Chapter 13

We left everything the way it was in the theater as Aaron took me down to wardrobe and handed me another bathrobe from a drawer that was simply full of them. They looked clean and nicely folded, and this time, I remembered to look in the pocket of my new robe for the sash. By the time we walked back down the hall to the elevator, the theater lights were off, and there was no sign of either Jordan or Mr. Tal.

We took the elevator back up to the first floor and proceeded down the hall in the direction of Mr. Stone's office and the great room. As we approached, I heard men's voices laughing and the higher-pitched sounds of kids playing. The door to Mr. Stone's office was closed, and we proceeded past it into the great room. I looked to my left to see several men congregated in the lounge area, most in bathrobes. There were at least two I hadn't seen before, including a bigger, darker-skinned man who looked to me like he was an Arab or an Indian.

My attention then was drawn to an area just off the punch table where the boys were huddled around what looked exactly like a pair of arcade games. Forgetting all about the shower Aaron wanted me to take, I immediately headed in that direction. Sure enough, the familiar and thrilling, upright, rectangular shape of arcade games came into view, both emblazoned with the words "Space Invaders" at the top. They were identical and apparently had been wheeled into the great room while I was downstairs.

If I had been impressed before with the elevator, theater, and pool in Mr. Stone's beautiful mansion, I was utterly blown away by the fact that he owned not one but two Space Invaders arcade games! Like many boys my age, I was a Space Invaders addict, and I had spent hundreds of quarters playing the game at the bowling alley not far from where my mother and I used to live. I hadn't played since we moved, but I knew there was a Space Invaders game in the back of Tucker's Pharmacy about two blocks from my apartment. I had been too busy with Pete to get there, but I planned to. I loved the game, even if I wasn't very good at it.

The four older boys I had seen earlier and a new boy of about 13 who I hadn't seen before were clustered around one of the machines, laughing and kibitzing as one of them shot at the aliens. Most of them were dressed in white bathrobes identical to mine, but one boy had a towel wrapped around his waist and his hair looked wet. To their left, the younger boys were playing on the second machine. Mikey and Chris were there, along with Kevin, and two new, slender boys I hadn't seen before. They looked to be about nine or ten years old and were dressed in matching, cotton briefs that looked brand new. Both sported deep summer tans that made them look almost like non-whites. They were the same height and build and wore their hair shorter than the style of the day. I couldn't tell them apart, and there was no question in my mind that they were twins. Given their tans, I wondered if they belonged to the darker-skinned man I had seen as I walked in.

Mikey was the first to notice me as I came closer and peered over Kevin's shoulders to see the familiar rows of sinister aliens crawling side by side across the screen. I felt a tingle of pleasure at the thought of mowing them down.

"Hi, Davey!" Mikey said excitedly. He was dressed in a pair of red briefs with a yellow waistband that I recognized immediately as the lower half of a set of Superman Underoos. I'd secretly wanted Underoos for a couple of years running but had never asked my mother for fear that she would think I was too old for them. Even if she had somehow managed to read my mind and bought me a set, I wouldn't have dared to wear them except at home as pajamas. A kid in my class named John Kristoff had made the mistake of wearing the briefs from a set of Batman Underoos to school last year when we were in 5^th grade, and he had been reduced to tears from all the taunting he received in gym class after he was discovered wearing them.

"Hi," I replied to the younger kid. Mikey was like the annoying younger brother I didn't have, but it was almost impossible not to like him. He had a seemingly permanent smile and a joie de vivre that was almost infectious.

"Do you love Space Invaders?" he asked.

I nodded in reply as I watched Kevin's battery get flamed by one of the aliens. A quick glance at the bottom of the screen told me that he had one life to go before his game was over. Secretly, I hoped that he would die sooner rather than later because that would get me one step closer to my turn to play.

"Mr. Stone said we had to take turns," advised Mikey. "It's my turn after Chris, but you can play after that. They already had their turns," he said as he pointed at the new kids in their matching cotton briefs.

I glanced over at the underwear-clad twins and nodded again as I watched Kevin maneuver his battery left and right while shooting at the alien hordes.

"Are you still wearing that thing?" Mike asked as he pulled up the left flap of my bathrobe to see what I had on underneath. Of course, I still had no idea where my pouch had gone to, and I was naked underneath. Mikey's move momentarily exposed my butt and penis to the world.

"Stop that!" I said as I pushed the younger boy away.

"What was that thing, anyway?" Mikey persisted.

"It's just a swimsuit somebody made for me."

"You don't gotta wear swimsuits at Mr. Stone's."

"I know," I replied wearily. It was as if the kid had forgotten that I already had spent over an hour swimming with him in the pool in my birthday suit.

As I said that, the row of aliens reached the bottom of the screen and took out Kevin's last battery. He moved away from the front of the console and immediately was replaced by Chris, who started a new game within seconds without even inserting a coin. Mr. Stone's arcade games didn't even require quarters! As I watched, another symmetrical box of invading aliens began crawling across the screen, raining green-lightning death down on Chris's battery.

As I stood to the side of the machine, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mikey suddenly move away from my side. Just as I glanced over to see what was up, I felt something soft hit the top of my head. I simultaneously reached for it and turned around as it slid down my forehead and into my hand. It was my pouch, and standing behind me was Mr. Emerson, the man who had spanked Mikey earlier for bothering me. No wonder "Toad" had backed off when he saw the man coming, given that he had just pulled my bathrobe apart yet again. But the man gave no indication that he had seen Mikey tease me, which probably was a very good thing for the younger boy.

"I think you may have misplaced that, and I wanted to return it to you," Mr. Emerson said with a smile.

He was right. The last time I had seen the pouch, it had been lying on the floor of Mr. Stone's office. After that it had gone missing, and I hadn't seen it since.

"Thanks," I said a bit sheepishly as I reached down to stuff the garment in the pocket of my robe.

"I must say it looks very nice on you," said the man. "It's Davey, right?"

"Yes, sir," I said. For some reason, I was being overly polite.

"I'd like you to come with me for a moment, Davey," he said as he placed his hand on my right shoulder. "I promise you won't lose your place in line."

When an adult says he wants you to come with him for a moment it usually means that something is amiss. I wasn't sure if I was in trouble or not, but my nerves started to kick in as I stepped away from the video game to give Mr. Emerson my undivided attention. With the man's hand on my shoulder, we walked past the punch table and toward the pool. There was nobody using it, and the water was still and smooth save for the ripples emanating from the area of the waterfall.

"Did you have fun swimming earlier?" Mr. Emerson asked me. "I hope Mikey wasn't too much of a pain in the butt."

"No, he was okay," I replied.

Then I remembered what the man had said earlier about Mikey's behavior in the pool, and I decided to give the younger kid a little boost. "He wasn't bothering the bigger boys, either," I added.

"Hmmm," said Mr. Emerson with a skeptical tone. "A little birdie told me that he was calling them big fat jerks," he replied. "But perhaps you weren't around when that happened."

"That was because — " I started to say, but then I clammed up. I wasn't precisely sure what had happened between Mikey and the older boys, but I knew I hadn't intervened or stood up for Mikey when it occurred, and I wasn't proud of my behavior. I didn't want to have to reveal that to Mr. Emerson.

"You did hear him say that to the older boys?" Mr. Emerson persisted.

