had personally verified his.

"Do you have any idea what he might ask me?" I persisted.

Pete placed his hand on my left knee and gave it a little squeeze. "No reason to be nervous, kiddo. I've already told Aaron how good a little actor you are. He already knows what you look like. Blond-haired, blue-eyed kids like you are the currency of the realm in his line of business. Actually, they're a dime a dozen, but not too many of them are as talented and special as you are. You'll do just fine," he concluded, as he gave my bare thigh a little pat.

I smiled at his words of praise, but I couldn't help but be nervous. I wanted the interview to go well. It would help my mom if I could get some paying "gigs" as Pete liked to call them. I wasn't under any illusion that I was going to be the next Leif Garrett, but I was more than willing to act in television ads or do photo shoots for department stores if I got paid. I'd even reconciled myself to doing the ones in underwear that seemed to be in every Sunday paper.

"Aaron's a very good friend of mine," said Pete, "and he's ready to give you a shot. Let's just say that you already have a leg up on some of the competition with him."

"Thanks," I said to Pete, as I reached over and gave his upper arm an affectionate little pat. I was grateful for everything he was doing for me. He was my best friend.

"He probably will want to talk to you alone," said Pete. "And if that happens, I want you to take care of him, capiche? I'll step out so the two of you can get to know each other better."

There was that word again. I still didn't know what it meant. I kept meaning to ask Pete, but I never did. I nodded in response.

"Aaron's a pretty well-connected guy," continued Pete. "If this works out, you might have more gigs than you know what to do with. You and your mom might have to move to Chicago. She can be your manager."

"I want you to be my manager," I replied.

Pete chuckled. "We'll see. I'd be honored." He looked over at me with a smile. "Just make sure you take good care of Aaron. Make it last and use your tongue. Once I step out, you'll probably have at least 20 to 30 minutes to make him feel good, capiche?"

"Capiche," I replied. If he could use the word, so could I.

"Good boy," said Pete as he ruffled my hair once again. I loved it when he did that. It melted me.

We stopped for lunch about an hour outside of Chicago – Burger King, this time. I liked Burger King almost as much as McDonald's, except for the French fries. They weren't nearly as good, but it didn't matter. Two restaurant meals in the same day was a rare luxury for me, and I ate with relish. Literally, since I had some on my Whopper. The meal was good, or at least I thought so, and Pete was happy with the time we were making. He checked his watch.

"We're plenty early," he said. "I think we'll check in at the hotel and take the L to Aaron's office. I don't really want to drive that big ol' boat around Chicago, even if it is in the middle of the day."

"What's the L?"

"It's the Chicago subway system, boy. Best in the world. Best I've ever seen, anyway. L stands for elevated. A lot of the system is above-ground."

"Cool," I replied. I'd never been on a subway before. This was turning into a great trip.

We drove for another 45 minutes or so and stopped at a Holiday Inn on the outskirts of the city. It was getting on toward 1 p.m. when we arrived. Pete checked his watch.

"It's actually a bit later than I thought," he said as he tossed his suitcase on one of the two double beds. I tossed my backpack on the other. "We'll only need one of these, tonight," Peter said with a grin. "But we'll muss the sheets up on the other one, so the cleaning lady doesn't get suspicious."

I grinned back and walked over to him as he took a seat on the bed.

"Too bad we don't have a little more time, slave," he said to me as he grasped me by my upper arms. "Something about hotel rooms always makes me horny."

"Yes, master," I replied as I beamed at him. I had been looking forward to the hotel stay, as well. Although I had sex in Pete's bed nearly every day, I never got to sleep with the man, and I was looking forward to snuggling up against him later tonight.

"Okay, we gotta go," he said, as he moved me to the side and stood up. "I need to get my hands on a train schedule, but I'm pretty sure I know how to get there. We just have to take the Red line all the way in and hop off on Lake Street. We can either walk or transfer from there."

I had no idea what he was talking about and no idea how subways worked, so I was very glad to be with Pete and not on my own. Chicago seemed simply enormous, and that made it more than a bit intimidating to me. Still, I was excited to be in the big city that I had heard so much about. This was the land of Al Capone and the big fire that started when that cow kicked over a lantern in Mrs. O'Leary's barn. Now I was here to see it all, or some of it, anyway.

The Red Line station was a short walk from our hotel. I watched as Pete unfolded the schedule and checked to see where we needed to go.

"Yup, Red Line to Lake," he said. "Northbound, obviously. We can probably just walk it from there, but I don't want us to get all sweaty before our meeting. We'll see how far it is and play it by ear. Sound good, boy?"

I shrugged and flashed a clueless look at the man.

"You have no idea, do you?" he asked with a little chuckle. "Come on," he added as he beckoned me to the ticket window.

"Two, one under 12, one adult," he told the man behind the ticket window.

The man didn't even look up as he replied. "Day or one-way?"

"Uh, cheaper with two one-ways or the day pass?"

"'Bout the same. Recommend the day pass." The man still hadn't looked up.

"Day pass, then. How much?"

"$3.25 for both of you."

Pete paid the man and we were on our way to the platform. It wasn't long before the northbound train arrived at the station and we were seated and on our way. I was fascinated. I stared out the window at the passing scenery. There were lots and lots of buildings stretching as far as my eyes could see. Houses, commercial buildings, parks, Little League fields, water towers and parking lots were everywhere. The train was mostly empty, so I stood and went to the other side of the car and peered out to the east. The view was much better there, and I could see a vast body of water in the distance.

"What is that?" I asked Pete as I pointed out the window. He was still seated on the west-facing side of the car, apparently watching me as I moved about with excitement.

"It's one of the Great Lakes – you tell me," he replied.

"Is it Lake Huron?"

Pete shook his head.

"Oh, is it Lake Michigan?"

"You win the prize."

"Way over here?" I asked with a look of amazement.

"It's a big lake, boy. Look it up in an atlas when you get home."

I continued to look out the window as the buildings got progressively denser and taller. We were in Chicago and I was as excited as I could be. I couldn't sit still, and I raced over to Pete's side of the train again to look out the windows to the west.

"Easy boy," said Pete, "or someone's getting a spanking when we get back to the hotel room tonight."

Feeling my oats, I made a face and stuck my tongue out at Pete. I was having way too much fun now to worry about a spanking I might get later. But the view from the other side of the car was much better, so I zoomed back across to the seat I had just departed.

"Dead boy," intoned Pete disapprovingly as I laughed.

The buildings got taller and taller to the point where I had to stick my head against the glass window and look almost straight up to see the tops of them.

"Woah, cool!" I said, as Pete looked on. He had the kind of amused and bemused look that adults get when a kid is unable to contain himself with excitement. I was being that kid. I couldn't help it. Chicago was like an immense, albeit somewhat intimidating playground to me. I couldn't get over how tall the buildings looked up close.

Finally, it looked like we had arrived in the densest part of the entire city, with the tallest buildings of all. We had to be in the center of downtown Chicago.

"This our stop – Lake Street," said Pete. "We're in the Loop, now."

I didn't know what the Loop was, but I sprung from my seat and was holding onto one of the commuter poles as the train came to a stop and the doors opened. Pete and I stepped out into the middle of downtown Chicago! With an expression of wonder and delight, I looked to my left and right, and then up at the wondrous view of Chicago's teeming business district.

"Whooooah," I said in wonder as I took in the sight.

"Come on, you," said Pete as he squeezed the top of my head and gently turned my head to the left, orienting me in the direction he wanted to go.

I didn't know which compass direction we traveled or how Pete even knew where we were going, but I walked along with him as we passed by building after building and persons after person. It was a beautiful summer day. The sun was shining down high overhead, but it wasn't too hot – perhaps 80 degrees [27 C.] – and there was a nice breeze to keep things cool. It wasn't exactly the Windy City, but it was more than pleasant enough.

We entered Aaron's building through the front door, which was held open for us by a doorman in full livery! I grinned and looked back over my shoulder at him as we stepped into an ornate lobby.

"Over here, boy, pay attention!" said Pete as I stood there staring at the marble and tile. I scurried over to him as he pressed the up button to summon the elevator.

"This is so cool!" I said, as I continued to look everywhere at everything. Into the elevator we went. "Can I press it, Pete? What floor?" We were the only passengers in this car.

"Seventeen," he responded with a roll of his eyes. "You'd better get yourself back under control, boy. You have an interview to hit out of the park, and a man you'll want to impress. Capiche?"

"Capiche," I replied, as I vowed once again to look up that word when I could get to a dictionary. I pressed the button for the seventeenth floor and was pleased when it illuminated. I wanted to press them all, but I didn't think Pete would be too happy with that, so I refrained.

The elevator took off with a slight lurch as it carried us into the air. I tilted my head and watched the indicator light above the door as it flashed through all the floors below our destination. The car slowed on its own as it approached the seventeenth floor before coming to a smooth and easy stop. The doors opened and Pete and I stepped out.

The elevator had left us off in the office suite for the "Richter Agency," which was the name engraved in gold letters on the marble face of the reception desk that faced the elevator bank. The woman seated behind the desk greeted us with a smile.

"May I help you?"

Pete stepped forward, drawing me along with his hand in the middle of my back. "Pete Volcker and David- … and David to see Mr. Richter. We have a 2 o'clock."

"One moment, please," said the receptionist as she pressed a series of buttons on the telephone console on her desk. "You can have a seat in our waiting area," she added as she pointed to her left.

"Come on," said Pete, with his hand still guiding me from the middle of my back. From behind me, I heard the receptionist tell someone over the phone that Mr. Volcker and David had arrived for their 2 o'clock appointment.

The waiting room seated about 10 people with two brown-leather loveseats and six matching leather chairs with hammered copper rivets. A square map table with two-tone inlays sat in the middle of the seating cluster. It was covered with trade magazines and today's copy of the Chicago Tribune. Pete and I took our seats, with me perched on the corner of one of the loveseats, and Pete in one of the chairs. There were four other people in the waiting area, including a little blond-haired boy of about five playing with a toy truck on the Persian-rug-covered floor at the feet of a well-dressed woman who appeared to be his mother. Across from them on the other loveseat sat a sullen, dark-haired boy of about 15 and another woman who appeared to be with him. She was slightly older than the first woman and had a grim expression on her face. It looked for all the world like the two of them had just stopped arguing about something immediately before Pete and I arrived. Only the mother of the five-year-old looked up as we entered the area and sat down. Nobody else so much as acknowledged our presence and not a word was spoken.

Pete and I didn't speak, either. I picked up one of the trade magazines and thumbed through it but found it boring. There were some other magazines for kids buried in a pile. I saw Ranger Rick, which was for even younger kids, and Highlights, which I was familiar with from every single doctor's or dentist's office I'd ever visited. I was a little too old for Highlights, but I picked it up, anyway. It helped to pass the time.

Time did pass, and 2 o'clock came and went. Pete and I didn't have anywhere else to be, but I saw him look at his watch a few times. Eventually, the little kid and his Mom went up to the reception desk, spoke to the receptionist, and left. Only the older kid and the woman he was with remained. Finally, at close to 3 o'clock, the receptionist left her desk and walked to the waiting area.

"Mrs. Christie, Jonathan, Mr. Richter will see you now," she said to the other pair. Turning to Pete, she added "Mr. Richter asked me to tell you that he won't be long."

"Looks like we're next, boy," said Pete with a little kick to my right leg. "Remember what I told you."

"I know," I said a little wearily. It had been a long wait, on the heels of a long drive. I wanted to see more of Chicago, and I also wanted to make sure we had enough time to swim in the hotel pool. We still had the interview with Mr. Richter to get through, as well as dinner at some point. I knew we were in Chicago to see Mr. Richter, and dinner at a restaurant would be fun, but it seemed like we were wasting a lot of time this afternoon.

Pete could sense my boredom and agitation. "He probably put us in at the end of the day so he wouldn't be rushed," he observed. "If Aaron wasn't interested in you, boy, I don't think he would have asked us to come all the way to Chicago to see him."

I nodded and shrugged. We'd been here for well over an hour, and it was also more than an hour past the time that we were scheduled to meet with Pete' friend. My exciting day in Chicago just seemed to be slipping away as we languished in the waiting room.

Finally, close to 90 minutes after we were supposed to meet with Mr. Richter, I saw the older boy and the woman who appeared to be his mother waiting at the elevators to depart. I then saw a thin man of medium height in dress pants, a button-down shirt, fancy shoes, and a tie visit the reception desk. The receptionist nodded, took her headset off, and began gathering her things. I poked Pete with my foot.

"Is that Aaron?" I asked in a whispered voice.

Pete looked up, nodded, and smiled. "That's him. Looks like we're up, boy."

Both of us watched as Aaron left the reception desk and made his way over to us. Pete stood before he was halfway there, and I followed suit. Aaron greeted his friend warmly, first with a handshake and then with a hug.

"Peter! It's so good to see you my friend."

"Thank you for having us, Aaron."

"I wish we weren't so far from each other," said Aaron.

"I know, I know. I miss the big city."

Aaron turned his attention to me. "And this must be David," he said with a smile.

"Yes, sir," I said as I smiled and stuck my hand out for him to shake.

Aaron smiled and looked to Pete. "I see you've trained him well," he said with a chuckle. He took my hand and shook it firmly. "It's nice to meet you, David. Thank you for coming."

His thanks took me a little aback, as it seemed to me that I should be thanking him, so I did. "Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Richter."

"The pleasure is all mine, young man. It's a rare treat to see my old friend, and to have you along as well is quite the bonus."

"Come," Aaron said as he gestured us toward his office. "I have nothing on my schedule for the rest of the day and I sent my assistant home early so we won't be disturbed. Pete, can I offer you a libation?" he asked as we all walked across the lobby toward the double doors leading to his office.

Aaron's office was huge, as befitted a man of his apparent success. It was so huge that it almost seemed to have different sections to it. Furthest from the double doors was his desk, which was also huge with a large, high-backed office chair behind it. Cabinets and a bookshelf containing knick-knacks and memorabilia sprouted from the mahogany walls behind the desk. To the left of the doors along the wall was a leather sofa, a coffee table, and two Queen Anne chairs much like the style of those in the waiting area. Facing them along the opposite wall was an oval table with three smaller chairs. Sideboards and smaller tables adorned with vases and artworks filled some of the remaining gaps. But even with all the furniture, the rectangular office was spacious, almost cavernous. Aaron's office was intended to be impressive, and it was. It screamed money and success.

"Let's skip the formality and make ourselves comfortable," said Aaron as he drew us to the seating area comprised of the leather couch and the Queen Anne chairs. "Pete, let me get you that gin and tonic and I'll be right with you."

I went for the couch and was about to flop myself down when Pete gently grasped my shoulder and directed me to one of the chairs. It seemed even bigger than the ones in the waiting room and I felt like I was being swallowed by it. Pete took the other chair as we waited for Aaron's return. When he arrived, he was carrying an oval tray with three drinks on it, two of them clear in color and the third looking very much like a cola of sorts.

"David, I brought you a Coke, but if you prefer 7 Up or ginger ale, just say the word," he said as he handed me the glass.

"Oh, thanks, um, this is good," I replied. I was thirsty, so I immediately took a sip as Aaron handed the second drink to Pete. He put the tray down on the coffee table and sat himself down on the couch.

"So, Pete, how are things in St. Clair?" he asked, as he relaxed and picked up his drink.

Pete and his old friend caught up with each other for several minutes while I listened quietly and drank my Coke. They reminisced about their college days, traded names of people I didn't know, and told stories about acting together in the college drama club and the antics of their late teens and early twenties. There were a lot of smiles and laughs. It wasn't until they started talking about some of their friends from something called ROTC fighting in the Korean War that I realized just how far back their college days went. It was a little trip down nostalgia lane for them both.

But Aaron was good at what he did and good with kids, so after catching up with Pete, he turned his attention to me. "So, David, Pete's told me that you're quite the thespian back in St. Clair," he said with an indulgent smile.

I wasn't sure what he meant and looked over at my friend for help. "Actor, performer, you know," said Pete encouragingly.

"Oh," I said with a grin as both men chuckled. Adults were so weird sometimes. "You mean like for plays?" I asked. I was still confused.

"Plays and other things," said Aaron with a smile. "Do you like to act, David? Are you thinking of making a career out of it, a profession?"

"I guess so?" I said uncertainly. I looked over at Pete for guidance.

"Well, that's what we call enthusiasm!" said Aaron with a little laugh. "But in all seriousness, David. Pete has told me a lot about you. I don't usually take on new clients without a formal portfolio, but if you're half as talented as Pete says you are, you won't have any trouble finding work. Good-paying work, at that. Is that something that would be of interest to you?"

I nodded. "Definitely," I replied, with a great deal more enthusiasm.

"Good!" said Aaron as he lifted his glass. "I propose a toast all around. To David, thespian extraordinaire!"

We clinked glasses together and all three of us took a sip of our beverages. I glanced over at Pete once again. Was that it? Was it really that easy?

"So, David, tell me a little bit more about you," asked Aaron. "Tell me about your family."

For the next 20 minutes or so, we just talked. It was mostly Aaron asking me questions and me answering them, but Pete chimed in from time to time, as well. I told Aaron pretty much everything, including my acting experience, my favorite subjects in school, my friends – or, in my case, the lack thereof – my interests, my favorite TV show, which was Happy Days, my favorite movie, which was Star Wars, my favorite actor, which was Burt Reynolds, my mother's situation, our recent move, and how I had met Pete and my friendship with him. I left out the sex part of our friendship, of course, but Aaron seemed very pleased to hear what good friends we had become from our shared love of acting.

"You're a lucky boy, David," Aaron told me. "Pete's been a good friend to me for over 30 years, and you're very fortunate to have him as your friend, as well. He knows more about acting and performing than just about anyone I know, and he's a great teacher and mentor. You say you haven't seen your father since you were little?"

"No," I said with a little shrug. "It's pretty much always been just me and my mom."

"I'm sorry to hear about your mom. Is she doing okay?"

I shrugged again. "She's sad a lot, I think. I don't really- I mean, I guess she's alright."

Aaron uncrossed his legs and leaned forward on the couch a little closer to me. "Would you like to help her out, David? Put your talents to work and earn some real money in the industry?"

I nodded. "Yeah," I replied. "Definitely."

"Good!" said Aaron as he sat back, re-crossed his legs, and took a sip from his glass. "What do you think, Pete?" he asked our mutual friend.

"I think he has all the talent in the world, Aaron," replied Pete. "Sometimes, though, he gets an attitude, but I've been working on that with him. I think he'll do just fine."

I swallowed a bit nervously as my eyes flitted sheepishly first to Pete, then to the floor. I didn't know what to say, or even if it was my turn to speak. I chose silence.

"There's no room for attitude in this line of work, David," cautioned Aaron. "We're talking career-ending."

"No, sir," I replied. I still wasn't sure why Pete had said that. We had talked through my attitude problems. We'd made changes. I didn't think I had a bad attitude now, and when I did before, it had been in an entirely different context as well as a private one.

"You understand, don't you David?"

"Yes," I said, still looking down. Suddenly, I felt like I had done something wrong and had been taken to the principal's office.

"Well then," said Aaron as he stood from the couch. "If you fellows have time, I can audition David right now. But I know you must be tired from the drive, so if you want to reschedule that for another day, we can do that, too."

"Today's fine, Aaron, replied Pete. "David's ready, right kiddo?" He rarely, if ever, called me kiddo.

"Definitely," I said, I as I looked up and nodded.

"You're welcome to stay, Pete," said Aaron. "I can mix you up another drink."

"No, no," said Pete, as he stood up from his chair. "I'll leave you two alone. I'm going to take a little walk outside. I could use a little fresh air, and I'll just wait outside when I get back."

Aaron smiled as he offered his hand. "Great. Maybe an hour?"

"Sounds good," said Pete as the two of them shook. Pete turned to me with a smile. "Behave yourself," he said in a teasing, almost fatherly way.

I rolled my eyes. "I will," I replied in my best world-weary tone.

Aaron escorted Pete out of his office through the double doors, closed them, then turned the matching locks with a pair of clicks. As he walked back to where I was seated, he removed his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons on his dress shirt. Right before he sat back down on the couch, he kicked off his shoes.

"Pete's a great guy, David," he said to me with a smile. "I'm glad the two of you have become such good friends. You make him very happy, and he needs that."

If only Aaron knew how happy I made Pete! "I think we make each other happy?" I said, utterly unaware of the double entendre.

"Well that's good," replied Aaron. "Nothing wrong with that. Do you go by David, or Dave, or what?"

"A lot of people still call me Davey." By a lot of people, I meant my mom and sometimes Pete.

"Then Davey it is," said Aaron with a smile. "So, Davey, Pete tells me you're almost 12, is that right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, the truth is, you're getting a little old to break into the industry, but you have the advantage of being on the small side for your age. Honestly, I would have pegged you as 10, and I wouldn't have blinked if you had said you were nine. We can probably turn that into an advantage, at least for a while."

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is, a lot of my clients need a younger kid for whatever they're doing – you know, ad spots on local TV, models for the new clothing line, private photo shoots – but they don't want to deal with really young kids. So, an older kid who looks younger is a good find."

"I always thought that was bad."

Aaron chuckled. "Not at all. Actually, the opposite. You ever see one of those after-school shows on TV or a movie set in a high school?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"Most of those actors are probably in their early twenties, late teens at the youngest. It's just easier for the production if they're all on adult contracts. But the same thing holds true for the younger age groups. One of my clients might want a boy of nine or 10, and I might recommend you, even though you're almost 12. Make sense?"

"Yeah, I didn't know that."

"Once you hit puberty, it's all over, but until then, sky's the limit, right?"

I nodded again.

"Pete didn't tell you any of that stuff?" Aaron asked me with a skeptical look.

"Not really," I answered.

"What about the kinds of stuff you might be doing if you work in the industry?"

The way Aaron said "the industry" made it sound like he was capitalizing the "T" in the first word and the "I" in the second. "Like what you said," I responded. "TV ads, newspaper ads for like stores and stuff."

"What about private photo shoots?"

I couldn't remember whether Pete had mentioned those, or not. "Yeah," I nodded.

"Why don't you take off your shirt, Davey," Aaron said softly as he leaned back a little on the couch.

I was taken aback by his request. "Take off my shirt?"

Aaron chuckled. "I assume Pete told you that auditions are not the best time to be shy and bashful. Not that this is an audition, exactly, since I trust Pete like the brother I never had. But when you're with a customer or a client, you'll want to do what you're told."

I looked uncertain as I skinned my shirt off and stood before him bare-chested. Aaron pulled me in close by my upper arms as he eyed my pale skin.

"Very nice, Davey," he said with a nod. "You could pass for nine. You're very small for your age. And the shorts now."

I looked surprised again. The man apparently wanted me to strip down to my skivvies in his office. I hesitated.

Aaron sighed. "Davey, there's no reason to be bashful. What did I tell you? If you're on a photoshoot for a department-store insert, you might change your clothes every two to three minutes, and that includes your underwear. Time is money. Nobody cares what you look like underneath. Kids who have hang ups about undressing in front of adults don't go very far in my industry, you know what I'm saying? Just pretend I'm Pete and don't worry about it."

I was surprised by what Aaron told me about his industry, but even more surprised to hear what he said at the end about Pete. Had Pete told him what we did together? They were good friends. But that was private. Pete wasn't supposed to talk about it. I wasn't supposed to talk about it. That was the unwritten understanding between us.

Despite my misgivings, I kicked my sneakers off and slid my shorts down and off. I stood before Aaron in my underwear and socks, feeling more than a little uncertain. Yes, it was true that I had stripped naked for Pete dozens and dozens of times, but Pete was Pete. We had a special relationship. I did things for Pete that I wouldn't do for other people. The fact that Aaron was Pete's friend went only so far.

Aaron eyed me up and down, including my slightly worn, slightly gray boy briefs. Pete had told me not to bother dressing up, and it's not like we had gone out to buy me fresh undies for my trip to Chicago. Then again, I'm not sure either of us expected that Aaron would want to see me in my underwear.

"Davey, I'm telling you, you can make a lot of money in the industry if you're willing," said Aaron. "A boy like you will be very much in demand. If you're half the little … actor that Pete says you are, I think I can find you as much work as you want. Thing is, you want to capitalize on this look you have going on. You won't stay small forever, you know what I mean?"

I nodded. "I guess so," I said uncertainly.

"I know so," replied Aaron. "It's all up to you, Davey. How much money do you want to make?"

I shrugged. "A lot, I guess."

Aaron laughed. "Well, that's completely up to you. But you can't be all shy and bashful with a customer, you know what I mean?"

I nodded again. "I won't."

"Hmmmm," said Pete. "Let's see." I watched as he uncrossed his legs and placed both feet on the floor. Spreading them apart, he made eye contact with me as he reached for his crotch and gave it a conspicuous rub, then gestured with his hand as if it were all mine from there.

I froze. My eyes must have been as wide as saucers. Even to an 11-year-old, the implication of Aaron's movements couldn't be missed or misinterpreted. Now he was looking at me with one eyebrow cocked, as if waiting to see how shy and bashful I was going to be.

I had never heard of a casting couch before, but I instinctively knew what Aaron wanted and expected me to do. I immediately thought of Pete. How could I betray him like that? I couldn't. Not for a job, not for anything. What we did together was special.

I shook my head no. It was just a tiny little shake, but it was enough.

Aaron's reaction was instantaneous. "Get dressed," he said flatly as he stood to his feet. "Audition over."

Stunned, I reached for my shorts and backed a couple of steps away and began to put them on. I watched as Aaron gathered the empty glasses and put them back on the drink tray before clearing them away. I put my shirt on and jammed my feet back into my sneakers. I could feel myself blushing. I was embarrassed, and I wanted nothing more than to be out of Aaron's office. I also had a big pit in my stomach, and that feeling you get when something you wanted to go well didn't go well at all.

Aaron returned from clearing the tray in time to place an arm around my shoulders and walk me to the double doors. He didn't speak as he opened them. Pete was there in the waiting room, and he looked up at us with a smile as he got to his feet, but I saw that smile slowly drain from his face. It was replaced by a look of confusion and concern.

"Thanks, Pete," Aaron called from the doorway as I left his office and walked toward my friend. "I'll give you a call."

"Wait … Aaron," said Pete as he moved quickly past me without even looking. I looked behind me to see Aaron standing in the threshold of his office pulling the doors closed.

"Wait," called Pete as he broke into a jog and arrived at the doors before they could be shut. I turned away. I had a lump in my throat as I walked back to the waiting area and picked up another Highlights from the coffee table.

I didn't look back again so I'm not sure what transpired. But about three minutes later, Pete returned and plucked the magazine from my hands before slamming it down on the table. He grabbed my shoulders and roughly turned me around to face him. When my wide eyes looked up into his, I saw fury.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" he asked me, almost spitting his words. I had never, ever seen him this angry. I felt my cheeks begin to burn with shame.

"I- I- he-" I started to say. But Pete was having none of it.

"I told you to take care of him," he hissed at me. He was absolutely furious.

My eyes went wide. I was stunned. Was that what Pete had meant?

"I didn't know-" I started to say.

Pete grabbed me by my shoulders again. "Don't give me that crap!" he spat, in the kind of low voice that angry adults use when they're yelling at a kid in public. "You knew exactly what you were supposed to do!"

"I didn't-" I started to say once again, but my words were cut off as Pete suddenly slapped me hard across my left cheek. My head spun to the side. I saw stars. He grabbed me by my shoulders once again!

"You didn't know? You didn't fucking know? I told you to use lots of tongue and make it last, didn't I? Didn't I? And you didn't fucking know?"

My tears came then. I couldn't look at him. I had never seen Pete this angry before. He shook me by my shoulders once again.

"Answer me! Look at me!"

I was sobbing now, literally bawling. "I th-thought you m-meant talking," I sobbed and stammered. That's what I had thought he meant when he said to use my tongue. I felt like an idiot.

"Bullshit!" exclaimed Pete as he slapped me again on the same cheek. I whimpered and tried to spin away, but he grabbed my upper arms. "Don't ever fucking lie to me, kid," he hissed as he pulled me close. I couldn't look at him. My face was stinging where he had slapped me twice. I was one very unhappy boy.

"Stop your crying! Stop it!" Pete hissed at me again. "Here's what you're going to do," he said as he reached for the hem of my shirt and unceremoniously yanked it off my body with enough force that I thought it might tear. "You're going to walk over to Mr. Richter's office, knock on his door, and when he answers it, you're going to fucking apologize. Am I making myself crystal fucking clear?"

"Yes," I sobbed as I nodded. I felt very scared, and I was starting to shake and hyperventilate.

Pete pushed me against the magazine table causing me to stumble and sit down on it. He reached down and plucked my sneakers and socks from my feet. "You are going to go back in his office, and you are going to suck him off, using lots of tongue and making it last. Do I make myself crystal fucking clear?"

"Yes," I sobbed again.

"Stop your fucking crying!" Pete commanded, as he grabbed me by my upper arms and gave me a vigorous shake before pulling me up and standing me back on my feet. He reached for my shorts with both hands and yanked them down my thighs without even bothering to unsnap them. They carried my briefs partially down with them as Pete pushed me back into a sitting position on the table once again and roughly pulled both garments down my legs and off. I was now completely naked in Mr. Richter's waiting room.

Pete hauled me roughly back to my feet by my upper arms, turned me ninety degrees to the side, and sent two blistering spanks against my bare bottom. The loud clapping sounds seemed to reverberate in the empty lobby. They hurt. The man turned me to face him once again.

"I did not drive almost 700 fucking miles to bring you here so you could be a little fucking crybaby. Now you get in there and make the man feel good or I swear to god, I am going to give you something to cry about when we get back to the fucking hotel. Capiche?"

I hated that word. Hated it. "Y-yes," I sobbed, as I tried to stop my tears.

Pete gave me another shake for emphasis and let go of my upper arms. I dabbed at my eyes as my chest and tummy heaved with sobs. I couldn't recall ever being this upset before. He leaned down and put his face right in mine, only inches away.

"Don't fuck up again," he said in an ominous voice.

I felt faint. I couldn't believe this was happening to me. I couldn't believe how angry Pete was with me. I think the combination of surprise and foreboding doom I felt helped me to stop crying and regain control of myself. I didn't respond to Pete, but I swallowed as I made my way on bare feet resolutely to Aaron's door. I knocked twice, very softly.

It took a few seconds, which seemed to me like an eternity, before Aaron answered the door. He didn't seem surprised to see me naked as he stared at me coldly and didn't speak.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Richter," I said, as I looked up at him once and then immediately looked away, embarrassed. "Can I come in?"

He stepped away and held the door for me. As I walked into his office, he closed it behind me.

"Better?" he asked as he put his hand on my bare shoulder and slid it down my back to my butt, cupping me there as he directed me back to the couch. My butt was still stinging from Pete's spanks and I'm sure Aaron could see the redness there and probably feel the heat.

"Yes," I whispered as he took his seat. He spread his legs, undid his belt, unbuttoned his trousers, and unzipped his fly. He did everything but fish his cock out of his boxers for me. If there had been any confusion about what he wanted before, there wasn't any now.

I knelt between his legs and knee walked forward until I was close enough to do what I needed to do. I reached for the waistband of his underwear and tugged it down, tucking it under his balls. I reached for his penis, took it in my hand, and directed it to my mouth.

It felt so different from when I did this for Pete. This was a stranger and a strange penis. I felt sick as I put my lips on it, but I used lots of tongue and made it last. I did a good job, and I think Aaron was pleased. He even patted me on the head affectionately when I looked up and swallowed.

Chapter 6

I dressed in silence in the lobby as Pete and Aaron spoke together in the doorway to Aaron's office. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but I hoped that Aaron was putting in a good word for me and my performance. Despite the eventual outcome, I was under no illusion that Pete was going to let me off the hook for what had happened. Ever since our heart-to-heart conversation several weeks ago, he had taken on more of the role of a father figure, becoming a real disciplinarian, punishing me with spankings when he thought my behavior needed modification. These were different from the spankings he gave me when we were about to have sex. For one thing, they hurt a lot more. How bad he lit me up depended on how bad I had been, of course, but so far, I hadn't done anything really terrible. For the most part, I was a good boy when I was with him. It was mostly stupid things that got me spanked, like leaving a wet towel on the floor in the bathroom after we showered, or the time I was goofing around and accidentally broke a plate in the sink. On a few occasions, I had been a bit sassy with him, usually about my use of the Atari console. This was all small stuff, relatively minor in severity. He also made me tell him about anything punishment-worthy that happened at home. "I know your mother won't spank you for it, but I will," he had told me when he made that a rule.

But I realized with a sinking feeling that Pete would not think that what had happened in Aaron's office was "relatively minor" by any measure. In Pete's eyes, I had been both disobedient and untruthful, and he had been mad enough about it in the moment to slap me twice in the face. He had never done that before. I know now that these were not full-force slaps (Pete was a big man, and if he had ever hit me with his full strength, I probably would not still be here to write this account), but they sure felt like it to me at the time. I was confident that my left cheek was still red and inflamed because I could feel where he had hit me. The slaps were for what he considered me lying to him, but Pete had also walloped my butt because I had disobeyed him by not doing what he had told me to do in Aaron's office. I felt like an idiot about that. Apparently "capiche" was another word for blowjob. Who knew? I certainly didn't, although interpreting the phrase "use lots of tongue" as an invitation to do more talking during my audition now seemed utterly ridiculous even to me. I probably would have spanked myself for being so dense if I were able. Duh.

Pete's demeanor on the trip back to the hotel did nothing to reassure me. He didn't speak. Not once. Not at all. He didn't ask me how things had gone with Aaron during our earlier private session or when I returned to give the man a blowjob. Nor did he tell me anything that he and Aaron had spoken about, so I was completely in the dark about the result of my audition. The only time Pete so much as acknowledged my presence during our return trip was with a hand on my shoulder directing me through the turnstile at the L station. I was not fooled by the gentleness. Pete was not happy with me, and I could feel a pit of worry growing in my tummy over it.

The ride back to the hotel was no fun at all. The train was full of commuters and much busier at this time of day, so Pete and I sat together in silence on the "wrong" side of the car. I couldn't see the lake, but I didn't dare to get up and repeat my seat-changing high jinx from earlier. For one thing, my heart wasn't in it, as I was filled with dread over what had happened in Aaron's office and what Pete was going to do about it when we got back to the hotel. For another, Pete had been in a good mood for the train ride into Chicago but had frowned at my behavior even then as I jumped from seat to seat and basically made an ass of myself. I was not about to give him a repeat performance of that now that he was in a foul mood.

My dread of the situation was very real. Pete was everything to me in those days, and I worshiped the very ground the man walked on. I never wanted to see him angry with me, and thankfully he hardly ever was. Even when he punished me, it was rarely out of anger. He'd only been angry with me once or twice since we had first met, which I think was a pretty good track record all things considered. After all, I was an 11-year-old boy, not a saint, and I was perfectly capable of being a little snot. I just had so much love and respect for Pete that I never did much of anything to incur his wrath. Until today, that is. Now he was angry with me, and I could tell.

The silence between us persisted as we walked from the train station back to the hotel. It occurred to me then that my behavior with Aaron had already caused me to lose out on seeing more of Chicago. It was only just after 7 o'clock and there were still two or more hours of daylight before the sun set, but we were simply heading back to the hotel. No sightseeing, no dinner out, and from the looks of it, no pool. I had noted the hours for the pool from a sign in the lobby when we checked in. It was open until 10 o'clock, but I had little hope that Pete was going to take me swimming tonight before it closed. The way things were going, I wasn't even sure he was ever going to talk to me again.

We stopped at the car when we arrived back at the hotel. Pete unlocked the trunk and picked up what I immediately recognized as his "toy box" – the container he used to store the ropes, handcuffs, clothespins, and other items that we sometimes used in our sex play. I knew that there were other, more ominous implements in that box, too. Pete had not used any of those on me, but they had been removed from the box for my perusal and inspection from time to time. I had looked them over and held them in my hands. I had seen similar implements actually being used on the boys in the Slemme Dreng magazine, and I guess you could say that I had a premonition that Pete's versions were about to be used on me. My heart was in my stomach as we walked through the hotel lobby and headed to the elevators and our room.

Pete still had not uttered a single word to me since we left the Richter Agency. In fact, the last words he had spoken to me were "Don't fuck up again" right before he sent me back into Aaron's office to do what I had to do. He still didn't say a word as he extracted the room key from his pocket and unlocked the door. His hand in the middle of my back guided me into the room. The heavy door slammed shut behind us, surprising the heck out of me. The loud sound literally made me jump. It almost seemed like a portent of things to come.

"Strip," said Pete as he finally broke his silence. "Clothes off. On the bed." There was no further discussion as he set the toy box on the desk. I quickly began to remove my clothes. Pete started rummaging through the box and extracting items, which he proceeded to place on the desk.