"Yes … but they were kind of picking on him," I responded lamely.

"Were they picking on you?"

"No, not really," I acknowledged.

"You weren't calling them big fat jerks, were you?"

"No."

"And you weren't being a pain in their butts either, were you?"

I hung my head glumly. My effort to defend Mikey and get him out of a punishment was not going well. I could sense my future career opportunity as a criminal defense lawyer spiraling down the drain, as I seemed to be doing little more than confirming the allegations against the boy.

"I don't think so," I replied sheepishly.

"That's what I thought," said the man. "I had a talk with Mikey in the car about his behavior. We'll have another talk about it tomorrow when we get home."

I was under no illusions that all Mr. Emerson was going to do with Mikey was talk, but there was nothing I could do about it now.

"But actually, Davey," the man said, changing the subject, "that's not why I asked you to come here with me. I wanted to talk to you about something else."

"What is it?" I asked a bit warily, even though I was glad for the change of topic.

"Have you spoken to Mr. Richter about tonight?" Mr. Emerson asked.

I hadn't spoken to Aaron. I still didn't know what his plans were for me. I shook my head.

"You told me earlier that he hadn't said which one of us you were going to be staying with tonight. Is that still the case?"

I shrugged. "I think so." I couldn't remember exactly what I had said.

"Well, has he said anything else to you about it?"

"No," I replied with a little shake of my head.

"Then I'd be honored to have you spend the night with me, Davey," he declared. "We'll share the Daley Room on the third floor."

I must have looked a little stunned, and I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say. Nobody had told me how all this stuff worked.

"Who else is coming?" I asked the man.

Mr. Emerson chuckled. "It'll just be the two of us. It's a private room. No need for an audience, right?" he said with a smile.

"Did you say anything to Aaron?" I asked uncertainly.

"No, but you can tell him where you'll be. He's staying somewhere on the second floor, I think. I'm not sure who he's paired up with for tonight."

This was news to me. Aaron had said he would be with me the entire time we were at the party, but now that didn't seem to be true, and it appeared that he had known that all along. I was learning not to trust the man. He hadn't told me a lot of things about the party, and some of the things he had told me ended up not being true.

"I'd like you to wear what you have in your pocket, Davey," said Mr. Emerson. "Can you put it on for me?" He was referring to my pouch, of course.

"Now?" I asked.

"Yes," came his reply.

I glanced behind him for a second to see if anyone was looking, then reached into my pocket and fished out the little garment that Mr. Stalteri had made for me. Although the pouch was still only a few hours old, so much had happened since Aaron and I left the man's clothing shop that the making of it seemed almost like a distant memory. Untangling the strings, I bent over and reached down to step into it.

"Why don't you take your robe off, Davey," said Mr. Emerson as he paused me with a hand on my shoulder. "It'll be easier that way."

I didn't want to take my robe off, but I stood upright once again, placed the pouch on a nearby boulder, and untied my sash. I slid the robe from my shoulders and stood naked before the man.

"There's a good boy," said Mr. Emerson as he reached for the robe. "I'll hold that for you."

I handed my bathrobe to him, then reached for the pouch and bent over to step into it one foot at time. I pulled it up my legs and positioned the little fabric triangle over my genitals before adjusting the straps. Mr. Emerson watched my every move.

"That looks amazing on you, Davey," he said as he reached out to palm my left cheek. "I have to believe that was custom-made, because it couldn't possibly fit you any better."

I nodded in acknowledgment. The pouch did fit me perfectly, and it had been custom-made.

"Um, I forgot my swimsuit, and they didn't have any at the store where we went?" I explained with a shrug. "So, the man there said he would make one for me."

Mr. Emerson nodded at my explanation. "It fits you like a glove, Davey, and it's not exactly something you can just buy off the rack." As he spoke, he draped my robe and sash over the same boulder I had used for the pouch. "It looks very sexy on you."

"Thanks," I replied with a little nod. I wasn't exactly sure what to say when an adult called me sexy. It still seemed a bit weird, even if I was getting used to it.

"I'd like you to wear it for me tonight, okay? At least when you first come in the room. Can you do that for me?"

"Okay," I agreed, nodding again.

"Good boy," he replied with a smile. "Were you engrossed in the arcade games, or would you like to grab another swim?" he asked. "It looks like we may have the pool to ourselves."

I loved to swim. I really did. I swam every chance I could get. But I also loved video games, and the allure of playing unlimited, free games of Space Invaders on Mr. Stone's machines was very strong. Weighing against that desire was what Mr. Emerson obviously wanted me to do, and what Aaron and Pete expected me to do at the party. I was torn. I wanted to ask Mr. Emerson if I could play just a few games of Space Invaders and then maybe go swimming with him afterwards, but he spoke again before I could get the words out.

"Rather than stay here in the grotto, I thought maybe we could head out through the portico and swim outside," he said. "Have you done that yet, Davey?"

I hadn't and I wanted to. It sounded so cool to me. It was getting dark, too, which made the idea of swimming outside in the big, rectangular pool seem even more enticing.

"Not yet," I replied with a little shake of my head.

Mr. Emerson's face broke into a big smile. "Come on," he said in a conspiratorial whisper as he kicked off his flip flops and untied the sash to his robe. "Let's do it before anyone else gets the same idea."

That settled it. Space Invaders would have to wait. I watched as the man slid the robe from his shoulders and placed it atop mine on the boulder. His naked body came into view, and my attention immediately turned to his penis. It was soft, with the familiar one-eyed head on it, dangling down between his testicles. It was probably average in size, but it looked smaller against the backdrop of thick, black pubic hairs that adorned the man's groin. Mr. Emerson was a very hairy man, not just there, but all over. His stomach and abdomen were hairy, and his chest was a thick carpet of dark fuzz. He wasn't quite as hairy on his arms and legs, but overall, he was probably one of the hairiest men I had ever seen.

He turned around to face the pool, allowing me to verify that his back and butt were just as hairy as his front. Without further ado, he simply jumped in, feet first, then turned around to look up at me as he fell back in the water and immersed himself up to his neck.

"Ahhh, that feels good," he said with a big smile as he stood up again and held out his arms to me, inviting me to jump into them.

I would have preferred to make an unescorted entry into the pool, but I went to the edge and hopped off into his arms. He caught me easily and drew me in with one hand on my bottom and the other sliding up my back to hold my neck. He then brought his face to mine and kissed me on the lips.

The kiss lasted only a second or so before he let me go and propelled me by my bottom toward the little bend where the pool angled to meet the back wall of the house. This was the same area into which Mike had been taken by the big-fat-jerk older boys, and I already knew from Aaron's description that it led to the portico and outside.

We waded around the bend together, his hand still guiding my bottom with one finger sneaking under the thin strap between my cheeks. After a few more steps, the back wall of the house came into view. Sure enough, there was narrow, rectangular opening with a sheet of what looked like Plexiglas extending down below the surface of the water. I knew this was the portal to outside. It reminded me a bit of a pet door, but it was for people – swimming people.

"You have to duck all the way down under the water to get through, Davey," said Mr. Emerson. "Are you okay putting your face in the water? Do you want me to go first and pull you through?"

I almost rolled my eyes at his questions. He must have thought I was six years old instead of the usual nine that everyone seemed to think I was. It occurred to me then that he may not have known my actual age, but I decided not to tell him. After all, he hadn't asked, and I already had reconciled myself to playing younger than I was for the entire party if that made Aaron happy.