I was worried and had a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit. I knew Pete had a temper, and I had seen the anger on his face at Aaron's office. I'd seen him get riled up a few times even before that, but although he sometimes got cross, his anger had never been directed at me before. On the rare occasions when he got mad, he would become all red in the face and the veins would stand out on his neck. But this was worse than anything I had ever seen, and it scared me. Pete wasn't just angry, he was smoldering. He had the look of a man who was trying to keep himself under control because he was afraid of what would happen if he didn't. He reminded me of the man in the Incredible Hulk who was always trying not to get mad because if he did, he turned green and got all big and tore up his clothes and hurt people. I also was afraid of what would happen if Pete lost it like that because I knew full well that his anger right now was directed at me. I had let him down and disappointed him, and that was after he had driven eight billion miles to Chicago to take me to my audition with Aaron.

I finished undressing and obediently climbed up on the bed. For some reason, I felt naked and exposed, which I never did when I was with Pete. I was naked all the time at his house, but this somehow felt different and rather ominous.

"On your front," directed Pete as he pulled a wad of white cotton rope from the box. I was a very unhappy boy as I complied. As much as I wanted to say something to him, Pete was in a no-nonsense mood and I didn't dare. Besides, what could I say? I was sure that Pete intended to punish me for what I had done, and because I had made him so angry, I felt like I deserved whatever I had coming. No words of mine were going to make the situation any better, and there was a good chance that by trying to speak, I would make things even worse.

I lay down on my front with my legs extended and my arms at my sides. With my cheek on the bedspread, I looked over at Pete with apprehensive eyes. He approached me with a pair of handcuffs in one hand and a length of rope in the other. He had me stretch out my arms above my head. In short order, my wrists were cuffed together, and a length of rope was tied to the chain. Pete looped the untied end of the rope around the headboard and tied it fast. My legs were next. Pete used a second set of cuffs to secure my ankles, pulled me down the bed until my arms were taut, then tied the second set of handcuffs to the footboard. The cuffs around my wrists were tight enough to hurt as they dug into my skin. I was now stretched out full length on the bed, unable to move.

Pete lifted my head and popped the ball gag into my mouth before securing the harness in place. He adjusted one of the straps to keep the ball part firmly in my mouth with no wiggle room. He had now taken away my ability to speak, and with it, any chance I had of begging and pleading for mercy. I grunted unhappily as I watched him walk to the television and twist the knob to turn it on. Was he going to watch TV while he left me tied up on the bed for the rest of the night? It seemed unlikely. He flipped the channel a few times and settled on a news station. The anchor was bleating away, and Pete turned the volume up way too loud. The sound filled the room and probably could be heard a floor above us and below us, too. If I had been at all smart back in those days, I would have immediately figured out why he had done that, but it was probably better for me that I didn't know.

I had been lifting my head from the mattress and following Pete's movements around the room, but at this point, I simply put my head back down and closed my eyes. I felt very scared. For what was probably the first time in my life, I mouthed a silent little prayer for salvation into the mattress. I didn't pray for Pete not to punish me. I didn't even pray for it not to hurt too much. Instead, I prayed for Pete not to be mad at me anymore once he was done. My biggest concern was about losing my best friend because I had been an idiot.

I lifted my head once again in time to see Pete return to the desk and retrieve an implement that he had introduced to me many weeks ago as his "obligatory flogger." For a long time after that, including the first time it was used on me, I actually thought Obligatory Flogger was its full name, or a brand name for it, or something. Regardless, I knew what it was for. We had played with it a few times when we used to do sex acting together. He had never actually used it on me – not seriously, anyway – but I knew instinctively that all that was about to change.

I remember that flogger well. It was black in color and well-made, with a wrapped-leather handle that was about 6" [15 cm] in length and about as wide around as a pool cue at its widest point. A wrap of smooth, black leather spiraled up the handle in tight, overlapping loops to provide a good grip. Attached to the business end of the implement were 15 thin leather straps, each about 1/2" [1 cm] in width and about 1/8" [30 mm] in thickness. Individually, the straps were non-threatening. Working in concert, they packed a wallop, as I was about to find out. That was the entire point of a flogger – distributed force.

Pete brought the flogger around to the head of the bed where I could see it without having to spy over my shoulder. There was no mistaking what he intended to do with it.

"I'm not happy, Davey," he said. "I will not tolerate disobedience from you and I absolutely will not tolerate lying. It was bad enough that you didn't do what I told you to do for my friend, but lying to me about it was a big mistake. Now I'm going to give you something to remember the next time you even so much as think about lying to me again, capiche?"

That word again. I hated that word. I lifted my head and nodded as tears formed in my eyes. I knew I had messed things up terribly with Pete. I hadn't meant to lie to him. In truth, I hadn't lied; I merely had misunderstood what he wanted me to do. But all of that was just water over the dam at this point. Pete thought I had lied to him, and that was all that mattered. I felt absolutely awful about that. Our entire friendship was based on trust, and I couldn't dispel the awful, sinking feeling in my stomach that I had let Pete down. I wanted to tell him that I would never, ever lie to him on purpose and that it had all been a terrible mistake, but I couldn't. Even if I could have spoken, I didn't think there was anything I could say to make him understand, and I didn't want to make things even worse than they already were.

He lifted the flogger over his shoulder and brought it down on my bottom with a loud, resonating "WHAAAAAAP!" The pain was instant. I couldn't believe the intensity of it. I screamed into the ball gag, but the sound I made was more like a loud hum. A very loud hum. Like the whistle of a freight train.

I twisted and writhed in my binds as I cried into the gag. My struggles were to no avail as Pete lifted the flogger for a second blow.

"WHAAAAAAP!" went the flogger on my butt.

"WHAAAAAAP!"

"WHAAAAAAP!"

"WHAAAAAAP!"

I writhed and struggled as the pain washed over me in waves. Each successive blow fueled the sensation that my entire bottom had been lit on fire. The fire was consuming the flesh on my butt cheeks in a sizzling, burning, inferno of pain. I screamed my pain into the gag, but the muffled sounds of my distress were covered by the television news. Now I understood why Pete had turned it on so loud.

"WHAAAAAAP!"

I bucked and canted on the bed, trying anything to free myself and lessen the pain. I screamed again.

"WHAAAAAAP!"

My bottom was aflame. I felt like it was being roasted. I could almost feel my butt cheeks browning and then blackening, like a marshmallow in a campfire.

"WHAAAAAAP!"

I pulled so hard against my binds that the metal edge of the handcuff cut into the skin on my right wrist. It immediately started to bleed, but so intense was the sensation in my butt that this new entry didn't even register in the pain center of my brain.

"WHAAAAAAP!"

I screamed and screamed my pain into the gag. My eyes were full of tears and I couldn't see. My butt cheeks clenched tight as I trembled on the bed, awaiting the next lash.

"WHAAAAAAP!"

The flogger bit down on my inflamed, welted cheeks once again as I heaved and squealed. The burning sensation in my bottom intensified to white-hot, searing levels.

Through tear-filled eyes, I saw Pete's blurry silhouette as he approached the head of the bed. He grasped my right wrist and lifted it up a bit, twisting it a little bit in the process. He walked away but came back only seconds later, lifting my wrist once again and unlocking the handcuff. He wrapped a washcloth from the bathroom around my wrist as a makeshift bandage, then locked the handcuff back in place around the fabric. This terrified me, as it seemed to indicate that my punishment would continue.

"Don't pull!" he commanded as I heaved and hyperventilated on the mattress. "I'm going to take the gag out and we're going to have a conversation. If you yell or scream, it goes back in and we start all over again. Are we clear?"

I whimpered and nodded as I continued to shake and hyperventilate beneath him. I felt the buckles of the harness give way just before Pete pulled the ball from my mouth.

"Unnnhhhhh," I gasped as my head fell to the mattress once again. I didn't scream, but the pain was so intense I very much wanted to. My bottom was glowing and felt like the orange-hot interior of a furnace.

"I don't like being lied to, Davey Pierce," said Pete as he dribbled the business end of the flogger across my bare back. "You knew exactly what you were supposed to do in Aaron's office, am I right?"

I closed my eyes as I prepared to give the man the only answer I knew he wanted to hear. There was no way I could possibly explain myself. As bad as I felt doing it, now I had to lie about lying.

"Yes," I whimpered.

"Don't scream!" commanded Pete in a voice that was not to be messed with.

"WHAAAAAAP!" went the flogger on my tortured bottom.

I didn't scream, but instead emitted a long, low-pitched moan of pain that sounded not unlike the lowing of a cow. My body quivered on the bed.

"Never, ever lie to me again. Do I make myself crystal clear?"

"Yes," I sobbed as my butt cheeks clenched against the burn.

"WHAAAAAAP!"

My legs kicked in their binds as my bottom roared with fiery intensity.

"And I really do mean never Davey," Pete said, spitting the third word as he surveyed my quaking body. "Do not scream," he warned me. Do not scream."

Pete paused for a moment to allow me to catch my breath, which was now coming in hyperventilated inhales through my sobs.

"You will do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it. Every "WHAAAAAAP!" damn "WHAAAAAAP!" time "WHAAAAAAP! Do I make myself crystal fucking clear, Davey?"

My entire body clenched, every muscle going taut, as the three strokes in quick succession nearly drove me insane with agony and I struggled not to scream. This was bad. This was very bad. It hurt so much. Pete was so angry with me. I felt like my world was falling apart.

"Yesssss!" I wailed and whimpered as I shook with pain.

"Do not scream," warned Pete. I sensed that he was going to hit me again, but suddenly, he flung the flogger against the wall above the bed. It hit there with a thud and bounced back to land with some of the tassels splayed across my cheek. I didn't want it there, not after what it had done to me, so I lifted my head with a little moan to shake it free. Pete helped me by shoving the implement away to the floor as if he no longer wanted it.

"We're done," said Pete in a much softer voice. "Shhhh. You're okay." He flipped off the television and the room suddenly went completely and eerily quiet save for my mewls and whimpers. As I lay there sobbing, Pete walked around to the foot of the bed and unlocked the cuffs that secured my ankles. He returned to the head of the bed and did the same with the cuffs around my wrists. I didn't move a muscle even after he freed me. My breaths were coming in little hyperventilated gasps.

Pete sat down on the edge of the bed and immediately pulled my weeping form to him. He leaned against the headboard as he tugged my beaten body into his lap. I buried my tear-streaked face into his chest as my arms wrapped themselves around his neck. I was trembling and sobbing as I lay atop him.

"Shhhh, there, you're okay," said Pete, as he used one hand to cradle my head as the other gently caressed my back. That hand stayed far away from my welted, reddened bottom.

I was hyperventilating with pain and an overwhelming sense of sadness as I tried to make my body one with Pete's. I wasn't at all angry with him for flogging me. I felt like I deserved it. Indeed, I still had this terrible, heart-wrenching feeling in my gut that I had let him down. He had arranged for me to meet with his friend in Chicago and driven hundreds of miles to get me there. He had paid for gas, meals, and a hotel, and given up his time so that I could have an audition with Aaron, and then I had gone and goofed it all up. I felt terrible, like I was the worst friend in the whole world. It felt like I had betrayed Pete, and I sobbed like I had lost him forever.

"There's a good boy," said Pete in a soft voice as he continued to hold me and rub my back. I was beyond consolation. My bottom was killing me but the pain I felt in my buttocks was nothing more than a distraction to the pain I felt in my soul. I was heartsick over what I had done. My entire body continued to shake as I lay on top of Pete and hugged him for all I was worth. My face was still buried in the hollow formed by his neck and shoulder, and I was crying so hard that I was sure my tears had soaked completely through his shirt.

"I'm sorrreee," I sobbed into his shirt. I sounded distraught because I was. Pete was so angry with me, and it could only be because I had ruined things with Aaron. I had been so stupid and disobedient. I wished I could take it all back and have a do-over.

"Shhhh, I know," said Pete tenderly. "It's okay. You're alright."

I lifted my head up to look at him, my face a rictus of unhappiness. My eyes were wet with tears and my cheeks were flushed and sweaty.

"Does he hate me?" I whimpered.

"Who? Aaron?"

I nodded, my expression one of profound sadness. I was sure that I had ruined everything.

"No, Davey. He doesn't hate you. He likes you a lot. You got nervous, that's all."

"Is he mad at me?"

"No, he's not mad at you. Don't be silly."

"Are you mad at me?" I asked, with a lump in my throat.

"I was mad at you," Pete replied with a smile and a twinkle in his eye, "but not anymore." He reached out and chucked my nose. Sighing softly, I laid my head back down on his shoulder. I was relieved that he didn't seem angry any longer. The intensity of his anger had frightened me terribly because I was very afraid of losing my best and only friend.

We remained that way for a while, with Pete stretched out and leaning against the headboard, and me lying atop his body with my arms around him and my head on his chest and shoulder. He held me close as he caressed my back, and eventually, I must have fallen asleep.

When I awoke a little later, I was lying on my stomach alone in the bed. I was still naked. Pete had somehow managed to extract himself from underneath me and rise from the bed without waking me up. While I was sleeping, he had even applied a makeshift bandage to the wrist that I had injured on the handcuff. A few folded-over sheets of toilet tissue were affixed to the wound by a rubber band wrapped around my wrist. Apparently, Pete did not travel with actual bandages in his car.

I raised my head and looked over to find Pete sitting on the edge of the other bed in the process of hanging the phone back in its cradle.

"Morning, sleepyhead!" he joked with a smile as he came over and sat down next to me on my bed. Reaching over with both hands, he gave my shoulders a gentle caress. "I have a treat in store for you, slave."

"What is it?" I asked softly as I lay motionless, enjoying the back-rub. My butt still throbbed and stung from my flogging, but the pain was manageable, especially if I didn't move.

"Well, it's after 8 o'clock, way past dinner time, so I just hung up from ordering us a famous deep-dish, Chicago-style pizza! How does that sound?"

I smiled for the first time in several hours. "What'd you get on it?"

"Pepperoni and sausage on the whole thing, green peppers on my half. Sound good, boy?" he said, as he tweaked my nose.

I smiled again. Pete seemed normal again, like he wasn't still mad at me.

"I'm starving," I told him.

"Got a big thing of Coke coming, too. The bad news is it won't be here for another hour. The good news is that gives us time to … " he said as he suddenly attacked my sides with tickling fingers "… go swimming! Assuming you still want to."

Did I ever! I pushed his tickling hands away and sprang eagerly from the bed, then winced as my bottom sent me a not-so-subtle reminder that it was still inflamed and sore. That got my attention, and momentarily paused my exuberance. I reached back with my right hand for the first time to feel the raised, angry welts on my butt cheeks. Moving in front of the mirror on the closet door, I turned myself 180 degrees and looked over my shoulder at the damage. My buns were bright pink and crisscrossed with welts that went every which way. The effect was to make my entire butt seem a bit bigger or thicker, as if it were swollen, which it probably was.

Pete made no comment about the condition of my bottom as he rose from the bed and went to his suitcase. Opening it, he extracted a fire-engine red swatch of cloth and tossed it in my direction. I tried to grab it from the air, but it fell to the floor. At first, I thought it was a pair of girl's panties, but when I picked it up, I saw it was a Speedo swimsuit. A very small and skimpy Speedo swimsuit.

"I got that for you," said Pete. "Go ahead and try it on. Should be your size."

I held the swimsuit up and stretched it out so I could see it better. It looked like a racing suit, like the ones the kids on the YMCA swim team wore. My old swimsuit looked like a pair of faded running shorts and was a size too small for me, but this just looked tiny. It was way too small, and not the kind of suit that a kid would wear to go swimming just for fun.

But Pete had gotten it for me, and he wanted me to try it on, so I held the suit open and stepped into it, then pulled it up my legs and very carefully over my sore bottom. It fit like a glove on my slender body – a very tight, very revealing glove.

"Fweeeeet, fwewww!" whistled Pete with a smile as he took in the sight of me. "And I thought your old swimsuit looked cute on you."

I couldn't help but giggle at his whistle of approval, but I was very concerned about the size of the Speedo. I took a few steps back toward the mirror so I could see for myself. The red nylon contrasted starkly with my alabaster skin. The skimpy fabric cupped my modest genitals, leaving no doubt that I was boy. I turned 180 degrees again and looked over my shoulder to see how the garment hugged my bottom. It was a very tight fit with almost no room to spare. The suit was so skimpy that it did not even cover some of the welts from the flogger that decorated the backs of my upper thighs. I was embarrassed about my punishment and didn't want anyone seeing the marks, which was a bit of a problem since we would be going to the pool.

"What do you think?" asked Pete with a big smile.

I could tell from his tone that he very much wanted me to like his present, and I didn't have the heart to tell him that kids didn't wear swimsuits like that unless they were on a racing team. Beyond that, there was no way I was going to risk offending him after everything that had happened earlier in the day. I would wear the Speedo for him if that's what he wanted. Besides, it was the thought that counts, and it was very thoughtful for Pete to buy me a gift.

Without saying anything that might be considered incriminating, I walked back to him and gave him a big hug, then leaned up for a kiss on the lips. I could tell that he was pleased with my reaction. I never actually said what I thought about the Speedo, so technically when I kissed him, it wasn't a lie. Of course, I technically hadn't lied to Pete earlier, either, but I still had a very sore bottom to show for that.

"Let's get on our horse, then," said Pete as he began to strip out of his clothes. "Grab a couple of towels from the bathroom." I watched as he slid his boxers down and tossed them on the bed. His cock was semi-erect, but there was no time for play right now if we wanted to go swimming.

I secured the towels as Pete stepped into his old-man swimsuit and grabbed the room key and some money from his wallet. Moments later, we were walking barefoot down the hall toward the elevators. I had draped my towel over my shoulders at first, but as we walked along, I held it in front of me, trying to block anyone we passed from seeing the tiny little swimsuit I was wearing. It was kind of embarrassing for me to be parading around in such a skimpy outfit, but Pete had bought it for me and I was going to wear it.

When we reached the first floor, Pete headed to the front desk to alert the clerk to the pizza delivery as I proceeded directly to the pool. It was a nice pool. It was about 15 yards long and half as wide, with a springboard and a pair of stainless-steel ladders in the deep end and a matching pair of wide, semi-circular concrete staircases with center handrails in both corners of the shallow end. Each staircase was compromised of six risers that stood atop each other in ever-smaller concentric semi-circles, forming steps down into the water.

We weren't the only ones using it this evening. There was a couple with two very small children wading in the shallow end, and a group of young boys around my age or a little younger yelling and splashing as they used the springboard in the deep end. There were six boys in all, apparently under the supervision of a pair of men in their late 30s who were seated at a nearby table sipping drinks that looked suspiciously like they had come from the hotel bar. The boys all had on regular swimsuits, not the skimpy little slip of fabric that I had on my hips.

Despite my concerns over my attire, by the time Pete arrived at the pool, I had pushed two lounge chairs together and draped my towel over them to claim them.

"You can leave your stuff here," I told Pete enthusiastically as I grabbed his hand and began tugging him toward the water. I got him right to the edge, about halfway between the deep and shallow ends. It was plenty deep for jumping there.

"Want to do a cannonball?" I asked Pete, my face bright with excitement.

Somewhat to my surprise, he gave me a grin and a nod of approval. "On the count of three … "

Still grinning at Pete, I counted to three for both of us and leapt into the air, drawing my legs up and reaching underneath them to form myself into a tight little ball. I watched out of the corner of my eyes as Pete tried to do the same thing. I hit the water on a bit of an angle, and the resulting jolt to my hindquarters was enough to remind me starkly of my recent punishment.

My cannonball may have been a little off-kilter, but if anything, the leap went even worse for my taller friend. His entry into the water was beyond inelegant, but I did give him full credit for trying. Neither of us seemed to feel a strong need to try again, albeit presumably for different reasons.

We played in the water, or at least I did, for the entirety of the next hour. My butt still stung from the effects of the cannonball, and I wasn't about to do that again. Plus, I calculated that if I remained in the water, nobody could see my skimpy swimsuit or the welts that decorated the backs of my legs. Corporal punishment of children was common back in those days, but that didn't mean I wanted to go around advertising that I had been spanked. No kid did. It was embarrassing.

I didn't spend all or even most of that hour cavorting with Pete. It was after only about five minutes of playing with me that he grasped my arm and pulled me like a guppy through the water to his side.

"Why don't you go over and see what those other boys are up to?" he asked, as he motioned to the group of older kids who were playing at the other end of the pool.

Reluctantly, I gazed over at the frolicking boys. I didn't want to play with them at all. Pete didn't really know this about me – at least, I don't think he did – but I wasn't very good at making friends and by the time I had turned 10 or 11, I rarely ever bothered to try. The idea of approaching a group of kids I didn't even know and asking them to play was a completely foreign concept to me. Plus, it was obvious that they all knew each other, and they were busy having a good time without me bothering them, so …

"Go on, Davey," Pete said, as he lowered his head to my ear to whisper. "I'm sure they don't bite."

I didn't want to. I wanted to play with Pete. I had been looking forward to going swimming with him from the moment he had first confirmed that the hotel where we were staying had a pool. I didn't want to play with any other kids, especially ones I didn't know. I also wanted to make sure that Pete wasn't still mad at me. It had scared me how angry he got after I messed things up with Mr. Richter. Even though he seemed okay again after my punishment, I wanted to make sure that everything was back to normal between us, and I didn't plan to let him out of my sight until I knew that was the case. 

Pete could tell how reluctant I was. He leaned down to whisper in my ear once again.

"Davey, I'm telling you to go over there and see if those boys will play with you. If they don't want to play, you can come right back, but I want you to make the effort. Now go."

After what had happened earlier, I wasn't about to argue with him much less disobey him, so I very reluctantly left his side and slowly waded down to the other end of the pool. I was full of trepidation.

I don't know whether Pete had an instinct for these things, or not, but in relatively short order, I found myself playing with the group of boys almost as if I were one of them. It turned out that they were in Chicago attending a regional tournament with their hockey team. That explained why they were all so muscular and fit. Kids who are so dedicated to hockey that they even play it in the summer are bound to be in good shape, and these boys were.

As I started playing with them, Pete got out of the pool. In retrospect, I don't think he liked swimming very much. As much as I wanted to play in the water with him, he always preferred to stay out on the pool deck. I hardly noticed his departure as I frolicked with the hockey players. They were friendly, boisterous, and fun, and they had a small plastic football to toss around. They told me they were a Squirt Major AAA team, and all of them were either 9 or 10 years old. Although I was nearly 12, I fit right in with them size-wise, and we played together like I was one of their hockey teammates and we had known each other for years. If only I could make friends at school so easily!

I had almost forgotten about the pizza when one of the hotel staff came into the pool area and waved to Pete. Pete came to the edge of the pool to tell me that the pizza-delivery guy was at the front desk and that I should get out of the pool and meet him out there. Reluctantly, I said good-bye to the other boys, toweled off, and raced to the lobby to meet up with my friend. Pete paid the pizza guy and we returned to our room.

I was famished and the pizza was delicious. It was the thickest pizza I had ever had, and we sat on the bed together eating it right out of the box. Pete explained that Chicago was famous for deep-dish pizza like this. I liked it a lot. I ate a full slice and half of another, which, given the thickness of the slices, was a lot of pizza for me. I was thirsty, too, and the pizza made me more so, so I washed it down with a lot of Coke that we poured into the little hotel glasses that came with the cute paper hats on them.

Both of us were still in our swimsuits, and eventually I noticed that Pete was staring at me hungrily.

"What?" I asked him coquettishly, but I already knew the answer.

"You know you drive me wild when you dresses all skimpy like that," said Pete in his Uncle Trowse voice.

I couldn't help but giggle. "Ah, Trowse, you know you makes me wear 'em," I said with a huge grin on my face.

"And you know I makes you take 'em off!" he said as he lunged at me.

"Eeeeeeeeeeeee! I squeaked with delight as Pete swallowed me up with his big body and mushed me into the bed.

"You're coming with me, slave!" he said, as he picked me up and brought me over to the other bed, which didn't have a pizza box or anything else on it to interfere with our play. He dropped me on my back and immediately skinned the Speedo down and off my legs before stepping back from the bed and removing his own swimsuit. He was already mostly erect, and I knew at one glance that he was eager for sex.

"You boys were teasing me pretty good downstairs," he said as he went to his suitcase and extracted a tube of lubricant. It was the same stuff we used all the time back at his house in St. Clair.

"What do you mean, 'boys'?" I asked him with what I hoped sounded like an offended tone.

"Oh, jealous, are we?" teased Pete. "It just so happens that some of them were pretty high up the cuteness scale. None cuter than you, I admit."

I tried to look pouty. "Hrummmppf," I said as I crossed my arms over my chest and pretended to look somewhere else. My slowly erecting penis was a dead giveaway that I was just pretending to be mad.

Pete approached the bed with lube in hand and climbed onto it on his knees. "No spanking, this time," he said neutrally. "Grab your knees."

I refused to look at him, but I did grab my knees and pull them back toward my chest even while I tied to appear indignant. My opening winked at him as he crawled closer and squeezed some lube on my pucker.

I grimaced. "Ooooh, cold."

Pete smiled as he used the pads of his fingers to get me ready. Squeezing a dollop of lube into his right palm, he tossed the tube onto the bedside table and then spread the stuff on his cockhead and shaft with an elongated, schoolboy jerking motion.

"Somebody was teasing me in his sexy little red swimsuit," he said in a slightly threatening, sing-song voice as he knee-walked between my legs.

"Hrummpf," I grunted dismissively. "I thought you liked the hockey players more than me."

Pete used his right hand to line his cock up with my indent and then used his hips to force the slick, bulbous head inside my body. I winced and gasped, my mouth wide open as my sphincter spasmed around his shaft. Pete paused then, as he usually did to allow me to get used to his size again before he started to fuck me in earnest. Although we had done this together scores of times, Pete's initial entry always hurt and simple physics almost required that he give my kid-sized butt a chance to prepare for the entry of his adult-sized cock.

I gave him a little nod when I was ready and then gasped aloud as he slid most of his cock straight into my rectum and bowels in a single, continuous push. It hurt, and I must have winced.

"You good?" Pete asked.

"I'm good."

"Good, good, that's good, 'cause I'm going to fuck you good, my good little slave," Pete joked and grinned as he withdrew a little, only to reinsert his cock balls-deep in my bottom.

"Ooooh," I moaned as his cock slid deep inside me.

"You like that, slave, doncha?" Pete teased as he began to establish an in-and-out rhythm.

I shrugged my shoulders as he fucked me. I was still pretending to be indifferent since he had liked the hockey players so much more.

"I think I'm going to leave you in bondage tonight, slave," Pete said casually as he slowly fucked me. "What do you think about that?"

"All night?" I asked with a mixture of interest and concern.

"All night," confirmed Pete as he fucked away.

"What if I have to pee?"

"Way to ruin the moment, slave," joked Pete as he grasped my ankles and flattened them to the mattress on either side of my head. "Ahhhh, now that's the kind of flexibility I like to see!"

I gasped as he stretched me. "I bet the hockey players are even more flexible," I deadpanned in a strained voice.

"Then I hope they're getting some cock tonight, too."

It went on and on like that as Pete happily fucked me for at least the next 15 minutes – not that I was timing him. We bantered and joked as he slowly moved his cock in and out of my rectum. I was surprised at his staying power because he hadn't cum even once so far today, at least as far as I knew. He even paused for a bit to apply more lube to his shaft when things started to dry out a little bit. Finally, almost twenty minutes after he had first mounted me, he drove his cock deep inside and sent a big, warm load straight into my large intestine.

"Ohhh, that felt good," said Pete as he collapsed on top of me. This was not a rare occurrence for him, but it never felt very good to me. The man quite literally had me folded in half with my knees on either side of my head. His cock was still impaling me.

"Pete," I gasped. "I can't breathe."

With a contented moan, Pete rolled off me onto the bed. "Mymummm," he intoned, as if he were about to fall asleep. Then he turned over onto his stomach and spread his legs wide apart. "Go on back there and make me feel good, little slave," he directed.

I knew exactly what he wanted me to do. I still wasn't a huge fan of rimming, but I stood up from the bed, walked around to the foot of it, and climbed back up on the mattress on my knees. Positioning myself between his legs much as he had just done between mine, I lowered myself down to a lying position so that my face was at the same level and only a few inches away from his cleft. I wiggled forward on my tummy to close the distance, then used my hands to spread his hairy cheeks apart. Lowering my mouth to his taint, I began to lick and tongue his underneath parts as Pete emitted another contented moan. I knew he liked this a lot, especially after a good screw, so I settled in for the long haul.

Pete relaxed on the bed as I licked and tongued his ass for a good long time. He really liked it when I did this for him, even if I didn't care for it much, myself. I just had to get my satisfaction from making him happy, which is what I always wanted to do when it came to Pete and me.

We took a break after that and sat around naked, watching television and finishing off the Coke. Pete took a stab at another piece of pizza, but I was too full.

"Shame to waste half a pizza like this," said Pete as he tossed the remainder of his slice back in the box, "but it wouldn't be any good after the trip home in the car." He rose from the bed and cleared the pizza box to the bureau, then flipped the television and pulled me from the bed by my hand.

"Shower time, slave," he said simply as he pulled me into the bathroom.

We took an extra-long shower together, sliding our soapy, slippery hands all over each other's bodies. I really liked it when we showered together because I got to explore all of Pete, including places on him like his hairy armpits that I wouldn't normally want to touch when they weren't all clean, wet, and slippery like this. I liked to run my hands all over the hairiest parts of him, including his thick pubes. This was probably because my own body remained entirely hairless and I was intrigued by the feel of the thick hair that grew seemingly all over his body. I liked the way I could comb through his hairy parts with my fingers when everything was all wet and soapy.

Pete liked to touch me all over, too, including running his hands and fingers tantalizingly over my penis and across my buns and in my crack. He seemed to savor my body like it was a rare piece of art, and I loved the attention he gave to all my tiniest and most obscure parts. He even liked to touch my soft, floppy earlobes. Pete knew my body even better than I knew it.

When we were finished in the shower, both of us were squeaky clean. I climbed up on the bed we had fucked on earlier to see what Pete wanted to do. He sat down and propped himself up against the headboard with a pillow behind him.

"Across my lap, slave," he said. This was a familiar position for me that Pete often used if he wanted to spank me before we fucked. I immediately moved to comply, offering him up my bottom, but I was a little worried about the welts from the flogging I had taken earlier. My butt had felt pretty good in the shower, but I didn't know quite how much soreness remained. I'd also noticed over time that it hurt more to be spanked right after my butt got wet, either from swimming or bathing, even if I took care to towel it completely dry.

"Hmmmm," said Pete, as he placed both hands on my buns. They squeezed my flesh gently and pulled my butt cheeks apart as Pete seemed to be inspecting me carefully. He gave me a light slap in the middle of my butt that didn't hurt that much. "Someone's still a little sore back there, from the look of it. But that doesn't matter if I want to spank you, now does it slave?"

"No, master," I answered truthfully.

"That's right, slave. You don't get out of the next spanking just because you had one already, right?"

"No, master."

Pete's hands kneaded and fondled my butt as he spoke. "And it's a master's right to spank his slave whenever he sees fit, right, slave?"

"Yes, master," I answered as I tried to relax my body.

"Good, then," said Pete. "You get 10. Count them out loud and thank me for spanking you when I'm all finished."

The first real spank hit my bottom with a sharp "Swaaaaat!" sound.

It hurt, and I winced. "One, master," I said aloud. The pain was a little worse than normal.

"Swaaaaat!"

"Two, master."

"Swaaaaat!"

"Uhhh- Three, master."

By the tenth spank, my bottom was pretty much on fire and I had tears in my eyes. I finished the count and thanked him for my spanking. Pete had hit me as hard as he normally would but no harder, proving the point that an earlier punishment doesn't mean that the subsequent ones will be any easier. I could feel the cumulative effects of both spankings on my inflamed butt cheeks.

"On your stomach, slave," ordered Pete as he rose from the bed and retrieved the tube of lube from the bedside table. I did as he instructed and lay face-down on the bed, my legs already spread.

"Mmmm, good slave," said Pete as he sat on the edge of the bed. "On second thought, sit up and suck me. Get me nice and hard.

I rose to up and crawled over to where Pete was sitting. He turned toward the bed and brought his left leg up under him, presenting his semi-flaccid cock to me. I grasped it in my right hand, leaned down, took it in my mouth, and began to suck as Pete tousled my hair.

"Good slave. Yes, just like that. Mmmmm. Swirl the head with your tongue."

I did my best to do it the way Pete liked it. I'd had his cock in my mouth so many times now that I had a good sense for what gave him the most pleasure. He really enjoyed a lot of tongue work, so that's what I gave him. Lots and lots of my little pink muscle swirling and whirling about his glans and shaft, wet and slippery against his cock.

"Mmmmm, that feels good, slave. Yes, just like that; a little deeper now. You can do it."

I went a little deeper, but not past-the-point-of-no-return deep. I was always careful about not gagging myself. I'd gagged and choked on Pete's adult cock enough already to be wary. On one occasion, I actually threw up because of it, but not before sprinting to his bathroom and only barely making it to the toilet. I didn't like that sensation at all, so when I sucked Pete, I never took more cock than I could handle. Pete kept talking about teaching me to suppress my gag reflex so I could deep-throat him, but so far, we hadn't worked on that. That was fine with me, as I was still a little wary about it, anyway. But if Pete really wanted me to learn how to do it, I knew I would try my best.

"Okay, that's enough," said Pete as he pushed me off and stood up once again. "Lie on your stomach and spread your legs, slave."

I immediately did as Pete asked, repositioning myself in the middle of the bed on my tummy with my legs spread wide. Unless we were pressed for time, the man was almost always good for at least two fucks each day, and he rarely came in my mouth anymore once my ass became available to him on a full-time basis. He walked around to my side and had me lift my hips up so that he could place a pillow directly underneath me. Apparently not satisfied, he grabbed a second pillow and put that under my hips, as well. My butt was now the highest point of my body, upturned for entry and glowing pink from my preparatory spanking and the darker welts from my flogging. The mattress and box spring creaked underneath me as Pete climbed onto the bed with the lube and prepared to mount me for the second time.

"Mmmmm, clean, tight slave-boy butt, freshly spanked," said Pete. "It doesn't get any better than this." He squeezed some lube on my hole and rubbed it in with his fingers. Then he lubed his cock and seated it at my backdoor.

"Beg me to fuck you, slave. Tell me what you want."

"Please fuck me, master," I replied. "Your slave boy wants your cock inside his ass."

"The little slave boy wants his master's big cock?"

"Yes, master. Please fuck me with your big cock."

"Does the little slave boy need master's cock inside him?"

"Yes, master. The little slave boy needs master to fuck him."

With a thrust of his hips and a grunt of effort, Pete penetrated me and crammed his cock straight into my rectum, this time without his usual pause.

"Uhhhhhh, ahhhhhhh," I moaned in discomfort. It hurt, but I didn't move except for the clenching and curling of my fingers and toes.

Pete pressed on, taking me all the way to the hilt as he placed his hands on my slender shoulders. "I'm in balls-deep," he said in an uncharacteristically out-of-character, non-masterly tone.

I already knew that, of course, so I said nothing as Pete began to fuck me, this time using long, hard strokes. It was about 10 minutes later that he shot his second load of the day deep inside my bowels.

Afterwards, we snuggled naked on the bed and watched television. There really wasn't much on. Eventually, it was after 10 o'clock and my eyelids started to feel heavy.

"Looks to me like somebody needs his beauty rest," said Pete as he caressed my left flank. I was snuggled against him on the bed, leaning against his side. His arm was wrapped around me.

My response was to yawn. We'd departed for Chicago early that morning and it had been a very full and traumatic day. I was tired.

"What time are we leaving tomorrow?" I asked.

Pete patted my side. "Well, that depends. I thought we'd check out pretty early and go get some breakfast. Then we have some sight-seeing to do before we head back."

I sat up at this unexpected news and turned to look at Pete. He looked back at me with a smile.

"We're gonna do sight-seeing?" I asked him with a hopeful expression. There had never been any plan to, since this was supposed to be quick in-and-out trip. On top of that I assumed I had squandered any chance to see more of the city by messing things up with Aaron.

Pete tousled my hair. "Sure, we are," he replied. "My boy's never seen Chicago before, and we didn't get much of a chance to see anything today, did we?"

I shook my head. For all we had seen of Chicago so far, we might as well have just looked up the city in a travel guide rather than visited it.

"I told my Mom I'd be back around noon," I reminded Pete. That had been the original plan.

"I already took care of that," replied Pete. "I called her earlier while you were in la-la land."

"She said it was okay?"

"Aye, she did," Pete replied as Uncle Trowse. "I called Aaron, too."

"What for?"

"To see if he could score us a pair of tickets to the Cubs game tomorrow afternoon."