But I wasn't about to let such a serious slight to my swimming skills go unanswered. Taking a deep breath, I ducked entirely under the water and began to swim away from Mr. Emerson and his roaming hand to the portal, ducking under it and returning to the surface only when I was sure I was all the way through. I stood up again and pawed the water from my eyes.

Sure enough, I was outside. It seemed very dark out as my eyes adjusted to the change in light. The sun had set but there still were still traces of color above the trees in the western sky. I was standing in what could best be described as a tiled channel, measuring about four feet wide and probably just as deep. Low-watt light fixtures embedded in the tiles at intervals on either side of the channel provided some shadowy illumination.

The water came almost up to my neck as I turned and waited for Mr. Emerson. He emerged from under the water with a smile, then stood up and ruffled my hair.

"You little rascal!" he said with a smile. "You're a swimmer, aren't you? Very impressive!"

I couldn't help but smile right back at him as he gave me a playful push, then draped his right arm over my shoulders and started wading me through the channel away from the house.

"This part is called the portico, even if it really isn't a portico," he explained confusingly as we waded along. I was half walking and half swimming, as the water level was so high that it made striding difficult. From what I was able to see in the dim light to my left and right, it appeared that the portico had been cut right through the mansion's back patio. A pair of pedestrian bridges connected the two sides of the patio across the channel; they curved across the channel in arcs that were high enough over our heads that we did not have to duck. Lights under the bridges provided further illumination to the channel below.

After we had waded at least 50 or 60 feet through the channel, it simply dumped us into the big, rectangular swimming pool that I had seen when Aaron and I had first arrived. I turned around to look at the channel and was impressed at how far we had come from the back of the house. It was hard to believe that everything both inside and outside the house was connected aquatically. It was impressive.

"Pretty neat, huh?" said Mr. Emerson as he approached me and grasped my upper arms. "Mr. Stone likes to swim laps every day. He keeps the outside part heated even in the winter. I can't imagine what his energy bills must look like, but something tells me he doesn't really care."

"Yeah, it's really cool," I agreed as I smiled up at the man.

"I think you're really cool, Davey," he replied as he reached down in the water and scooped me out of it with his right hand again on my bare bottom. He gave me a little squeeze there as he held me against his hairy frame.

"Thanks," I said uncertainly as I spread my legs to either side of his hips and grasped his arms at the elbows. The outside air was cooler than the water but still warm enough on my skin. Mr. Emerson walked me a short distance to the edge of the pool and sat me down on the tiles. With his hand grasping my waist, he waded between my legs, spreading them apart.

"You're a very attractive boy, Davey," he said as he squeezed my waist and began to rub the tops of my thighs. He was getting very amorous, and I had little doubt where this was going to lead. I knew enough about men at that point, especially the type of men who were at Mr. Stone's party. I guess you could say I was getting used to being around men who were like that. It was becoming, or already had become, my new normal.

"And this," he said as he played with the straps of my garment and ran his fingers under it, "makes you look incredibly sexy." His fingers slid under and along the straps, under the triangle swatch, and alighted on my penis. It was a soft, wet little worm as Mr. Emerson began to play with it.

I didn't say anything in response as I continued to sit on the edge of the pool. It seemed a little weird to be doing this outside, even though I didn't think I had much to worry about. Dim lights embedded around the perimeter of the pool provided a bit of illumination, but it was well after sunset now, and it was mostly dark. Even if it were possible to see anything through the trees and the distance, I didn't think there was much chance of Mr. Stone's neighbors seeing what we were doing. That was a good thing, as Mr. Emerson proceeded to slide the pouch down and off my hips.

"Lift up, Davey," he said in a near whisper. When I did so, he neatly extracted the pouch from underneath me, leaving me naked on the pool deck. Then he reached up and draped the sodden garment on my head.

"Hey!" I protested, as I pulled it away and dropped it on the pool deck to my right. But it was done playfully, and I was smiling. I knew he was only teasing me. His fingers returned to my genitals, fondling my testicles and working my shaft.

"Does this feel good, Davey?" he asked as he manipulated my still-soft little penis.

"Yes," I answered in a near-whisper of my own. I had learned the pleasures of a man's expert touch earlier in Mr. Stone's office, and I wasn't averse to experiencing it again. Mr. Emerson's fingers weren't quite as skilled as Mr. Stone's, and nor was I as perfectly relaxed as I had been in the other man's office, but it felt good nonetheless, and my penis started to erect.

"There's a good boy, Davey," said Mr. Emerson as he grasped my stiffening shaft and began to masturbate me. It felt nice. I didn't have long to enjoy his hand, however, as a scant few seconds later, he leaned over and took me in his mouth.

I used to like it a lot when Pete did that for me. Early on in our relationship, he had sucked me frequently, and I always enjoyed it. Pete's mouth brought me tingles several times – sometimes several in a row, which was very intense – but as the nature of our relationship changed, Pete eventually dropped blowjobs from his repertoire. If he ever took me in his mouth now, it was only as he was mouthing, licking, and sometimes semi-painfully chewing his way down my body in preparation for sex. I loved Pete, and I didn't mind being the one bringing him pleasure any way I could, but I did miss the blowjobs he used to give me.

Mr. Emerson's mouth felt very good on my boner, and within a few seconds I was fully erect. He kept at it, running my entire shaft between his lips, and swirling the head with his tongue. He did this for a couple of minutes, but then he did something that Pete had never done for me – he stopped licking with his tongue, and simply bobbed his head and mouth up and down on my erection very fast, all the while keeping an exquisite suction on my boy part.

It felt amazing. I placed my arms behind me to either side, leaned back, and gently flexed my hips toward him. His mouth made a "squelcha-squelcha" sound as he bobbed on my boner. I wondered if he tasted chlorine from the pool on my dick, but if he did, it didn't seem to bother him. Nor did he slow down. The "squelcha-squelcha" sounds of his sucking mouth continued apace as I began to feel the tingles ignite in my groin much sooner than they usually did.

This was better than when Pete did it. Pete's mouth had always felt good, but Mr. Emerson's pace and suction made it feel like he was inhaling my boner with every downward bob. The tingles grew and grew as the man continued his relentless, up-and-down motion. I almost wanted him to slow down to prolong the sensation, but he was a man on a mission. He was totally in control, and I could not stop the sensation from reaching a crescendo in my loins. I gasped, grunted, and sighed as I orgasmed in less than two minutes from when he first started his "squelcha-squelcha" bobs.

As Mr. Emerson detected my climax, he slowed down, sliding his lips the entire length of my shaft to the tip of my cockhead, drawing the pleasure out of me in long, wet, deep-mouth movements. He kept at this for a bit, gently reducing the suction over time, before finally lifting his head up from my groin. To my profound disappointment, there was no round two. The most amazing blowjob I had ever received was over.

"I think somebody really liked that, didn't he?"

How could I deny it? Not that I even wanted to.

"Yes," I replied, my voice sounding a little spent even to me. But I wasn't tired. I was pleasantly content. The man's blowjob had been quick and very intense.

"I'm told I'm pretty good at it," said Mr. Emerson with a twinkle in his eyes. "You're not the first boy I've gone down on."

I had already figured that one out for myself. Nobody could do what the man had just done to me without practice. He must have practiced on Mikey all the time.