I scrambled up and flew out of the bed, turned, and grabbed Pete's left arm with both hands. I was trembling with excitement.

"No way," I said as I stared at him. I shook my head in disbelief. "No way you really got tickets, did you?"

Pete smiled the broadest smile I'd ever seen. "Sure did!" he said with a twinkle in his eye. "Cubs versus Padres, 2:30 start. Aaron said the tickets will be at will-call for us. I guess that pretty much proves he's not mad, right?"

My mouth gaped open. I lifted Pete's arm up and down several times in excitement, then let him go and began jumping in place. I literally was jumping for joy I was so happy. My flaccid penis flopped against my abdomen as I made a fool of myself.

After a few seconds, I stopped jumping and looked right at Pete. "Are you serious?" I asked him with a hopeful and expectant look on my face.

"'Course I am," he replied with a bemused expression.

I dove on top of Pete in the bed, almost tackling him as I embraced my friend with a huge hug. I grabbed his face in both of my hands and planted several kisses right on his lips.

"I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you!" I told him as I kissed him again and leaned into him for another hug. He held me close and patted my back as we embraced.

I still couldn't contain my excitement, so I slid off of Pete and stood on the floor beside the bed. "Yes!" I exclaimed as I raised both of my arms in victory like Sylvester Stallone in Rocky.

Pete just sat on the bed, smiling as he took in my giddy, childish reaction to his news. I couldn't help it. I was 11 and I had never been to a Major League Baseball game before. And this wasn't just any random baseball game – this was the Chicago Cubs at Wrigley Field!

"Judging from your reaction, I assume that's a no, then?" he deadpanned.

"Pete!" I exclaimed. He could always get me with stuff like that.

"I probably should have waited until tomorrow to tell you. Something tells me you're not going to be able to fall asleep for a while."

Pete was right. I had been sleepy and yawning before, but now I was wide awake. I nodded and shrugged sheepishly. What could I do? It was the Cubs!

"That's a shame," Pete said, "'cause you'll probably be too tired for the aquarium tomorrow."

"Wait, what?" I said, as I re-approached the side of the bed and stared right at the man. I wasn't sure if I had heard him correctly.

Pete shook his head. "Oh, nothing. I just thought maybe we'd go to the Shedd Aquarium tomorrow and see the sharks and whales and seals and stuff, but you'll be too tired, so … "

"Pete, no I won't," I said in a worried voice. "I won't be too tired."

"Not to worry. It's okay. You were up early this morning. You can just sleep in tomorrow. The aquarium isn't going anywhere."

"I can get up. You can wake me up." I was almost begging.

Pete seemed to take this under advisement. "Hmmm. Well. I suppose I could, but we have to get an early start if we want to get some breakfast and spend a few hours at the aquarium. I don't want you falling asleep and missing the game … or afterwards at the Sears Tower."

"Wait, the Sears Tower? What's that?"

Pete waved his right hand dismissively. "Oh, it's nothing, really. It's just the tallest building in the world with an observation deck and all that, but you'll be way too tired to want to do that after the game."

"Pete," I said with a worried voice. "I won't be too tired, I promise. I'll go to bed right now."

Pete smiled at me indulgently. "You'll be lucky if you fall asleep before 3 a.m., little slave. Look at how amped up you are. I shouldn't have said anything to you tonight."

"I'll fall asleep," I countered, but part of me knew that Pete was right. I was far too excited to want to sleep right now. Tomorrow sounded like it might just be the best day of my entire life, and I was excited to see it come. As a matter of fact, I wanted it to be tomorrow right now.

"I have an idea," said Pete as he slid his legs down and stood up from the bed. He placed his large hand on my head to turn me and started walking both of us toward the bathroom. We walked in together and he reached into the tub and got the water going. "Go get the lube from the bedside table," he instructed.

I ran back to get it, and when I returned to the bathroom, Pete was kneeling on the floor with his hand testing the water temperature. Water from the tap was still splashing down, slowly filling the tub. I handed him the tube of lube.

"We'll take a warm bath," said Pete as he looked over at me. With him on one knee, we were almost at the same eye level. "No talking. No moving. Just warm water, and a little slave boy thinking sleepy thoughts, capiche?"

Here was my best chance to ask about that word. "What does that actually mean, 'capiche'?" I asked him. The bridge of my nose wrinkled with uncertainty.

"Capiche – you know, 'you get it.' It's Italian. It means, 'you understand me, right?' Capiche. Capich-ay."

"Ohhh," I said. "I thought it was another word for a blowjob."

Pete just looked at me and shook his head. "You are a strange child, Davey Pierce," he said affectionately as I grinned sheepishly.

"Okay, up you go," said Pete as he stood up and lifted me into the tub. He followed me in and reached down to stop the tap. "Kneel down and suck me. Get me hard, slave."

I knelt in the warm water and took his flaccid penis in my mouth. I grasped his shaft with my right hand and started to stroke him as he placed his left hand gently on my head.

"Good slave," he said softly as I continue to suck and tongue his cockhead. It didn't take long before he was nicely erect.

"Okay, stand up and put your hands against the wall," Pete said as he directed me to the short wall directly under the shower head. "Spread those legs, slave, and reach back behind you and spread those cheeks apart.

I did as he asked and felt as he applied the lube to my butt hole for the third time in as many hours. He lubed himself and then pressed his cockhead to my indent once again before sliding it inside.

"Okay, here's the tricky part," he said as he slid his length inside me. "I want you to lean back with me as I sit down. Keep your butt right where it is … that's right, slowly, lower … "

Careful to keep from pulling away, I lowered myself down with Pete as he slowly and somewhat awkwardly eased back to sit on the floor of the tub. His cock remained inside me as our lower bodies entered the water together.

"Good boy," said Pete. His arms and legs made little squelching noises on the smooth surface of the tub as the tall man sat down and awkwardly stretched his legs out. Once he was in a reclined position with his back against the wall of the tub, he bade me to lie back against his chest with his cock still inserted in my butt.

"That's a good slave," he said, as I leaned back against his chest and abdomen with my legs atop his and my arms dangling in the warm water to either side. The back of my head rested on his left shoulder.

"Now just relax," said Pete. "No talking. No moving. You just lie there and think sleepy thoughts. Count sheep. Count to 1,000. Just relax, okay?"

Pete placed his arm across my chest as I willed myself to relax. The water was warm and so was Pete. Even with his cock in my butt, I was comfy. My heart rate slowly normalized and then slowed, and my breathing became more rhythmic as the warm water did its thing. The only movement from either one of us came from Pete, as every so often he gave a slight undulation of his hips to slide his penis barely half an inch in and out of my bottom. I hardly even noticed it. I don't think he was trying to fuck me so much as he was simply trying to maintain his erection inside me.

It had been a very long day, and it didn't take long before I started to feel tired and sleepy once again. The warm water acted like a blanket as I lay against Pete, his arms wrapped protectively across my chest with his fingers interlaced over my bits and pieces. In that moment, with his cock feeling firm and full in my rectum, I felt as safe, protected, warm, and content as I had ever been. I couldn't have been any happier to have Pete in my life right then, and that's the thought I had running through my head as I eventually fell asleep.

Chapter 7

Friday, July 14, 1978 was one of the best and happiest days of my life. It also was a very memorable day to me for many reasons that were important to my 11-year-old self at the time, but as I look back on it now as an adult, that day seems to have taken on increasing significance and symbolism over the years as one of the last, unofficial days of my childhood.

The entire day was good, so I'll just get the one bad part out of the way: The Cubs lost the ballgame 9-5. The entire margin of victory was generated by Fernando Gonzalez, the light-hitting second baseman for the Padres, who on that day somehow found his power stroke and managed to belt two homers and plate five RBIs from the 6^th spot in the San Diego lineup. To put this performance in perspective, those were the only two home runs Gonzalez hit that entire year, despite playing in a total of 101 games. That's right: He went 0-100 in homers for the rest of the season, but on that day, he somehow managed to hit two, and with them, single-handedly crushed the Cubs. Gonzalez would go on to hit a total of 17 home runs over his entire, 404-game career, yet over 10% of his career homers would be mashed that day with me in attendance at my first-ever Major League Baseball game, watching this one-man wrecking crew beat my Cubs. I no longer am bitter about it. Well, maybe just a little bit. Burn in hell, Fernando Gonzalez, wherever you are.

The game was amazing fun despite the outcome. The stadium, so rich in baseball history, was incredible – the brick outfield wall, the ivy, the mascots, all of it. The weather was perfect. The cotton candy was perfect. The hot dog, Cracker Jacks, and the seventh-inning stretch – all were amazing. There was soda pop, candy, a Cubs cap, and ice cream served in a plastic, souvenir miniature Cubs batting helmet. We had incredible seats on the third-base line – Aaron had seen to that. It was amazing and wonderful and so much fun all at once. Pete was jovial and jocular, indulgent and fun, fatherly and just plain awesome. I loved him for taking me. I loved him for buying me everything I could have wanted (with the lone exception of a Cubs jersey, which I didn't really ask for because I knew how expensive it was). I loved the man, plain and simple. I just did. He was everything to me then.

Going to the game was the highlight of the day, but before we even walked through the turnstiles at Wrigley Field that beautiful summer afternoon, the Shedd Aquarium already had blown me away. There is a reason it was one of the most renowned aquariums in the world and remains so to this day. I was captivated by it from the moment I walked through the turnstiles. After checking out of the hotel, we again had McDonald's for breakfast, after which we made our way to the aquarium shortly after it opened. I could have spent the entire day there if not for the baseball game. It was incredible. The huge and diverse number of aquatic wildlife, the massive layout of the place, the quality of the exhibits and attractions, the smell of seawater, the colors and shimmering, flickering reflections everywhere you looked. It was sublime.

By the end of our visit, the aquarium may have blown my mind, but I had blown Pete. I gave him my first-ever public, or at least non-private blowjob, right there in the men's lavatory of the aquarium on the second floor, last stall on the right, while perched on the toilet seat with my feet tucked up under me so they couldn't be seen under the partition door. Pete stood before the toilet gently fucking my mouth while I tongued his glans and provided pressure and suction with my lips and cheeks. The blowjob had been Pete's idea – the man seemingly always was horny – and I was a bit reluctant, at first, but I overcame my concerns when I saw that the bathroom was tucked out of the way and not getting a lot of foot traffic.

The entire process, from the time we entered the bathroom until the time we left, took about seven minutes, and that included me using the urinal when the blowjob was over and rinsing my mouth with handfuls of water from the sink so my breath wouldn't smell like cum. I'm not sure how well that worked, as I could still taste Pete's ejaculate on my tongue for a solid 30 minutes thereafter. I also burped up the taste of cum once or twice, which was not pleasant, but that was probably more because I was starving despite the McDonald's and needed to eat something to offset the man's semen in my tummy. We ended up snacking on some French fries and ketchup before taking the L to Wrigley, where we ate even more junk food during the game.

After the game, we headed back downtown to the Sears Tower and did the tourist thing, taking the elevator all the way up to the observation deck on the 103^rd floor. The view was amazing and spectacular. I could see the entire city as well as miles and miles of the lake. Another tall building loomed nearby, and I asked Pete about it. He told me it was the John Hancock Center. It was only a few floors shorter than the one we were in. Chicago is one hell of an impressive city!

What a day! But there was one near-disaster that I only very narrowly averted. As we descended the Sears Tower elevator to Jackson Street, I realized that I had left my bag of souvenirs from the Cubs game on the observation deck. I absolutely panicked and instantly was reduced to tears fearing that someone would walk off with the bag and my miniature plastic batting helmet, my ticket stub, my game program, my little wooden Cubs bat, and the Cubs baseball that Pete had bought for me on the concourse. Fortunately, I was wearing my new Cubs cap so I wouldn't lose that no matter what happened, but I was sure the rest of my game souvenirs would be gone for good. The contents of that bag were precious to me, and I was an absolute basket case.

As I sobbed like a toddler, Pete explained what had happened to the ticket clerk, and we were permitted to zip back up to the 103^rd floor along with a new group of tourists to retrieve my bag. It was still there, right where I had left it! I had never been so relieved in all my life.

"Why don't I hold on to that for now?" said Pete as he took the bag from me. He was such a dad.

As we descended the elevator once again, I marveled at everything we had done and seen. Every part of the day had been amazing, but now I was completely wiped out. Although I had ended up getting a decent night's sleep the night before thanks to Pete's idea for a warm bath, I was tired and footsore as we climbed into a taxi to take the short trip back to the aquarium where Pete had left his car. We had a long drive home ahead of us, and it already was well past 6:00 p.m. We would have to stop at least once for gas, food, and a bathroom break, which meant that we probably wouldn't be back in St. Clair until well after midnight.

I think Pete was a bit tired, too, so when we returned to the aquarium, he found a pay phone and called my mother. I stood nearby, not really listening in, well maybe just a little, as he explained that we still were in Chicago and that it didn't make sense to try to make the entire trip back home tonight. There was a pause while he listened to whatever my mother had to say. I couldn't hear what she said to him, but I thought I detected a slight scowl cross his face.

"No, we won't be any later than noon," I heard him say. "We'll go halfway tonight, but I don't want to push it… . I understand … yes … he's right here … I think he did … no, Sharon … do you want to talk to him? … alright then … yes … we will, or I guess I will … right … okay … good-bye."

I looked up with a cautiously optimistic look on my face as Pete hung up the phone.

"Here's the deal," said Pete. "I promised your mother that you'd be home no later than noon tomorrow. I want to get some miles in tonight, maybe halfway or so. But that gives us part of the evening here in Chicago. My feet are still sore from the aquarium, so I'm thinking we'll do a harbor tour while it's still light enough, then grab some dinner and hit the road. Or hit the road and grab some dinner, depending on how hungry you are. How does that sound?"

I honestly wasn't sure that a harbor tour sounded like all that much fun. My feet were aching, and I didn't feel like doing a lot of walking around.

"How long is the harbor tour?"

"Probably an hour and a half, is my guess. It's been a while. I think the boats leave about every two hours."

Boats? Pete had my attention.

"It's on a boat?"

Pete chuckled. "It's a harbor tour. Harbor and river, I guess you could say. What, did you think we were going to run along the banks, or something?" he said with a laugh.

I shrugged helplessly. How was I supposed to know what you did on a harbor tour?

"That sounds cool, then."

"You sure? If you're hungry, we can skip the tour and go get dinner somewhere."

"No, I want to do the tour."

Truth be told, I was more intrigued about being on the boat than I was about seeing the harbor. I hadn't been on many boats, and never on any big ones.

"We can sit down on the boat, right?" I asked. My feet were killing me.

Pete looked at me and smiled while slowly shaking his head. "You really don't know shit from Shinola, do you, boy? Of course, you can sit on the boat. It's a tour boat. It has chairs. Why would it not have chairs?"

"Okay, already," I said a little cheekily.

Pete frowned at me, but I thought I could detect a smile forming at the corners of his mouth. He leaned down to whisper in my ear.

"Four words: Spanking. Bondage. All night. Capiche?"

"That's five words!" I said, with a triumphant grin. "Capiche?"

"Dead boy," said Pete, but he was smiling, too. "Just wait till we get to the hotel room!"

We hailed a cab and Pete had the driver take us to the closest place on the harbor that offered boat tours. It was a Friday night in the middle of summer, so the tour operators were going gangbusters with the combination of tourists and locals who wanted to ride the river on this beautiful, slightly-cooler-than-usual summer evening. We got a little lucky finding a boat that was just ready to depart on its 7:00 p.m. run.

We bought our tickets and climbed aboard what was by far the biggest boat I had ever been on. The thing was huge. I insisted that we grab seats on the top deck even though it already was pretty crowded up there. The outside air was comfortable and there was a nice breeze. I was excited. The harbor tour seemed like it would be a lot of fun.

It was fun. The boat took us all around the harbor and on the Chicago River, which, amazingly, flows right through the heart of this enormous Midwest city. The tour guide was funny as he pointed out various landmarks, including the John Hancock Center and the Sears Tower where Pete and I had just been. The acoustics on the boat weren't great, though. Sometimes I missed out on exactly what the tour guide was saying, but mostly I got the gist of it. Pete was less pleased.

"The guy should take the damn microphone out of his mouth before he starts to speak," Pete grumbled.

For some reason – I have absolutely no idea why – his statement conjured up sexual imagery in my mind, and I laughed out loud before covering my mouth with my hand.

"You are one strange child, you know?" said Pete as he chucked my nose. He leaned over to whisper. "And a very sexy one, to boot. When we get to the hotel, I'm going to want to see you in nothing but that ball cap first thing, do you hear me little slave?"

I turned and tilted my head up to his ear and whispered right back at him.

"Yes, master," I intoned.

I'd come a long way in 24 hours. At just about this exact time yesterday, Pete had been furious at me and was in the process of tying me face-down on the bed for my flogging. Now, after a full day of nothing but fun, we were enjoying a boat ride together and bantering back and forth like nothing bad had even happened.

The only problem with the boat ride aside from the acoustics was that the temperature dropped by about 15 degrees [9 C] over the course of it, and it got very cold. Neither Pete nor I had brought our jackets. It was also breezy out on the river, especially on the top deck, and between the wind and the cooler air, I was chilled. Pete had a huskier build and had the advantage of being covered in a thick blanket of hair over most of his body, so he faired a little better than I. I didn't want to leave the top deck – which was most definitely and obviously the only deck on the boat that a self-respecting 11-year-old boy would want to be on – but I ended up cuddled up against Pete for warmth for most of the return part of our voyage.

After the boat ride, we taxied back to the aquarium to pick up the car and hit the road for St. Clair. It was about 9:30 p.m. when we set out and I barely could keep my eyes open. I didn't envy Pete having to drive after the long day we had had, but he was an adult and didn't seem to mind. I was yawning and my head was leaning on my shoulder almost from the moment I climbed into the passenger seat. As we reached the highway, I remember Pete talking to me about when and where we might stop to get something to eat, but as I responded my words started to slur in my mouth and that's the last thing I remember.

I'm not sure how long Pete drove, but I didn't wake up again until we arrived at the motel where we were to spend the night. I awoke as Pete was carrying me to our room through the motel parking lot, with my head draped over his shoulder and his forearm supporting me under my hips. I lifted my head and looked around me with bleary eyes. It took me a few seconds to realize where we were. Bright, fluorescent signs advertising "Color TV!" and "Air-Conditioning!" helped me to piece it together.

"Morning, sleepyhead," joked Pete as he maneuvered the key into the lock on the door to our room. He had stopped for the night at a true motel with first-floor units that opened directly to the outside world. He pushed the door open with his foot and walked me inside. The room was sparse, with two double beds, a desk and chair, and a TV on a stand. It was smaller, darker, and not nearly as nice as the Holiday Inn, but it certainly would do for the night.

Pete lowered me to the floor where I stood on my sore feet. "It's too late for dinner, even to order a pizza," he said. "I'm going to get some change at the office and grab some stuff to snack on from the vending machines. When I come back, slave, all I want to see you in is that ball cap, capiche?"

My initial response was to yawn. I wanted nothing more than to roll into one of the beds and go to sleep, but Pete was in the mood for sex, and after the day he had given me, I wasn't about to deny him. The truth was, I never denied him sex when he wanted it.

"Yes, master," I said as I yawned again. It was well after midnight, and I'd already had a long and exciting day, so I was tired.

"Keep that up and you'll get some cold-shower therapy when I get back," he said ominously.

I had to suppress another yawn as I nodded at him that I understood. I don't think he was kidding, either.

Pete left and I began to strip out of my clothes. I kicked my sneakers off – without untying them, of course – yanked my socks off one at a time, pulled my shirt over my head and off – taking my ball cap with it – and then slid my shorts and briefs down my legs before stepping out of them. Because I was a boy, I left everything on the floor right where it had fallen, except for my Cubs cap, which I placed back on my head.

I wanted to see myself in the cap, so I stepped in front of the full-length mirror affixed to the outside of the bathroom door. The cap was the light-blue color of the team's road uniform. The center of it featured the Cubs' logo of a dark-blue bear's face with a yellow interior for the eyes and nose. My longish blond hair tufted out from the sides. The color of the cap matched my eyes.

I thought the cap looked amazing. Pete had whispered earlier that he wanted to see me naked in it, but as I surveyed my reflection in the mirror, I wasn't sure why. My body was smooth, skinny, pale, childlike, scrawny, and utterly lacking in muscle definition. It was an embarrassingly small body for a boy of 11. In fact, I was nearly 12 years old, but didn't look it at all. Aaron was right that I could easily have passed for nine, and I was starting to worry about that. Some of the boys in my grade already had pubic hair and their penises had grown. My genitals showed no sign of puberty and remained small; my pink-colored scrotum was high and tight against my groin, virtually unchanged from when I was six. I was completely hairless, smooth, and pale-skinned everywhere. I had no idea what Pete found at all attractive or sexy in the little body I saw reflected in the mirror. I was embarrassed by it.

But when he returned with the snacks, Pete ogled me like a hungry man about to sit down to an eight-course meal. I loved that about him. He didn't seem to mind at all that I was pale and scrawny and the smallest kid in my entire grade. He didn't care if my body was smooth and hairless and I hadn't yet started puberty. He liked me for who I was, as I was. He always made me feel like I was special.

Pete tossed me a bag of Fritos and a packet of cookies, then handed me a can of RC Cola. "Eat up, slave," he said. "Then we'll play."

I munched on the chips as I watched Pete disrobe, and I couldn't help but contrast his body with mine. Pete's body was big, tall, hirsute, thick, and manly. His body was everything that mine was not. We honestly couldn't have been any more different in appearance if we had tried. If you looked at Pete, especially with his hairy frame, there was no question that you were looking at a man. If you looked at me, you would have to check between my legs just to be sure that I was a boy.

It wasn't that I looked like a girl; I didn't. It was just that I didn't have any of the tell-tale signs of puberty, like the beginnings of mustache, broadening shoulders, or a deep voice. I didn't have any body hair at all. Pete was just so much more masculine and manly than I. He wasn't a model by any measure, but to me, he had a handsome, rugged appearance. He fit my idealized image of what a man should be, that's for sure. To me, Pete Volcker was perfect, but even if he wasn't, he was my friend, and I was grateful to be his. I wished he could be my actual father, but in many ways, he already was – and much, much more, besides.

When he was naked, Pete came to join me on the bed. He lay down beside me with his head propped up in the palm of his hand. He was just staring at me.

"What?" I asked him with a grin. Pete sometimes got introspective right before we had sex. I looked down to see that his penis was almost fully erect. There was no question what he wanted. There was no question what we were going to do.

"You're beautiful, you know that? And I like the cap."

I knew I wasn't beautiful, but I liked hearing him say I was. I popped another Frito in my mouth as I took the cap off so I could look at it again. I loved it. I loved the Cubs logo most of all.

"Thanks for getting it for me"

"Don't mention it."

"Why didn't you get one?"

"Never been much of a hat-wearer, myself."

I put the cap on his head, or at least balanced it there at a rakish angle. It was too small to fit him properly. I popped a Frito into his mouth.

"You look good in it."

"Somebody just earned a spanking," he said as he reached over and gave my smooth, left thigh a little caress with his free hand.

Spankings were pretty much a given with Pete whether I earned them, or not, but I played along.

"No, please, master. I was a good slave today."

"Hmmm," said Pete, as he kept up his caress. "Who left his bag on the observation deck of the Sears Tower?"

Uh, oh. I was guilty of that, for sure. I looked morose.

"I did."

"Could've been stolen, right?"

I nodded. It was true.

"That would be 'Yes, master, it could have been stolen. I'm sorry for being so careless,' right?"

"Yes, master, it could have been stolen, I'm sorry for being so careless," I repeated.

"Beg me to spank you."

"Please master, your slave needs a spanking, please give him a spanking, master."

"Why do you need a spanking?"

"Because I was bad. I left my bag where it could be stolen."

"You're a bad little slave, aren't you?"

"Yes, master."

"Climb up, over my lap. Put that stuff on the table."

So, it went, just as it usually did. For the next five minutes or so, Pete spanked me medium hard, enough to hurt and redden my bottom, then had me get the lube. He lubed me up, put me on my back on the bed, folded me in half, and spent the next 15 minutes fucking my butt until he came with a shudder and filled me with his cum.

Afterwards, we sat naked finishing off the snacks that Pete had acquired from the vending machine. I learned that the neat thing about motels is that you can eat stuff in bed, and if you get crumbs all over the sheets, you can just brush them onto the floor and somebody else has to vacuum up the mess! This was unlike what I did at Pete's house or even my own apartment. Being at the motel was much more carefree, and I liked it.

"Let's see what's on," said Pete, as he walked to the Color TV! and flipped it on. When the picture came up, he stood by the console and pressed the button to change the channels. The big three networks quickly gave way to the motel's closed-circuit system, which, unbeknownst to me until then, showed nothing but porn. Maybe I had missed the florescent sign out front that said "On-Demand Porn!" I hadn't been paying much attention, honestly, but as Pete stopped flipping channels, I was treated to my first-ever view of two people not named Pete and Davey having sex together.

I almost fell off the bed. There, right before my eyes, in living color, were a man and a lady doing it! And boy were they ever doing it, complete with lots and lots of squeals, grunts, gasps, moans, and other noises! The man's butt cheeks were flexing and undulating as he pounded away.

"They're really going at it, huh?" said Pete indifferently, as he paused on that channel. He reached for a card on the television stand and glanced down at it as he resumed slowly flipping through the channels. The next several in a row all seemed to be showing porn. Men and women were doing it in various combinations and in various ways.

I was mesmerized. I wished Pete would just leave it on one channel, but he flipped through all of them, and when he reached the end, he reversed course and went back through them the other way, pausing for a few seconds on each to see what kind of sex was being depicted. To my innocent eyes, it looked like all kinds and all combinations. I saw men with women, women with women, men with men, threesomes, even a foursome. There were naked and semi-naked bodies everywhere. I had never seen anything like this before, and I couldn't tear my eyes away. I didn't want to tear my eyes away!

Pete continued to stand by the television, gazing down at it as he went through the porn channels once again, more slowly this time, leaving each going for a good ten seconds or so before moving to the next. I was now fully awake, seated Indian style on the foot of the bed, staring at the screen with the remnants of Pete's orgasm slowly leaking from my ass onto the sheets. I was captivated. Despite what we did together on a near-daily basis, I still could not believe that Pete was letting me watch porn! All that was missing to make my enjoyment complete was a big bucket of buttered popcorn and an enormous cup of movie-theater cola. My cock was jutting excitedly up from my naked groin as my eyes remained glued to the screen.

I thought for sure that Pete would choose one of the last two channels for our viewing pleasure. Those channels featured guys having sex with each other. But although he gave them the same length of preview as the other channels, when he got to the end, he backed up a few channels to the one with the foursome featuring two men and two ladies going at it side by side, one man with each lady. I was surprised at his choice. I thought that Pete would want to watch the men because of what we did together. I had simply assumed that my friend was into that, but now I wasn't so sure.

Pete settled down on the bed behind me, propped himself up on his elbow, and used his free hand to begin caressing my back all the way from the base of my neck down to the tops of my naked buttocks. It felt good and gave me goosebumps, but I was mesmerized by the action on the screen. I'd never seen naked ladies before, and I was curious about their bodies, especially the mysterious part between their legs. Over the course of the next half hour or so, I had a lot of opportunity to study female anatomy. We watched for so long that the video rolled over into another one, this time a guy with two girls, and we watched that, too.

I know I was hard for the entire time and I think Pete must have been, as well. Eventually he just grabbed me without warning, rolled me over, bent my legs back to my shoulders and fucked me right there on the bed with the Color TV! still flickering away. It was so late by that time and I was so tired that I found myself hoping that he wouldn't last too long, but this was his second go at me – third, if you counted the blowjob I had given him at the aquarium earlier in the day – and he often could go for a while the second time before he came. I think the pornos must have elevated his libido, however, as it was only about 10 minutes after he started humping me that he shot his load deep in my butt and slid off me to rest on the bed.

Afterwards, I was so sleepy that Pete didn't even make me wipe my bottom or brush my teeth. I just rolled over right where I was and passed out with the man's cum leaking out of my butt and down my scrotum. I was blissfully unaware of that as I slept like the dead.

The single best day of my entire life had come and gone. It really was the final crescendo of my childhood. After that, everything seemed to change.

The days of summer continued to tick away, one by one, as July moved toward August and inexorably closer to the end of summer. I was dreading my return to school. In September, I would be going to the junior high school for 7^th grade. My elementary school was grades K through six, and I had spent each of the last seven years there. I knew nothing else.

My new school was in a different part of town and farther away from our apartment. I would be taking a school bus every day and I was already nervous about that. The junior high drew kids from four different elementary schools and housed grades seven through nine. That made it much bigger than I was used to, and it also meant that I wouldn't know most of the kids there. Two thirds of them would be older than I, and all of them would be bigger. I knew that because I already was the smallest kid in my entire grade at my elementary school. At the junior high, I was afraid that I literally would be the smallest kid in the entire school. With all those new kids who didn't know me, with my size and my difficulty making friends, I was incredibly nervous that I wouldn't fit in. To be honest, I didn't even want to go back to school, but it wasn't like that was a real option.

I would also be turning 12 in September, and I was hoping that the new age would bring a growth spurt and some signs of development to my body. I was starting to become fearful that there was something wrong with me – something preventing me from growing, like defective hormones, or missing glands, or even some undiagnosed disease or birth defect. While Pete's friend Aaron Richter had discussed my small size as an asset in the industry, I would have traded my entire nascent modeling and acting career on the spot for six extra inches [15cm] of height, 15 extra pounds [7kg] of weight, and a few curly pubic hairs at the base of my penis. I longed for a growth spurt. At the beginning of summer, I had been sure that I would have one before the start of school, but now as of late July, there were no signs of any changes afoot. I remained as small and hairless as ever.

It was two weeks to the day after we left on our trip that Pete had some good news for me when I arrived at his house that morning. Aaron had called from Chicago, and if I wanted it, I had a job! This was not just any old job, mind you, but a modeling gig with Sears Roebuck for the company's vaunted catalogue. A photo shoot for the Sears catalogue was not just some entry-level modeling assignment, and Pete made sure that I understood that. The catalogues had been printed continuously since sometime in the last century, and now multiple versions were issued seasonally each year. They ran to hundreds of pages, and the production of each required scores of men, women, boys, and girls of varying ages to model the clothing and accessories that Sears sold nationwide and even internationally. Several famous actors and actresses had launched their careers by appearing in the Sears catalogue, and now I was to be in it, too!

Pete explained that the shoot would take place the following week if I were available and wanted the job. Did I ever! I was so excited I almost couldn't contain myself, and I couldn't wait to tell my mother the good news. Pete told me that I would need to return to Chicago and that once again he would take me there. I gave him a huge hug on the spot.

"So, I take it you want the job?" Pete asked with a wry grin.

I nodded excitedly. I was afraid to speak.

"If your mother approves, we'll leave next Wednesday. The shoot is scheduled for Thursday and Friday, but we'll want to get you there a day early so you're nice and rested before you go in front of the cameras, capiche?"

"Capiche!"

"Now look, Davey," said Pete. He rarely called me Davey anymore, except when we were having a Serious Chat. "I'm happy for you and happy to take you back to Chicago, but money doesn't grow on trees in the Volcker household, so I am going to need to get some of my expenses reimbursed if this modeling thing starts to take off."

"That's okay!" I replied eagerly. "You can be my agent!"

Pete chuckled. "Well, Mr. Hot Stuff. I'm not sure you need an agent just yet, but if it's okay with your mother, I'd be happy to help take care of the business end of things. I spoke to Aaron about all that and he gave me some ideas on how we can handle it. But I will need to talk to your mother about it."

"She already said I could do it if I wanted to."

"I know that, but there are some things we have to go over, and me taking care of the business side is one of them."

Pete did speak with my mom, but not before I had a conversation with her to warm her up once again to the idea of me being a model. For a change, she seemed happy and almost a little excited that I was going to be in the Sears catalogue. She even told me a story about how important the catalogue was to her when she was growing up. She used to thumb through every page when it arrived at her rural Missouri home where she lived with my grandmother. She told me that at the time, the catalogues made her feel like she was connected to the outside world.

Pete came to my house the following Monday for a sit-down meeting between the three of us. I was hoping and praying that my mother would not be too many drinks into her evening by the time Pete arrived, and for once, my prayers were answered. My mother was gracious and pleasant to Pete, even if by this point, she almost certainly had to have some reservations about my relationship with the man. She seemed genuinely happy for me that I had my first modeling job, and grateful to Pete for helping me to land it as well as his offer to chauffeur me back to Chicago.

"I had my friend Anthony Ditondo draft these up, Sharon," Pete told her as he handed her some papers. "He's a lawyer in St. Clair, and a part-timer with the Players.

My mother took the documents and leafed through them one at a time.

"The first one is a Limited Power of Attorney," Pete explained as she read through the documents. "It allows me to act in loco parentis for Davey while I'm with him for a shoot. Of course, I'll just call you if there's a major decision to be made, but this way I can sign for things on the spot since Davey's still a minor and you'll be back here in St. Clair."

My mother nodded approvingly as she turned to the second document.

"That next one's an agent agreement," said Pete. "My good friend Aaron Richter sent me a draft and I had Anthony type it up," Pete advised. "It's a standard, basic, no-frills agreement. It allows me to negotiate deals on Davey's behalf and sign him to contracts, if you think that's okay."

He paused for a moment as my mother paged through the agreement. She had a fair amount of experience dealing with vendor contracts at her previous job, so she wasn't completely out of her element reviewing the documents that Pete had brought with him.

"You'll see on the fourth page that I had Anthony cross out the compensation part, Sharon. I want to help Davey out, and I'm not looking for a cut of his income. What I did leave at the top of page five, you'll see, is the provision for expense reimbursement from his earnings for gas, hotels, and meals – that sort of thing. But I don't expect that to be a lot."

My mother nodded as she finished leafing through the contract. What she said next surprised me.

"I think you should take a percentage. Whatever the standard percentage is. Davey wouldn't have this opportunity if it weren't for you."

"Absolutely not necessary, Sharon. Look, if he lands a big movie contract, we can talk," he said with a laugh. "Right now, we think – Aaron thinks, I should say – that he can score Davey some piecework like this. It's small-potato stuff for now, but it pays well enough, and who knows where it might lead."

Pete turned to me. "The Sears catalogue is an impressive first assignment, young man," Pete said as he gave a gentle chuck to my nose. Even my mother smiled as Pete turned his attention back to her.

"The sky's the limit for your son, Sharon. I'm not going to make any predictions, but I've had the privilege to work with Davey and get to know him over these last few months, and I can tell you that he has all the talent in the world. Modeling will be a piece of cake for him, but if we can land him some acting gigs, he can put his talents to good use. That's where the money is, too."

My mother nodded but didn't say anything. I knew she was doing this for me, allowing me to pursue my dream. It wasn't really about money to her. Not then, anyway.

"Aaron is a very good and very old friend of mine, and I know he's going to set Davey up with some nice gigs," said Pete. "He's actually serving as a kind of super-agent for Davey right now, and out of friendship, he's not charging a dime. It pays to have friends in high places, and Davey has one in Aaron. He thinks Davey's earnings potential can be upwards of $1,000 a month or more, depending on how much he wants to work."

At this my mother looked up at Pete in surprise. Her new job didn't even pay that much. I was surprised at the number, too.

"That seems … high to me," she said to Pete.

"Not at all, Sharon. Chicago's not Hollywood, but it's big time, for sure. They pay for looks and talent in the Windy City, and Davey has both."

"I'm just surprised."

"Pleasantly surprised, I hope. I know Davey would like to help out around here, Sharon."

She smiled, but it was an uncomfortable smile.

"He doesn't have to do that," she said, as if I weren't sitting right next to her.

"Mom, I want to!" I interjected vehemently.

"Even if he puts it all away for college, that'll help, right?" asked Pete.

My mother nodded.

"So, there you go," smiled Pete. "Maybe a little spending money, too," he said as he gave a playful push to my upper arm."

"I'll sign these, then," said my mother as she picked up a pen and nodded at Pete. "Thank you for doing this for Davey."

I didn't think it would be possible for me to be more excited for my return trip to Chicago than I already was, but when I went to Pete's house the next day, he had some additional news for me. I was barely out of my clothes before he drew me to his bed and sat me down naked on the edge.

"Remember when I said the Sears shoot was Thursday and Friday next week?" he asked me as he also started to undress.

I nodded.

"Well, that wasn't exactly true."

"It wasn't?"

"Well, partly," he said as he folded his pants and placed them on his dresser. "The Sears shoot is on Thursday, but it's just the one day. Aaron has another gig for you on Friday if you're up for it."

Suddenly, it seemed like all my Christmases were coming at once. Two gigs? On back-to-back days? Wow!