"Now, come here, Davey – come to Papa," he said as he plucked me from the pool deck with his hands around my waist and pressed my just-sucked, still-hard penis to his abdomen. My legs remained parted, one to either side of his hips. I placed my hands on his shoulders as he swished me through the water away from the edge of the pool.

I felt his right hand leave my waist as he reached under the water and steered what I'm sure was his erection into my cleft. His fingers felt for my hole as he lowered me slightly and nestled his cockhead against my depression, seating it there. It seemed like he was preparing to enter me like that, as we stood in the water with me clinging to him like a baby monkey.

I was right. With a simultaneous upward jab of his hips and a sharp, downward pull on my hips, Mr. Emerson suddenly impaled me with his cock, abruptly sending at least several inches directly into my rectum. It hurt, and I gasped aloud, clenching at his shoulders with my fingers.

"Ow! Owww!" I gasped. "It hu — "

I was going to beg him to take it out, but just as I was trying to speak, Mr. Emerson's hand suddenly left my hip and went to the back of my head as his mouth covered mine, stealing the words from me as he engulfed me in a full-on, wet kiss. I struggled for a moment, trying to free my mouth once again, but his hand held me firmly and I gave up trying to fight him. I knew the pain was temporary and would subside soon enough. It always did.

We kissed for a bit as Mr. Emerson held me in the water impaled on his erection. He didn't begin thrusting right away; he seemed content to hold me in his arms and dine on my face as he slowly and aimlessly walked around in the water with me attached to his hips. Our tongues jousted and played as I tried to show the man that I was a people person. Meanwhile, the pain from his sudden penetration began to lessen as my sphincter adjusted to his presence.

I thought at first that he was wading aimlessly, but as we continued to kiss, it became clear that Mr. Emerson was making his way toward the deeper part of the pool. The pool had no diving well – it didn't even have a diving board that I had seen – but it did begin to deepen the farther you moved away from the house. It also grew darker, as the extra illumination from the mansion's windows lessened with distance.

The water climbed higher and higher up our connected torsos as Mr. Emerson continue to walk deeper into the pool. He finally reached a point when the water was at approximately the level of his nipples. There he stopped, braced himself, and while still holding my head and kissing me, he bent his knees and lowered himself a few inches in the water, before jumping up.

His jumping motion had the effect of ramming his cock even deeper into my rectum. I grunted in surprise as he continued to kiss me and cradle the back of my head. He landed on the bottom and proceeded to jump again. He repeated this several times, bouncing like a pogo stick, but I don't think it was working out the way he had planned. While I could feel his cock moving in and out of me, for the most part, my body was rising and falling in concert with his, and I don't think he was getting the penetration or the sensation that he was looking for.

He soon fixed that. Ending our kiss, he reached under my arms and grasped my shoulders in his palms. Now he could pull down on me as he jumped, impaling me on his cock as we undulated together in water. That is exactly what he proceeded to do. By simultaneously jumping and pulling down on my shoulders, he forced his cock deep inside me with each little jump. His cock partially withdrew as we landed, then penetrated again as he jumped up.

I don't mean to suggest he was jumping up and down like a basketball player; it was more of a gentle motion than that. Each jump was only a few inches, and the depth of the water absorbed some of the force as we bounced up and down. Most of the in-and-out motion of his cock was driven by his thrusting hips as we bounced and splashed in the water, jumping around and fucking at the same time.

By now, my butt was used to the size of his cock, but I was about to learn an important lesson about anal sex that I hadn't known before: Water makes for a terrible lubricant. His cock was grinding against my opening, and it didn't take long before his cock felt like sandpaper and my anus started to burn and sting with every grunting, jumping thrust that he made.

I endured it for as long as I could, but the pain grew more and more intense as he continued to bounce me up and down in the water.

"Mr. Emerson," I gasped as I held onto his shoulders for dear life. "Do you have – ugh – any of the slippery – ugh stuff?"

"You mean … " he said, followed by a grunt of effort, "lube?"

"Yes," I replied. I was wincing, and my voice was pain-filled. "It's really start – ugh – starting to – ugh – hurt."

In truth, it wasn't just starting to hurt, it did hurt. My entrance felt like it was being sanded – almost as if the water were working as an anti-lubricant of some sort. It was really burning. I was surprised how much it hurt considering that we were under water. Pete had fucked me to sleep in a bathtub once and it hadn't hurt at all, but he had used lube, and apparently that had made all the difference. I made a mental note that if I ever had aquatic sex again, I was going to insist on using lube.

Mr. Emerson grunted unhappily as he jumped and thrust a couple more times, then stopped, his cock still buried deep in my rectum.

"I didn't bring any lube, Davey," he whispered in my ear as he began to wade back toward the shallow end of the pool. "But I'm really close, babe – super close. You feel so good. Can you hold on for just a little longer for me? This is really nice, isn't it? Here in the pool? Just you and me? I'll be done soon, babe, I promise. Just give me another minute to get off, okay?"

I didn't want to hold out for him, and I didn't want to give him another minute. Any interest I might have had from doing the act in the pool was subsumed by the fact that my anus was abraded and stinging. It hurt even now, with him still inside me, and all we were doing was walking.

"I can go back inside and get some," I replied in an encouraging voice. "I'll come right back – I promise." I was trying my level best to be accommodating.

"But that'll ruin the mood, sweetheart, don't you think?" asked the man as he continued to wade back toward the channel opening with his cock still inside me. "The water keeps everything nice and wet down there, doesn't it? Doesn't it feel good? I usually just use spit with Mikey, and he never complains."

I didn't want to be a complainer. I wasn't sure where Mr. Emerson fit in the grand scheme of things – Aaron hadn't said anything about him one way or the other, although it seemed like they knew each other – but for all I knew, he was another Important Person I wouldn't want to offend during this seemingly all-important Chicago trip I was on. But … my butthole hurt. It stung. I wanted to dismount from Mr. Emerson's cock and find some of that cream that Pete sometimes used with me after he got a little carried away. I didn't know about Mikey. Maybe he had a Butthole of Steel to go with his Superman Underoos, but I certainly didn't.

As it turned out, Mr. Emerson didn't really care what I thought. He waded us over to the side of pool, pulled out, and turned me around 180 degrees to face the pool edge.

"Hold onto the wall, Davey," he said as he held me up under my tummy. "Pretend you're going to practice your kicking."

I reached out for the wall with both hands as Mr. Emerson walked in between my spread thighs. My legs were way down in the water, and I couldn't have practiced my kicking that way if my life depended on it. Then again, I knew full well that I wasn't there for a swim lesson.

"I'll get some spit down there, Davey," he said. "It'll be fine, you'll see. I'm almost done."

From behind me, I heard the man spitting into his palm, but who was he kidding? My hips were two feet underwater, and the saliva would wash off his hand before it got halfway to my butt hole! The man had spit on his hand for show, and I knew it. He must have thought I was stupid. He probably thought that I was Mikey's age and would believe anything that he told me.

But I didn't say anything. I took the man at his word that he was almost done and kept quiet as he wedged himself between my spread thighs and maneuvered his cockhead into position against my hole once again. I knew it was going to hurt. I clenched my butt cheeks together momentarily as he grasped a knee in each hand and prepared to enter me once again.

I wished that I didn't have to do this. I still wasn't a huge fan of anal sex to begin with, but it was Pete's favorite way to do it, and I had gotten used to it. The difference was Pete always used lube, but even then, the act wasn't exactly pain-free for me. This was going to be pain-filled, and I knew it.

I was right – his re-entry hurt like blazes and brought tears to my eyes. He had terrible trouble penetrating me. I'm not sure whether that was because I was nervous, or because he didn't seat his cockhead the right way – or maybe it was because he wasn't using any lube — but as he began to push against my opening once again, the pain was unimaginable. I grunted unhappily as I clutched the pool edge in a death grip. Mr. Emerson continued to push, but his penis still wouldn't go in. Grasping my hips for leverage, he pushed once more and finally managed to cram his cock into my bottom.

I almost passed out from the pain. I don't think I had ever felt anything so painful before in my entire life, and that included the punishment beatings with the belt that I had received from Pete. Those hurt; this was agony. Tears again wet my eyes as I tried to pull myself out of the pool and away from the pain.

"Oh, it hurts," I sobbed. "It hurts, it hurts!" I was trembling with the pain. It felt like he had rammed the fat end of a baseball bat in my butt. "Please take out, please take it out," I begged.

"Shhh, you're okay," said Mr. Emerson in a soothing voice – at least, in a voice he intended to be soothing. I wasn't soothed, not in the least. My butthole was on fire, and that was before he resumed thrusting into me, which he soon did.

"It huuurts," I said in a tremulous voice as Mr. Emerson began to fuck me once again. I couldn't believe the pain. My anus was so sore it felt like I was being sawed in half.

"We'll use … lube tonight, don't you … worry," said the man as he grunted and humped my butt with sharp, abrupt thrusts. "But you should … learn to … like it this way, Davey. It feels so much … nicer."

I wasn't ever going to learn to like it this way. It hurt way, way too much. I just wanted to end. I didn't know how Mikey could endure it without lube. He was a just a small kid with a little, eight-year-old butt. Didn't it hurt him, too? I couldn't imagine that spit alone would keep it from hurting. Water certainly didn't – I knew that now.

The only saving grace of my ordeal was that Mr. Emerson was true to his word, and it didn't take him more than a minute and a half of resumed fucking before he thrust deep and nutted inside me. I had never been so relieved in my entire life as when he finished. When he pulled out that last time, his cum ironically had made everything nice and slippery, and his withdrawal was as smooth as glass. It was almost as if it had never really happened – except for stinging pain at my entrance, which served as an unpleasant reminder that it very much, in fact, had.

"See, that wasn't so bad, Davey," declared Mr. Emerson matter-of-factly as he released my hips and let me stand up in the water. I wanted to retort that of course it wasn't so bad for him, but Bad Davey for once kept his mouth shut, and I didn't say what I wanted to say in response to him. For better or for worse, I knew that I was slated to spend the night with the man, and I had a pretty good inkling what would happen with Aaron and Pete if I got a bad report from him. I was determined not to get a bad report. I had come this far, and I didn't intend to blow it – no pun intended.

"Shall we go back inside?" he asked me as he placed a hand on my shoulder and directed me toward the channel. "It's probably not too late for some video games if you still want to play. You can meet me upstairs in a half hour or so."

It had better not be too late to play! Mr. Emerson was going to die in his sleep at my hands if he had ruined my chance to play Space Invaders. I glanced over at the western sky to see the last vestiges of sunset fading into darkness through the trees. I knew it had to be after 10 p.m., which was way past my bedtime back home – or had been, anyway, before my mother went off the deep end and had stopped caring. Somehow, however, I didn't think normal bedtimes applied for the kids at Mr. Stone's party, and if that were indeed the case, I was going to play some damn Space Invaders, and nobody was going to stop me.

As it turned out, I never did get to play Space Invaders. Mr. Emerson and I were swim-wading halfway through the channel back to the house before I realized that I had left my pouch on the pool deck. He went on ahead as I went back for the garment, which looked as sad and tiny as it could be, lying crumpled and forgotten by the side of the pool. I didn't bother to put it back on as I waded back to and through the channel, then under the Plexiglas shield and back into the brightness of Mr. Stone's enormous house.

I had just climbed out of the pool near the boulders when a strong hand grabbed my upper arm, squeezing hard and startling me. It was Aaron, and he did not look happy.

"Where the hell have you been?" he hissed, as he squeezed and shook my upper arm painfully. He looked very angry. Not just normal angry, but the white-hot, I'm-going-to-kill-you variety.

My eyes went wide with fright. I wasn't good with anger. I didn't react well to it. I didn't like to be dressed down and yelled at. I especially didn't like the dangerous look in Aaron's eyes. The man scared me when he got like this. Pete did, too. In fact, Pete's anger was worse, but Aaron Richter was no slouch in the anger department.

"I- I- all — ," I started to say, stammering a mile a minute. "Swimming," I managed to say. "I was swimming."

It didn't help. Aaron's mouth contorted into a menacing snarl as he squeezed and shook my arm again.

"You do not disappear like that – ever!" he spat at me. "Do you understand me?" He was squeezing my arm so hard that my eyes glazed with tears. I bent at the waist against the pain.

"Y-yes," I gasped. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Nobody knew where you were!" Aaron continued in an angry voice. "You just disappeared without telling a soul where you were going. You had me looking for you everywhere!" he said with an especially savage squeeze to my upper arm. "I am very angry with you right now!"

"Owwwww," I whimpered as it felt like Aaron was crushing my arm in a vise. The pain in my voice caused him to ease his grip somewhat, but only slightly. I continued to stand there, naked and dripping wet, as he dressed me down.

"I do not understand what gets into you!" he hissed at me. "You cannot just disappear like that and 'go for a swim,'" he said, reciting the last four words in a derisive, mocking tone. "I thought you'd left," he continued. "I literally thought you had taken off and left the party, doing whatever damn thing came into your head, wandering the streets out there somewhere, or running away like a chicken shit. Instead, you were 'swimming,'" he added with a sneer.

"Did you swim outside?" he demanded. "Because I checked the pool – twice – and I didn't see you. I even checked the bottom to see if you had drowned, but you weren't there." He was squeezing my arm again like he was trying to wrench it off.

"Owwww," I whimpered and winced with pain. I was sobbing now. "Mr. Emerson … I- we–"

"What about Mr. Emerson?" Aaron demanded. "Don't you dare lie to me, Davey," he said with a vicious squeeze to my upper arm that threatened to buckle my knees. "I saw him by the bar not five minutes ago, so don't give me any bullshit about him."

"Please … Aaron, you're really hurting me," I gasped. He loosened his grip on my arm once again, but not by much. I was trying to speak, trying to get the words out, but Aaron was killing my arm and interrupting me every few seconds, making it very difficult for me to communicate.

"He- we- he said- he said he wanted t- to swim outside," I stammered. "Please, Aaron," I sobbed with pain. "I'm not lying."

Aaron laid off my arm for a moment as he eyed me suspiciously. "You were with him the entire time?" he asked me skeptically.

"Yes … yes," I gasped. I was nearly hyperventilating. At that moment, a couple of the older boys arrived at the boulders, apparently to swim, and saw the scene playing out between Aaron and me. Aaron saw them too, so he pulled me away by my sore arm in the direction of the bathroom, presumably out of earshot.