"I'm up for it," I replied eagerly. "What is it?"

"Private shoot," answered Pete. "Swim wear, that type of thing. Kind of a party, too."

"A party?"

"Right. It's just an informal thing. Some modeling, some hanging out. The man who's hosting it is a big-wig in the industry."

"What does he do?"

Pete chuckled. "I'm not quite sure. But Aaron tells me lives in a mansion, and that's where the shoot is going to be."

"At his house?" I asked. I was a little confused.

"At his very big house. Depending on how it goes, we – meaning you – may even stay over at his house into Saturday. I already told your mother we may not be back until late in the day on Saturday, depending on how things go. She was fine with it."

"Do you know how much I'm going to get paid?"

"For which one? Sears or the thing on Friday?"

"Both."

"Well for Sears, I'll have to see the contract when we get there, but Aaron said it would be around $500, plus or minus," said Pete, as he plucked his socks off and shucked his boxer shorts to display his stiffening penis.

My ears perked up at that.

"Five hundred dollars?" I repeated.

"Yes, but don't forget – gas, hotel, food. Figure you'll take home about $400, and you, my friend, are going to have to pay taxes on that next April."

"Taxes?" I said indignantly. "I'm a kid!"

"Kids pay taxes, too. But you won't have to pay taxes for every gig. The one on Friday is under-the-table."

"What does that mean?

"Means that you get paid off the books," said Pete as he sat on the bed next to me and placed his left hand over my penis. "Cash. Nothing gets reported to the IRS. It's like it never even happened."

I was confused about all this tax talk, so I just nodded and let it go. All I knew was that I was going to earn at least $500 next week. I had never even seen $500. If I added up every dollar I'd ever earned doing chores or had ever been given as a gift, it wouldn't even total $500. The idea of earning $500 for a single day's work absolutely boggled my mind. I simply couldn't get my arms around it.

Pete had no trouble getting his arms around me, however, and soon we were lying naked together in his bed.

"Lick me, slave," he commanded. "I want to feel that little slave tongue all over my cock and balls. Get them nice and slippery wet."

I bent to the task and brought my mouth and lips to Pete's genitals. After a few minutes I had the whole of them wet and glistening from my saliva, including his hairy testicles. Pete sat up and stretched his legs out in front of him. He propped a pillow up behind him and leaned back against the headboard.

"Across my lap, slave. Assume the position."

"But what did I do, master?" I asked in a tremulous-sounding voice even as I moved to comply.

"You've been a bad slave, haven't you?

I leaned across his lap with my butt up and my penis touching his. Pete's erection was like a log under my hips.

I knew I would be spanked no matter how the conversation went, but this was the game we played.

"No, master, I've been good."

"Hmmmm," pondered Pete as his hands alighted on my butt cheeks and started to fondle and squeeze them. "You've been thinking about next week, haven't you, slave?"

"Yes, master." But I didn't think that was bad.

"You've been thinking about how much money you're going to make, isn't that right, slave?"

I had been. It was true.

"Yes, master."

"Aha," exclaimed Pete, as he gave me a tiny, semi-spank. "Greed and avarice. Two of the seven deadly spanking sins!"

"What?" I said as I lifted my head in astonishment. I was sure he had made that up.

"That's 'what, master,'" said Pete, as he gave me another spank, a bit harder than the first. "Forgetting your place, slave? Getting all big for your britches because you're going to be in the Sears catalogue, hmmm?"

"No, master, please," I begged. But it was no use. This was our ritual. We were just playing roles. I would be spanked.

"I think I know exactly what's going on in your little head, slave, and I'm going to beat it out of you, capiche?"

"Capiche, master," I said in a resigned and sullen voice.

"Twenty spanks, slave. You will count them, you will thank me for them, and you will ask me politely for the next one. Any mistakes and we start over. Do I make myself crystal clear, slave?

"Yes, master," I said miserably. I had a feeling that this spanking was going to hurt. Pete was in a frisky mood, and the erection I was lying across was as hard as a rock. He had only cum once the day before because he had to run around to the lawyer's office and pick up the documents for my mom to sign, so I had known even before I arrived that he would be horny and eager for me today.

The first blow came down on my bottom, hard enough to hurt and sting. Nineteen more like that one would redden my bottom for the next several hours.

"One, master," I recited. "Thank you for spanking me, master. Please, master, may I have another?"

Pete liked it when I asked like that, and he promptly complied with my request. We repeated the process until all 20 spanks had been delivered. By the end of it, I was sobbing unhappily, and my voice sounded distressed and high-pitched, but none of that had in any way influenced Pete. My bottom would, indeed, be red until at least the afternoon.

Afterwards, Pete pulled me into his lap and hugged me close as he licked my tears away.

"Good slave," he cooed. "You were a good and brave slave for your master. Now, go get the lube from the bathroom. It should still be on the soap ledge in the tub."

Pete had fucked me in his bathtub yesterday; after we had taken turns washing each other. I scurried from the bed and scampered into the bathroom to retrieve the lube. Pete was standing next to the bed when I returned, holding some strands of the soft ropes that he liked to use for restraints.

"On the bed, slave, face down, knees bent, feet up, arms behind your back."

I complied. Pete grasped my left wrist and brought my left ankle up and placed it in my hand.

"Hold that," said Pete, as he proceeded to tie my wrist and ankle together. He repeated the process with my right wrist and ankle. I was now tightly secured on my stomach.

"That's a modified hog-tie position, slave, in case you were wondering," he said as he grabbed the tube of lube and applied a healthy amount to his erection. "Hey – why is your butt so red?"

"Because I was a bad slave."

"Oh, that's right," Pete said as if he had forgotten. "And did your master punish you for it?"

"Yes, master," I answered a bit wearily.

"As he should have, right, slave?"

"Yes, master."

"And now your master's going to fuck you, isn't he?" asked Pete as he climbed between my legs and prepared to do just that. He hadn't lubed my hole at all, so I knew that this one was going to hurt. Sometimes, the man was just in a frisky mood, and today was one of those days.

"Yes, master," I agreed because it was true. Pete was going to fuck me. He did so pretty much every day, often more than once.

I felt the familiar pressure of Pete's bulbous cockhead at my backdoor and the familiar, sharp pain as my sphincter surrendered and opened the gateway to my rectum. I gasped. Peter's initial penetration always hurt, but unless he was in a particularly bad or feisty mood, the pain usually went away soon enough. A boy could always hope, right?

It was a vigorous fucking and it hurt, but I had been there before. Afterwards, Pete untied me, and we snuggled together on the bed as he rested and recovered his stamina for round two. He was lying on his back sighing contentedly while I was hugging his midsection with my head resting on his hairy chest and my right leg draped over his thigh. The fingers of his right hand were softly caressing my head and combing through my hair. My fingers gently rubbed his skin wherever they touched.

"I should tell you a little more about the gig next Friday," Pete said casually.

"Mmmmm," I sighed. My eyes were closed; I was resting as I listened to Pete's heart beating through his hairy chest.

"It's going to be different from the Sears shoot. A lot less formal. More like a social gathering than a photo shoot, actually."

"Mmmmm," I replied again. Pete's body was nice and warm, and I was tired from being fucked. I didn't feel like exerting the energy to speak.

"I'm not going to be there Friday," Pete announced. "Aaron's going to take you to that one."

At this news, I lifted my head and looked directly at him. Concern was etched on my face.

"Why aren't you coming?"

"Invite-only, kiddo. I don't move in V.I.P. circles like that."

"What's a V.I.P.?"

"Very important person."

"You're important," I said indignantly. "You're my friend. You're my agent."

Pete chuckled. "I'm important to you, yes. I'm just not important to the man who's throwing the party. Plus, he doesn't know me, and there's a trust factor involved for something like this."

"I thought it was a photo shoot?"

"Well, it is – part of it, anyway. There'll probably be some pictures taken, sure. But that's not the main thing."

"What's the main thing?"

"It's a party. You just go and have fun."

"Aaron's taking me to it?"

"Right. You go with Aaron. You have a good time. There'll be some other boys there around your age. There's a pool. Video games. Foosball. You boys running around and having fun, that type of thing."

That all sounded fine to me in the abstract, but I was disappointed and worried that Pete wouldn't be coming with me.

"I wish you could go," I said.

"Like I said, invite-only. You and Aaron have the invites; I don't. Aaron will watch over you, don't you worry."

I lowered my head back to Pete's chest and contemplated what he had just told me. After a pause, he resumed the conversation.

"There'll be some other men there, too. The man who owns the house – his name is Malcolm. And like I said, Aaron, and some others."

"And kids my age?"

"Boys your age, yes. No girls allowed."

I giggled a little at this. "Why not?"

"Not that kind of party. In fact, kiddo, it'll be more like your audition, remember that?"

How could I forget my audition? Pete had been furious with me. He had slapped me because I hadn't-

Wait a second. Did Pete mean … ?

I must have tensed atop Pete's body. I know I lifted my head again, and I'm sure I looked nervous.

"Shhh. It's okay, Davey. Aaron will be there. Nothing bad is going to happen. Nothing you can't handle. Aaron will keep an eye on you."

"Wait, do I have to … ?"

"Malcolm's an important man in the industry, Davey. He's kind of like a V.I.P. of V.I.P.s, if that makes any sense. He's a bigger V.I.P. than Aaron is, by far."

I didn't care if Malcolm was the President of the United States. I wasn't happy about what I was hearing.

Pete apparently could sense that, and he groaned with aggravation as he sat up and repositioned the pillow behind him so he could lean against the headboard. He pulled me up by my upper arms and had me sit on the bed next to him.

"Okay, Davey. Listen up because I'm only going to explain this to you once, okay?"

"Okay," I replied dejectedly. There was no "Okay, master," because Pete hadn't referred to me as his slave and his tone and demeanor suggested that we were going to have a Serious Chat. I wasn't fond of those, and my heart started to beat faster in my chest.

When Pete next spoke, he sounded controlled, but agitated.

"Before I even get to the explanation, the bottom line is – when we really boil this down to its primal essence – you, young man, are going to do exactly what you're told to do, capiche?" he said in a firm but not-unfriendly voice.

"Capiche," I said resignedly. I knew better than to argue with the man.

"Which means, in this case, that you are going to a party at Malcolm's mansion on Friday night. You're going to go with Aaron and be a gracious companion to him. Once you're at the party, you're going to have fun and fit in. You're also going to make an excellent, amazing, superlative first impression on Malcolm and his friends. And if Malcolm or any of the other men at the party want to feel you up or have you give them a blowjob, that is exactly, precisely, and eagerly what you are going to do, do I make myself clear?

"Crystal," I replied, with a tone of sullenness in my voice.

That turned out to be a big mistake. Pete went absolutely volcanic on me. He wheeled around on the bed faster than I thought he could move and grabbed me by my upper arms, hard enough to hurt – and, as I discovered later that day, hard enough to bruise.

I flinched, tensed, and winced in pain as tears came to my eyes. Pete terrified me when he was like this, absolutely terrified me. I froze, wide-eyed.

"You will not smart-mouth me, kid," he warned me. His expression was ominous. He shook my upper arms for emphasis without diminishing his grip in the slightest. It hurt.

"I'm sorry," I gasped. I was sorry. Truly, truly sorry. Oh my god was I sorry. My cheeky response had been a very bad idea.

Pete's grip loosened, but only slightly.

"I don't think you quite understand how this works, so I'm going to explain it to you right now. You're almost 12 years old, and it's time for you to grow the fuck up, do I make myself clear?"

No way was I going to reply with "crystal" again. In fact, I didn't want to give any answer that might be perceived as smart-assed, so I nodded. I looked stricken.

"Good, so listen up, because I'm not going to repeat myself. Aaron – no, Aaron and I – are working very hard to find you gigs that pay good money and can help you and your mother dig yourselves out of the miserable little existence the two of you have right now in your shitty little apartment in Nowhereseville. You just might want to start showing us some gratitude. If you want to work in this industry, you've gotta play by industry rules. And that means, when a V.I.P. who can give you more work than you can possibly handle in a lifetime wants a blowjob from you, you are going to give the man a fucking blowjob. Why, you might ask? One, because I told you that that's what you're going to do, but if that's not fucking good enough for you, Davey, then because every other fucking kid he sees is going to be on their knees taking care of the man before the door has finished closing behind him, and those kids are going to be the ones getting the work, not you. That's how it works in this profession. That's how it's always worked, and that's how it's going to work for you, too, capiche?"

I listened, stunned, as Pete gave his soliloquy. He had laid everything out for me in black and white. If I wanted to work in the industry, I had to do things that I really didn't want to do. I didn't mind doing those things for Pete. We had a special friendship, and I was happy to give him blowjobs because that was just one of the things we did when we were alone together. It was something I could do for him to show him how much I liked him and was grateful for all he meant to me. But I really didn't want to do it for other people. Yes, I had given Aaron a blowjob, but Pete had been right there, and he had specifically asked me to. Actually, he had spanked my butt and told me to do it, but I would have done it initially if I had understood what Pete wanted me to do, because Aaron was Pete's friend and I always wanted to make Pete happy regardless of anything else.

Now Pete was making it clear what he wanted and expected me to do at Malcolm's party. There was no room for misinterpretation this time. The man was still holding my arms and looking right at me in expectation of my response. What was I going to say? No? After the trip already had been planned and the gigs had been booked? After my mother had already given permission for me to go? After Pete and Aaron had taken time out of their schedules to help advance my career?

There was no way I could say no, and I heard myself saying yes even before I had formed the conscious thought to do so.

"Good," said Pete as he released my upper arms. "Settled. Aaron told me that Malcolm has more connections and can open more doors for us than anyone east of Hollywood. So, you'll want to make a good impression on him. Your competition would kill to be invited to Malcolm's party. You can thank Aaron for the fact that you're going and they're not."

I wasn't sure that thanking Aaron was exactly what I had in mind. Whereas the party initially had sounded like fun, now I was worried. I was trying to imagine how I could be playing foosball one minute and then dropping to my knees giving a blowjob to a total stranger the next. It seemed incongruous. I'd certainly never been to a party like that before.

It was a bit reassuring to hear that there would be other boys at the party. Presumably, I would not be the only one there handing out blowjobs. But that gave me little consolation. Just knowing what I was expected to do ruined the whole idea of the party for me.

"Now, what do you think we should do about your disrespectful attitude?" asked Pete in a calm tone of voice, almost as if he were asking me if I'd remembered to stop and grab the newspaper on my way in the door.

I swallowed nervously. I should not have mouthed off to the man. He did not like to be talked back to and I knew that. I shrugged.

Pete looked unimpressed. "Really? I think you can do better than that, Davey. How can we keep that disrespectful attitude of yours from rearing its ugly little head?"

"By punishing me?" I offered meekly. I felt sick to my stomach. He was going to punish me, and I knew I wasn't going to like it one bit.

"Mm-hmm," nodded Pete. "Yup. How?"

I looked up at Pete, then looked away. My expression was one of confusion. Pete was asking me to choose my own punishment. I didn't like that, and I wasn't sure what to propose.

"Spanking?" I asked uncertainly.

"Spanking is for small stuff," replied Pete matter-of-factly. Left unsaid, but implied, was that he didn't think my disrespectful attitude from earlier fell in the Small Stuff category.

I felt uncomfortable with the conversation and the entire line of questioning. I didn't like where it was going. I didn't like what I was hearing.

"I dunno," I said miserably. I wasn't acting and neither was Pete. I knew I was in for it now. This was all very disconcerting to me.

"When I was your age, I got the belt when I mouthed off to an adult."

The belt? I did not want the belt. Before he'd pummeled his son half to death with his fists, Robert Tucker's father was notorious for disciplining Robert with his belt. Everyone knew it, too. At school, I had seen belt marks on Robert's forearms where he had tried to block the blows, and the kid had a note from his mother to sit out gym more often than not. After his father was arrested, rumors circulated that the man had used the belt on Robert far more often and far more severely than anyone had realized. I never had a chance to ask him about it as Robert never returned to our school after he was released from the hospital.

"Can I not get the belt, please?" I implored Pete. My bottom still was sore from my spanking.

"So, you can just continue to be disrespectful whenever you feel like it?"

I didn't like Pete's logic, but I couldn't refute it. "No," I replied. It was all I could come up with. I didn't have anything else to say.

"I told you that I was going to discipline you when you crossed the line," reminded Pete. "And that's because your mother lets you get away with murder, doesn't she?"

It was somewhat, even mostly, true. My mother didn't spank. She didn't even really discipline. I was an only child and I didn't have a father in my life. I had been spoiled, but I didn't want to admit it, so instead I shrugged noncommittally. My reaction did not go over well.

Pete stood up from the bed and pulled me to my feet to face him.

"You know what Davey?" he said as he loomed over me. "I am just not going to tolerate any disrespect from you. This is twice now. Lying to me in Chicago and mouthing off to me again right now are pretty much the same thing in my book."

I looked down glumly. I always felt very out of sorts when Pete was angry with me, kind of like my world was coming to an end. That grapefruit-sized lump formed inside me once again, this time in my stomach as opposed to my throat.

Pete grasped my chin his right hand and lifted my head up. I was forced to look him in the eyes.

"We have to nip this in the bud right now, Davey. I am not going to have you embarrassing Aaron or me when you're on a gig, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes," I said in a whisper. My voice barely was audible.

"I'm not tying you down this time. You're going to bend over and hold your ankles for me, and you are not going to move until I tell you that you can move, understood."

"Yes," I whispered. I was so scared that I started to tremble.

"Do it," was all Pete said, as he turned toward his dresser.

On his command, I bent at the waist and reached down with both hands to grasp my ankles. The position prominently displayed my butt, and it took little imagination to figure out what was going to happen to it. I was a very unhappy boy. I was also very scared. This somehow seemed worse than the time he had flogged me in the hotel room in Chicago, and that time I had been tied down to the bed.

Pete returned with his belt. I could see him behind me from between my own legs. He appeared upside-down to me, but I was the one with my head down.

"You stay in position until I say we're done," said Pete. "If you're forced to move, you get back in position right away, do you hear me?"

"Yes," I whispered and sobbed from between my legs. There was only one thing that could force me to move, and that was the belt hitting my backside with enough force to topple me over. The fact that he was acknowledging that he might hit me that hard was terrifying. I was absolutely dreading this.

The first crack of the belt indeed hit me so hard that it literally made me rock forward on the balls of my feet and sway precariously before I regained my balance. The pain was biting and ferocious. Tears appeared in my eyes as if by magic. I squealed my unhappiness into the upstairs bedroom.