He looked contemplative, as if he were trying to remember where and when he had last seen Mr. Emerson while he had been looking for me.

"You were swimming outside with Mr. Emerson the entire time?" he asked in softer voice. "Don't lie to me, Davey."

"Yes, Aaron – I swear."

"Then why did I see him not even five minutes ago nowhere near the pool?"

"I–" I started to explain, before cutting myself off. It was better to show him. I held up my left hand – the one attached to the arm that Aaron wasn't brutalizing – and showed him my pouch. "I forgot my pouch and I had to go back for it," I said, with huge sobs shaking my body. I was almost hyperventilating with trauma.

Aaron stared at the pouch, then at me, as if assessing a story that he could not quite bring himself to believe.

"So, you went back outside alone?" he said, in a tone that suggested he was looking for something else to be angry with me about. "Why were you swimming with Mr. Emerson in the first place?"

"I did- I- I didn't w-want to leave it," I sobbed. "He said- he said I was being with him t-tonight."

With that, suddenly everything changed. Aaron let go of my arm. His expression softened and his anger seemed to slip away. He drew me in with his right arm and hugged my sobbing, dripping frame to his bathrobe.

"Okay, alright," he said in a soothing, friendlier tone. "Okay, I think I get it, Davey. I didn't know that part. I didn't know that he told you that, okay? Are you going to be alright? I was worried about you, kiddo. You just disappeared on me, right? I didn't know where you were, that's all. I was worried you had drowned.

I was still wet and felt cold. I was shivering as Aaron drew me close and rubbed my back. I didn't speak. I couldn't. Aaron had just traumatized me. I had managed to explain what had happened – barely – but the damage was done. I was a basket case. I was shaking and my breathing was all funny.

"Where's your robe, Davey," asked Aaron very gently. I think he finally could see how upset I was.

"It- it's- I left it over- over there," I said as I pointed back in the direction of the boulders.

"Was that yours?" asked Aaron. "I thought it might be, but I didn't see you in the pool. Stay right here," he said as he tapped my shoulders with his hands, then strode off quickly to retrieve my robe. When he returned, he draped it over my shivering shoulders and helped me to get my arms through the openings.

"It's okay, Davey," he said as he rubbed my back and neck with his right hand. "I'm not mad at you, okay? I was just worried. You had me very worried. I was looking all over for you."

Despite my agitated state, I didn't really think Aaron had been all that worried about me. On the other hand, I had no doubt that he had been worried that I had done something to screw up the party and the business opportunity – which seemed to be the only thing he cared about. Maybe he really had been worried that I had drowned in the pool, but that just went to show how little he really knew about me. I was a good swimmer, and I wasn't about to drown in a pool you could stand up in. Aaron didn't know anything about me, and unlike Pete, I don't think he really gave much of a damn about me, either. It was very hard for me to trust him, but he was my ride home.

"Are you okay?" he asked me in an upbeat tone of voice, as if everything were fine now, and I could just go back to being happy with the flip of a switch.

My crying had stopped, but I didn't trust myself to speak. I was fighting to regain control of myself so I wouldn't let what had just happened to cause me to spiral out of control. The truth was, I wanted to be alone for a few minutes, even if it were just in the privacy of a bathroom stall, but I knew that Aaron wasn't going to let me out of his sight.

"I'm okay," I said in a soft, subdued voice.

"Good boy," said Aaron in an artificially enthusiastic tone. The man was becoming transparent to me. He was very manipulative, and when he was angry, his true intentions showed through clear as day. Now that he had gotten me upset by yelling at me, he was trying to be all friendly and kind, but it wasn't who he really was. He was probably still angry with me for something or would be soon enough.

With his hand still draped reassuringly across my shoulders, we started to walk back in the direction of the punch table and the Space Invaders consoles. The crowd had thinned somewhat in the time I had been away. I saw only about half the boys I had seen before, plus the two teenagers who were now skinny dipping in the grotto. Some of the men were missing, too. I saw no sign of Mr. Emerson, but I did see Mr. Campise talking to the broad-shouldered, darker-skinned man who had been a latecomer to the party. Messrs. Tal and Stone were nowhere to be seen.

"Why are you walking funny?" Aaron asked me as he slowed his gait and peered down to look at the lower half of my body.

"My butt hurts," I told him, frankly.

"Why does your butt hurt?"

I proceeded to tell Aaron what had happened in the pool with Mr. Emerson. As I explained in detail why my butt hurt and was walking funny, Aaron rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Let me see," he said as he went down on one knee, grasped my hips, and turned me around. Lifting my bathrobe up, he reached in with both hands and separated my butt cheeks with his thumbs. It hurt when he did that.

"Spread your legs apart," he instructed, which I did. He peered in, spreading my cheeks some more. I felt like a toddler having his diaper inspected to see if he needed a change, but when I looked up and around at the others in the room, nobody seemed to be paying the slightest bit of attention to us.

"Jesus Christ, Davey," said Aaron as he unhanded my butt cheeks and stood up. "I gave you some lube earlier," he said as he looked down at me with grim expression and shook his head. "Why didn't you use it?"

"I didn't ha–" I started to say.

"You lost it, didn't you?" he interrupted. "You left it somewhere and you don't know where it is."

I knew where it was. I had given it to Mr. Tal to use in the theater, and when he was done with it, he had simply pitched the tube and the cap onto the floor. I had forgotten to retrieve them before we left. I hadn't even known that I was supposed to do that, since Aaron had only given it to me because, he said, Mr. Tal was "big" down there. He hadn't told me to carry it around everywhere and keep it with me always. How was I supposed to know that if he didn't tell me?

"It's in the theater," I answered unhappily, but even as I spoke, I felt that same sense of unbelonging and unworthiness wash over me once again. I didn't know anything. I was supposed to know things, but I didn't, and apparently, I was too stupid to figure them out on my own. I didn't know anything about parties, and I didn't feel comfortable at them. I didn't know how I was supposed to act or what I was supposed to say. I felt like I was bluffing my way through the party, making one dumb mistake after another, and driving Aaron to the brink of insanity with my stupidity and immaturity.

The man had just told me that he thought I had run away. That meant that he literally thought that I had left the party, left Mr. Stone's mansion, and had been out wandering the streets of Godknowswhere, Chicago on my own. Aaron thought of me as a little baby who couldn't be trusted to behave or do simple things. I was almost 12 years old, and yet, to him, I didn't know anything – and maybe I didn't. I didn't know not to drink mouthwash or that I was supposed to carry lube around with me in a swimming pool. And was lube just for babies? Mikey didn't need lube, and he was only eight. I didn't know the answer to that, either.

But I didn't say anything to Aaron, not this time. I didn't want a repeat of the scene from earlier, and I knew Aaron didn't want that, either. I didn't beg him to leave the party. I knew how that would go over if I tried, and part of me wanted to stick it out at the party, anyway. I had come so far already. Things had gone very well so far with Mr. Stone and maybe even with Mr. Tal – even if it felt like that was due more to luck more than to anything else. I had one night to go, at least some of which I hoped to spend sleeping because I was already quite tired. I knew that if I could get through tonight, I could at least hold my head up high when I next saw Pete. If I next saw Pete — there was always that to worry about.

"Oh, Davey," sighed Aaron as he looked down at me and shook his head. "Come on – let's go downstairs and see what we can find."

I followed Aaron down the hall to the elevator. Mr. Stone's door was closed tight, and I wondered what might be going on in there in private. Of all the adults I had met at the party, I liked Mr. Stone the most. If his interest in baseball and in me was feigned, he was a darn good actor. He had a way about him that was very disarming and likeable. I knew he was important and rich – after all, he owned the most amazing house I had ever seen, complete with an elevator, a theater, an indoor-outdoor pool, a dungeon, and two Space Invaders machines – but to me, he just seemed like a normal person. Not to mention that he had set Pete and me up with tickets to go to a Cubs game, which was one of the highlights of my life to this point.

When we reached the mansion's lower level, Aaron took me straight down the hall into the combination locker room and bathroom and opened the cabinet. He perused the shelves for a moment, then extracted a small box of something and a small tube of something else.

"Take your robe off and lie on your stomach on that bench," he instructed. "Spread your legs for me."

I did as I was told, dropped the robe, and lowered myself onto the wooden bench. It was cold against my skin and immediately felt sticky from the lacquer. I let my legs dangle off to the sides, which had the effect of spreading my butt cheeks apart and squishing my penis into the bench. It couldn't be helped. I thought I would survive the squished penis, especially since I didn't have a boner.

Aaron approached and sat down on the end of the bench closest to my butt.

"This may sting a little bit – I'm not sure," he said, as he touched his fingers to my butthole. They were covered with a cream of some kind that was cold against my skin. I braced for it to sting, but it didn't seem to. The only thing I felt was the soreness from where Mr. Emerson had chafed me. If anything, the cream felt cool and good as Aaron rubbed it in and around my hole.

After a few moments, he withdrew his hand and recapped the container.

"This next one should feel really good, Davey," he said as he opened the tube. He deployed some to the fingers of his right hand, brought his hand between my legs, and began to finger it around and slightly in my hole. "It has aloe in it, so it shouldn't sting at all, okay?"

"Okay," I replied, as I began to relax a little bit, despite the discomfort of the hard, wooden bench. I folded my arms in front of me and placed my forehead on them, resting my head.

"Don't you dare fall asleep on me, David Pierce," warned Arron in a semi-joking tone as he gently worked the aloe cream into my anus. "You have work to do."

"I know," I replied wearily. I always had somewhere to go, somebody to meet, something to do, and somebody to "thank." What I really wanted to do was place Space Invaders.

"I tried to get you in with Mr. Tal tonight, but he's got something else going on. My second choice was Mr. Drucker, but he's with Gregory."

I lifted my head. I didn't know who either of those people were. "Who's Gregory?"

"He's the kid with the longer brown hair and the birthmark on his arm. I'm sure you saw him earlier."

"Is he one of the older boys?"

"I think he's 14 now," Aaron replied. "At this party, yeah, I guess he's one of the older boys here."

"I don't really know any of their names," I said as Aaron continued to massage the aloe cream into my butt.

"You should get to know them, Davey," admonished Aaron. "You may be working with them sooner rather than later."

"What do you mean, work–" I started to say, when the sound of ungodly, shrieking, high-pitched scream emanated from down the hall.

I lifted my head up and turned to look at Aaron. "What was that?" I asked him in a frightened voice as I turned white as a ghost. I watched, wide-eyed, as Aaron simply wiped his fingers on the outside of his robe and screwed the cap back on the tube as if nothing were amiss.

"It's noth–" he started to say as a second, blood-curdling scream again pierced the stillness of the mansion's lower level.

It wasn't nothing. It was another scream, and whoever was making them sounded terrified and in pain. Scared and worried, I slid my left leg across and stood up from the bench. I moved toward the door, hoping to learn what was going on but dreading it at the same time. Just as I reached the door, Aaron grabbed my arm.

"Stay right here," he commanded. "It's nothing to worry about, Davey, I promise. Just get your robe on and we'll go back upstairs."

I stood frozen for a moment like a deer in the headlights. Just as I was contemplating my next move, two more screams resonated down the hall in quick succession. My blood ran cold in my veins.

"Aaron," I said in desperation as I tried to tug myself free.

"I said just ignore it, Davey," he replied, as he refused to let go of my arm. "Get your robe on now, and we'll go."

The sound of a loud, deeper, angry, bellowing voice now echoed down the hall. The sounds were coming from the end of the hall near the elevator. Another high-pitched scream followed, then another, and then there was silence. Everything went deathly still.

"Aaron, what is that?" I asked in a frightened voice as I picked up my robe and put my hand through the arm hole. "What's happening?" I was so scared my lower lip was quivering, making the words hard to form.

"Nothing you need to worry about," said Aaron as he walked to the cabinet and replaced the creams on the shelf. He kept an eye on me the entire time, as if he suspected I might make a run for the door.

"What is it, though?" I persisted, worrying even if I wasn't supposed to.

"Davey, that's enough," Aaron replied in a not-to-be-messed with tone. "Whatever you think you heard is just playing around, alright? It's one hundred percent pretend and nothing you need to worry about."

Pretend? It wasn't pretend. The screams I heard were real, and so was the angry voice that followed them. I was an actor, and I could tell fake from real. I had just done it earlier today when I had watched the movie with Mr. Tal.

I finished getting into my robe and cinched the sash around my waist, but I felt very unsettled and scared, and I think the fear showed on my face.

"Davey, look," said Aaron. "I know what you're thinking, but it's not what you're thinking. It's nothing to worry about. Do you know the games you play with Pete? The ones you told Mr. Tal about? It's like that, only more grown-up. It's not real. It's just a game, and it's nothing to worry about, trust me."

Trust him? By now I didn't trust Aaron as far as I could throw him. He hadn't earned my trust like Pete had, and he likely never would. But the screaming and yelling had stopped for now, and I was left with only Aaron's words to contemplate. I wanted to believe that what he said was true. Even if I didn't trust the man, that didn't mean that he lied to me all the time, and I really wanted to believe him on this one. Aaron was more of a manipulator than a liar. It was mostly the stuff he didn't tell me that was the problem.

"Okay," I said in a careful, neutral voice. My heart was still beating like a drum in my chest, but the scary noises had stopped, and I was starting to calm down.

"Good boy," said Aaron as he gave me a smile and placed his arm around my shoulders once more. He flipped off the lights and we proceeded into the hall together.

We were about halfway back to the elevator when the door to the D Room opened and the darker-skinned man I had seen earlier stepped into the hall. He was broad-chested and muscular, and was wearing some type of leather harness apparatus with metal buckles across his chest. For pants, he had on a pair of black leather motorcycle chaps, which were open in the front for all the world to see. His penis stuck out from his dark, hairy groin at a semi-erect angle, and it bobbed as he began to stride toward us down the hall. He was wearing heavy, black, combat-type boots that clumped as he walked. As we approached in the hall, I saw that he sported a full, bushy, Santa Claus-style beard and mustache – only his facial hair was jet black in color instead of white or gray.

"Mr. Richter," he said with a smile as he approached.

"Hello, Mr. Singh," replied Aaron as he offered his hand. The men shook.

"Will you be joining us later?" the man asked in a heavily accented voice.

"I'm not sure – I have to get some things situated first," said Aaron as he gave my left shoulder a little squeeze. "It's not really my scene."