"You will not smart-mouth me or any other adult, Davey. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I sobbed. I was trembling and starting to hyperventilate with fear.

The belt swung down again, rocking me forward. I just barely managed not to fall as my backside sang with pain.

"Ahhhhhrrrrrgg!" I yelped.

"You will do as you are told, Davey. Do you understand?"

"Yes!" I hissed. God it hurt.

The blows kept landing on my beleaguered bottom one after the other as Pete continued to castigate me. He punctuated nearly every blow with an instruction or comment, always asking me at the end if I understood. My answer always was yes. His biggest concern seemed to be that I would say or do something while I was on one of my job assignments. Crying, sobbing, shaking, and panting, I promised him over and over that I would not talk back or play the smart ass when I was working. We covered this topic several times – more times than I wanted to cover it.

The blows from the belt kept coming, punctuating each instruction and comment from Pete. This meant they were moderately spaced apart so that I had time to feel each one. My butt was on fire and it was all I could do to maintain my bent-over position. I was crying so hard that my nose somehow was running upwards. I couldn't see through my tears. All I saw was Pete's shadowy shape behind me as he put down lick after lick into my defenseless bottom.

Pete didn't stop until my butt cheeks were welted and cherry red. I was whimpering in pain by the end of it, virtually unable to speak except to give single-syllable answers. I couldn't tell you exactly how many cracks of the belt I received that day, but I believe it was at least 15 and it may have been as many as 20 or more. All I know is that it was by far the most painful experience of my life to that date. Pete had not held back. The lesson he imparted was well and truly learned that day.

I would not mouth off to him ever again. I made that vow to myself more than once as he beat me. When we had our Serious Chats, I would be agreeable and respectful. There is no way on earth that I ever wanted to risk another beating like that one. I feared that I would have trouble sitting for days. As it turned out, I was right.

Afterwards, Pete directed me to a spot facing his closed closet door and told me to stand there with my hands on my head until he told me I could move. I did so, standing there motionless aside from my trembling and hitched breathing, unable even to try to soothe my tortured cheeks. I continued to cry. I wouldn't stop sobbing for the next 15 minutes, and it was another 15 after that before Pete let me move from my position.

"Get over here and get your mouth to work, slave," he said. As I turned, I saw that he was seated naked on his bed, fully erect. I immediately crawled onto the bed, grasped his cock, and sucked it into my mouth.

That's a good slave," Pete cooed as I began to fellate him. "Just like that. This is a good use of that mouth of yours. That's it, just like that."

As I sucked Pete, I thought about what had happened. I didn't question Pete's right to discipline me, but I did wonder why he had been so severe. My bottom was still seared red and covered in welts from the belt. The beating had bordered on cruel, delivered to my bare bottom as it was. And why? Because I had used a single word sarcastically? It wasn't even a swear word.

But I had intended it to be sarcastic, and by saying it the way I had, I had triggered a reaction from Pete that was terrible to behold. Looking back on it, I think he was right that if he hadn't put the fear of the belt into me, I would have been less willing to do what he expected of me to market my services as an aspiring actor, and much more likely to mess things up once I was out working a gig. By beating me, he was making sure that my mouth would not get me in trouble in either setting.

The beating I received that day stayed with me and changed me. From that day forward, I was extremely careful how I spoke to Pete. In the past, I had been quick to tease him a little bit or crack a joke, but no longer. Pete never actually banned me from joking with him, but I don't think he ever threatened me with a teasing "Dead boy!" comment after that day because I never again did anything to antagonize him. I was too scared. I was too afraid of his belt.

By the following Wednesday, my welts and bruises had healed, and things were back to normal between the two of us, or at least, our new normal. I still went to visit Pete every day, we still had sex even though my butt hurt for the next few days. Pete was perhaps a bit more considerate when spanking me which he did most days. He also was still happy to fuck me at least twice a day and wasn't afraid to talk about the welts on my butt, which he seemed to enjoy touching – not always gently, either – and reminding me why I had them. We still had fun moments together, but I remained very fearful of setting him off and my behavior was very guarded around him. I had now experienced his anger directed at me on two occasions, and I had no desire to have a third time.

That same Wednesday, we left for Chicago. This wasn't a quick in-and-out trip like we had planned for our first excursion; we were going to be gone for four days and three nights, and we wouldn't be returning until Saturday. I said good-bye to my mother early that morning as she was getting ready for work. I tried to look happy and excited about the trip, but I was very apprehensive about Friday's private pool-party at Malcolm's house and it was casting a pall over the whole trip. My mother thought that the entire trip was for the Sears catalogue photo-shoot, so I couldn't even discuss my anxieties with her.

The drive to Chicago in Pete's big Mercury was uneventful, and we arrived by early afternoon, well before rush hour. Pete was in a good mood during the drive and I had relaxed by the time we checked into our hotel room. The photo studio where the catalogue shoot would take place was located on the west side of the city, so we stayed in a different Holiday Inn from the time before. When we got to our room, Pete took me across his knee for a quick spanking and then fucked me missionary-style on one of the queen beds for approximately 20 minutes before we changed into our swimsuits and headed down to the pool. I again wore the skimpy red Speedo that he had purchased for me. It made me feel self-conscious and embarrassed to walk around with it on, but I did it for Pete.

The pool was mostly empty this time and there was no group of young hockey players for me to goof around with. Pete didn't want to play and got out after just a few minutes. I stayed in and practiced swimming underwater for a bit, but it was boring and after a while, I got out, too. We hung out on the pool deck for a time, then went back to our room to rinse off before heading out for a bite to eat. We dined at a Your Host restaurant that was within walking distance of the hotel. It was far from gourmet, but it hit the spot.

Afterwards, we returned to the hotel room where Pete fucked me again. He skipped the spanking this time, probably so there wouldn't be any risk of me being sore for my Sears gig the next day. After he had deposited his cum load in my ass, we snuggled naked on the bed and watched television. Sadly, we were in a nicer hotel this time, and there was no porn to watch. That was disappointing to me. We ended up watching re-runs of M.A.S.H., The Mary Tyler Moore Show, and The Bob Newhart Show back to back to back. At Pete's request, I watched most of the last show at a 90-degree angle to the television with my head lying on his abdomen and his semi-hard cock gently humping my mouth. He didn't cum, however, and when the show was over, we both used the bathroom one last time and headed back to bed to sleep. I was out like a light in minutes and didn't wake up again until morning.

I had to be on location by 10:45 a.m. for my first-ever modelling job, so after a quick breakfast, we headed over to the address we had been given, arriving almost 45 minutes early. I was excited but not sure what to expect. To my surprise, the photo shoot was not taking place at an actual photo studio, but instead at what appeared to be converted office space somewhere in West Englewood on the southwest side of Chicago. For something as important as the Sears catalogue, I had expected it to be super organized and professional, but when we arrived, it seemed like it was anything but. We literally stood in line in the lobby to check in, and when we finally reached the check-in table after 30 minutes or so, the lady took some measurements of me and then handed Pete some paperwork and sent us away to fill it out. Apparently, the paperwork included my first modelling contract, which Pete filled out and signed on my behalf. At check-in, they never even asked to see the documents my mother had signed that gave him this authority. They didn't seem to care if Pete was my father, my agent, or some guy who had kidnapped me off the street.

When we returned, the lady told us to go to the "Huron Room" and gave us directions where to find it down the hall. The interior of the building was laid out like a professional office of some sort, with what looked like conference rooms and individual offices that had been converted into mini photo studios. The doors to each of them were wide open and I could see inside. Even the common areas had been partitioned off and were set up with large, reflective umbrellas, lights, and tripods with cameras on them. There must have been 20 different setups throughout the first floor of the building, each staffed with a team of photographer and assistants, wardrobe people, and models big and small milling about.

We found the Huron Room from a small sign on the wall adjacent to the door. The door was propped open, so we walked in. This large conference room had been converted into two mini photo studios, both of which were actively shooting as Pete and I stood there uncertainly. The room was very noisy with people walking about, talking, and even shouting to be heard over the din. A boy of about 14 was posing for photographs in the nearer of the two setups, with a girl of about seven modeling outfits in the other one.

As I watched, the boy was handed a new outfit and then disappeared behind a single partition wall. He immediately was replaced on set by another boy of about the same age who stepped in front of the camera in a yellow, cable-knit sweater and beige corduroys and began to pose. Sudden movement behind the set caught my eye, and I saw the outfit the first boy had been wearing fly out from behind the partition onto a pile of discarded clothing on the floor. The second boy continued to pose as the first boy reemerged from behind the partition in a new set of clothes. A woman approached him with a brush and tidied up his hair, then straightened the garments on his body. After another minute or so, the second boy retreated behind the partition and the first boy was back in front of the camera being photographed. Two girls were alternating the same way in the other setup.

I was surprised by the chaos and pace of it all and I think Pete was, too. It was really nothing like I had anticipated, but then again, the Sears catalogues ran to hundreds of pages and there must have been a need to move things along quickly. Beneath all the noise and confusion, things did seem somewhat organized. There was always a new outfit waiting for the models to change into, and I could tell from all the bright flashes that the photographers were constantly snapping away.

Suddenly, a loud female voice rang out and I heard my name being called.

"Is a David Pierce here?"

Pete and I both turned to see a woman holding a clipboard standing in the far doorway into the room. Pete raised his hand and she smiled, ducked back into the hall, and came around to the first doorway where Pete and I were standing. She smiled again as she approached us.

"Oh, good," she said. "Excellent. We're on schedule for once and I'm trying to keep it that way. She stuck out her hand to Pete. "I'm Margaret Calloway, and you must be David's father."

"Actually, I'm his agent," replied Pete as he shook her hand. "Pete Volcker."

"Excellent. Pleased to meet you. They should be finishing up soon on studio seven – see the boy there?" she asked as she pointed to the first boy who was now posing in what looked to me like a cowboy outfit, complete with blue jeans, a plaid shirt, and a belt with a large buckle. He just had socks on his feet. The lights linked to the camera were flashing away as the photographer did his thing. Another woman stood nearby, seemingly taking notes.

"As soon as they're finished shooting, take David to the woman holding the clipboard. She'll check you in. I'll have wardrobe bring the cart," she said as she glanced down at her own clipboard. "How old are you, David?" she asked, without looking up.

"Eleven," I told her as she continued to scan her clipboard.

"Hmm, I'm not seeing it here," she replied, her voice trailing off. "Oh, there you are. David Pierce, boys nine. We have the wardrobe slots organized by age, not name," she explained apologetically. "You're small for your age," she added with a friendly smile.

I was mortified. Here I was less than a month away from my 12^th birthday, and apparently I would be modeling clothes in the Sears catalogue for boys almost three years younger. I wanted to sink into a hole in the floor and disappear.

"I think someone's on the cusp of a growth spurt," said Pete as he placed both of his hands on my shoulders. I could tell that he was trying to come to my rescue and make me feel better, but it didn't really help. I was very embarrassed.

"Oh, for sure!" Margaret replied, a bit too exuberantly. She looked down at me with another friendly smile. "Okay, you're all set! Wardrobe will be up in a bit with David's cart. You'll be alternating with a boy named Christopher who's already checked in." With that, she turned and walked away.

Pete gave my shoulders a quick rub and leaned down to whisper in my ear. Because of the din in the room, it really wasn't much of a whisper.

"Don't worry about it, Davey. You'll grow. Right now, consider it an advantage, okay sport?"

I didn't answer him, but I didn't consider my size to be an advantage. I wasn't sure I was ever going to grow. The summer was nearly over, and I hadn't grown a single inch. I just knew I was going to be the smallest kid in my entire school. Now I was worried that I was going to appear in the Sears catalogue on pages emblazoned with banners like "Adorable Outfits for Nine-Year-Olds!" or "Send Your Third-Grader Back to School in Style!" Suddenly, a career in modelling and acting didn't seem very appealing at all. I looked up at Pete.

"I want to go," I said to him with eyes that were about to overflow with tears.

I saw what looked like a flash of anger cross his face, but it was replaced a moment later with a softer, more neutral expression. He bent down before me on one knee and placed his hands back on my shoulders.

"Davey, you can do this. Remember how we worked on those scenes in Parasols? You're here now, and you need to do this, capiche? We drove all the way from St. Clair."

As I looked into Pete's eyes, I knew I looked as miserable as I felt. I also knew that there was no getting out of the job. Pete wasn't going to let me quit, and there would be hell to pay with the man if I didn't snap out of my funk soon. I nodded resignedly.

"There's my boy. We'll go swimming when we get back to the hotel. We can catch a movie later. You up for Jaws 2?"

I shook my head. I knew Pete was trying to make me feel better, but I just wasn't in the mood. I knew I had to provide some reassurance, however, as I didn't want to anger him.

"I can do it," I told him resolutely.

"Good boy."

Each studio setup had several people assigned to it, including the photographer, a technician to adjust the lights and umbrellas, a wardrobe person, a makeup person, and a supervisor of some sort. Once I was over the initial sense of chaos, I realized that it was quite an impressive production. Pete and I watched as the models cycled in pairs through several outfit changes, each culminating in a series of photographs and flashes. Everything was done quickly, with the models alternating to save time. Conserving film did not seem to be an imperative, however, as every change of clothing resulted in at least eight to ten flashes in fairly quick succession, and I saw the photographers quickly changing the film in the cameras more than once.

Despite what Margaret had told us, the production seemed to be behind schedule. It wasn't until 11:30 a.m. that the girls' session ended on Studio 8 ended. Both girls changed back into their street clothes, followed not too long afterwards by the two boys on Studio 7. As we had been instructed to do, as soon as it was apparent that the boys were finished, we approached the woman holding the clipboard. At the same time, another boy appeared out of nowhere with his mother in tow. He was about my size and height.

"Ah, good," said the woman as the four of us approached. "Christopher Jockin and David Pierce, boys nine?" she asked for confirmation after glancing down at her clipboard.

Pete answered for me as I watched the last of the older boys, now dressed in street clothes, step out from behind the partition and leave the room.

"That's right, this is David Pierce," said Pete as I saw him trying to read the woman's clipboard upside down.

"Hello, David," said the woman as she held out her hand. "My name's Mary and we'll be working together today."

Her voice had a sing-song tone to it, as if she were addressing a young child. I had no choice but to shake hands with her, but I wasn't happy.

"Hi, I replied a bit dejectedly.

"Now, now," she said brightly, "we need lots and lots of your very best smiles today, David!"

The woman was talking to me like I was six. I wanted to mouth off to her, but the memory of Pete's belt prevented it. Feeling ridiculous, I flashed her a big, warm smile.

"There we go!" Mary exclaimed breezily as she gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze. "You'll change right there behind that little wall. If you need any help, just ask and I'll come over and give you a hand."

I nodded as she turned to the other boy and went through much the same introduction with him. I turned to look back at the setup. If the room hadn't been so busy, I would have been more concerned about changing clothes behind a single partition. Although having spent months and months naked in Pete's apartment had made me a lot less bashful about such things, that was just with him. I hoped that everyone in the room was going to be much too busy to try to peek in on me as I changed from one outfit to the next, but I still felt awkward about the idea of changing clothes protected only by that thin bit of wall surrounded by so many people.

Just like that, my first photo shoot started. The wardrobe cart for the two of us contained over 40 different outfits that Christopher and I were to get through over the next two hours. If you do the math, each of us was changing into a new set of clothes and being photographed about every six minutes, but because there were two of us and we were alternating, the photographer saw a boy roughly every three minutes. I had to admit that despite all the chaos, it was an efficient way to run a photo shoot. We were so busy and moving so fast that I never even had a chance to speak to the other kid, who I assume was nine years old. I'll never know for sure.

The actual modeling part – posing and smiling for the cameras – was as easy as it could be. The hard part was changing into each new outfit at the speed of light. Each time I changed, my outfit was adjusted, and my hair was brushed before I went before the cameras.

After the first few wardrobe changes, I stopped worrying about stripping down to my briefs in a room full of other people. I simply walked behind the partition with the next garment or outfit, hung it on one of the hooks hanging from the top of the partition, undressed, and then tossed the old outfit on the floor. No effort was made to replace anything on the cart. The clothing would be picked up in a heap after my shoot was over. I wondered if any of it would be sold in an actual Sears store. More likely it was all donated to charity.

I modeled everything from jeans to pajamas to raincoats to sweatshirts to corduroys. My outfits included three different sets of underwear, including a matching set of Superman briefs and t-shirt. Changing into underwear behind the partition required me to strip naked, and that was really embarrassing, but I simply didn't have any time to think about it as I hated to think of Pete's reaction if I were to hold up the process. The partition was close enough to the wall that nobody could see me naked unless they were trying to. Nobody seemed to be all that interested. Pete might have been, of course, but by that time, he was waiting out in the hall. He of course could see me naked nearly anytime he wanted.

That first shoot was a whirlwind, but I recall that I quite enjoyed it despite the undressing. I couldn't stop thinking about the fact that I was going to be paid $500 at the end of it. That was a lot of money for a young boy to make for a single day's work in 1978. Little did I know then what my earnings potential truly was. My career in the industry was off to a fine start, but my pride in it would last but a single day. Everything I knew was about to change, and not for the better.

The very last outfit I ever modeled for Sears Roebuck & Company at the end of the photo shoot was a tan, three-piece suit complete with a blue dress shirt and a matching, blue-and-tan tie. I needed wardrobe assistance with that one since I had never worn a suit before in my life. I remember that outfit well and I remember posing in it. The tie was a clip-on and I wasn't wearing a belt or shoes, but you can't tell any of that from the photograph.

The reason I remember it so well is that after the 1978 Fall Winter Sears Catalogue came out, Pete cut page 508 out with a razor knife and had it framed for my mother. I'm looking at that framed photo as I write this some 42 years later. There I am, forever memorialized as an 11-year-old Sears model, sharing the page with another boy I had neither seen nor met who was modeling a knit, navy-blue version of the same suit. Thankfully, the page was not adorned with banners reading "Adorable Outfits for Nine-Year-Olds!" or "Send Your Third-Grader Back to School in Style!" Instead, in between our smiling young faces, is a much more modest white rectangle captioned with words that I have read many times over the years as I stared at that photograph and wished time had stood still at the moment it was taken:

I've stared at that photograph and caption so much over the years that I've memorized it. I look happy and I'm smiling. Despite the sex I was having with Pete on a daily basis, I was just a naïve, innocent 11-year-old boy the day it was taken. That photo never fails to remind me of the trip to Chicago to see the Cubs, the aquarium, the Sears Tower, and the Chicago harbor. Those were fun times. Fun times, indeed. But they were not to last.

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