"Well, do come, if you can make it," the man said as he stole a glance my way and graced me with an indulgent smile. "We have three tonight, so I expect we will go late. We've only just begun with the first."

"Three?" repeated Aaron. He sounded either surprised or impressed as he squeezed my shoulder once more. I had no idea what the number related to.

"Southsiders, in the flower of their youth," said the man in his peculiar accent. "Courtesy of Mr. Tal." The man gazed at me once again. "And who might this young man be?"

"This is Davey – Davey Pierce," said Aaron a bit reluctantly. "Davey, this is Mr. Singh."

I offered my hand, and we shook. I know it probably should have seemed weird to shake hands with a man dressed in leather straps and buckles whose penis was completely exposed and semi-hard, but I was starting to get used to such things. Our shake was only perfunctory, however, and as soon as it was over, Mr. Singh directed his attention fully back to Aaron.

"Well, do come," he said. "Mr. Tal promises a most exciting … undertaking this evening."

"I'll try to make some of it," replied Aaron as the men waved off and we proceeded toward the elevator.

"Oh, Mr. Richter," the man called from behind us. Aaron and I stopped and turned.

"The isopropyl alcohol – it is in the cabinet?"

"It was there ten minutes ago," replied Aaron. "Mr. Tal asked you for it, didn't he?"

"He did," confirmed Mr. Singh. "But I have also seen it work. It is … a mutual indulgence, shall we say, serving both utilitarian and … prurient interests."

"More so the prurient, I would imagine," said Aaron.

"Perhaps you are right," said Mr. Singh with a smile as he turned and continued down the hall.

"What did that mean?" I asked Aaron as soon as Mr. Singh was out of earshot. I was full of curiosity. "What's purient?"

"It just means erotic, something like that."

I nodded, but I wasn't finished. "Why was he wearing that leather stuff?"

"No more questions, Davey," said Aaron with an air of finality to his words.

"Actually, though, I have one for you," he added, changing the subject. "Who told you that you were with Mr. Emerson tonight?"

"He did," I replied.

"Did he, now. Tell me exactly what he said."

"He said, um, well, he asked if you had told me who I was staying with, and I said no, and he said I could stay with him."

"And you said yes?" Aaron asked as he entered the elevator together.

"He didn't- he didn't ask me that."

"Did he ask you, or tell you?"

"I think he- … I'm not sure," I said uncertainly.

"How can you not be sure?" Aaron asked me as the elevator began to move.

"Because I don't remember exactly what he said," I replied defensively.

"What if I had arranged for you to spend the night with someone else? Like Mr. Stone?"

"Mikey's staying with Mr. Stone tonight," I answered.

"I know that Davey," Aaron replied in an exasperated tone, "but I'm asking you to think about what would have happened if I had arranged for you to stay with someone else, and you had already decided on your own that you were staying with Mr. Emerson."

The elevator came to a stop and paused before the door opened to let us off. As it did so, I contemplated what Aaron had asked me. He didn't seem terribly angry with me, but I saw his point. I should have told Mr. Emerson that I had to ask Aaron. That made sense to me now, but at the time, I didn't know how all of that worked. I didn't even know that Aaron was trying to set me up with someone. It was another one of those things that I was supposed to know or figure out on my own, but once again I had been too stupid to see.

"I'm sorry," I said sheepishly as we stepped from the elevator. "I asked him if he asked you," I added in my defense.

"And what did he say?"

"He said- he said I could tell you later."

"Is that how it works, Davey?" Aaron asked in a sarcastic tone. "You decide things and tell me – or maybe Pete – what you've decided? Is that how it works? Is that how it works at home with your mother?"

"Aaron, I didn't- he said I was staying with him," I tried to explain. "You never said anything about it."

Aaron stopped, turned, and grabbed my bathrobe at the chest in both hands. He pulled me toward him and bent down at the same time so that we were face to face.

"You don't make decisions like that on your own, Davey," he said in a menacing tone. "If Pete's here with you, he makes them, and if I'm here with you, I make them. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Aaron," I said in wide-eyed fear.

"Mr. Emerson had no business doing what he did without talking to me," said Aaron. "But it just so happens that you might have ended up with him anyway because my plans for you fell through. So, you're going to spend the night with Mr. Emerson tonight, but the next time, you check with me. You don't make decisions like that on your own. If someone like Mr. Emerson asks you that again, you say, 'I'm sorry, Mr. Emerson, but I have to check with Mr. Richter.' Go ahead – say it."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Emerson, but I have to check with Mr. Richter," I repeated. I felt like a toddler.

"Good," said Aaron as he unhanded my bathrobe and smoothed the flaps back into place. "Because if it happens again, Davey, you're going to piss me off. Is that clear?"

I swear the word "crystal" shot into my mind uninvited, but there was no way on God's green earth I was going to make the mistake of saying that again. I knew that I needed to ban that word from my vocabulary if I wanted to live to see my 12^th birthday.

"I understand," I said respectfully.

"Good," said Aaron. "Now, I'm going to tell you something and I don't want you to repeat it to anyone, understand?"

"Yes, Aaron."

"Randy Emerson is just a bit player in all of this," he told me. "He's friends with Mr. Stone, and that's about it. He's not going to get you any work, and he's not going to open any or certainly not many doors for you. On the other hand, he may put in a good word for you with Mr. Stone, and that's the angle we're going to play tonight. We're also going to play the 'Davey does exactly what he's told' angle. Which means that when Mr. Emerson tells you to do something, you do it. Am I clear?"

I paused for just a moment before answering. Part of me didn't want to say yes, but Aaron's question was another one of those where there was only one correct answer.

"Yes, Aaron," I dutifully responded.

"Don't be so glum about it, Davey," Aaron chastised me. "You already were up to half this stuff with Pete before I even met you, so don't play the put-upon card with me. In this business, versatility is the name of the game, so this will be good practice for you. You already know how to please a man. We worked on some things back at the hotel, and about the only other thing you hadn't already done was watersports – pee play – but you did that with Mr. Tal. So just stop with the attitude, okay?"

I just couldn't win. I didn't have an attitude. I hadn't said anything to Aaron that possibly could be construed as me having an attitude, but whatever delay in responding I had made, or less-than-enthusiastic response I had given, he had picked up on and immediately ruled against me. I wasn't happy about that, but I decided to double down on being polite and try not to antagonize the man any more than I already had.

"I won't blow it, I promise," I said earnestly. "You don't have to worry."

"Good," said Aaron in a friendlier tone. "Do you know what room you're in?"

"The daily room?"

Aaron nodded. "Okay, the Daley Room's on the third floor. I'll take you up. Do you have any questions?"

So much for Space Invaders. The one thing I had wanted to do at the party more than anything else was now lost to me. But I did have a question.

"What does versatile mean?"

Aaron chuckled. "Versatile – versatility – means you do a lot of different things well. In your case, it means that you don't have any limitations on what you're willing to do in the bedroom."

I nodded, but I still wasn't entirely sure I understood what he meant. "You mean sex things?"

"Yup, I mean sex things. You do all of them, which makes you versatile. Think of a Swiss Army knife. You're like a Swiss Army knife of sex, which makes you a very valuable commodity in our industry."

I wasn't sure what a valuable commodity was, but I wasn't about to ask Aaron for another definition. One new word per day was enough for me. Now I knew that I was versatile. I hadn't thought of myself that way, but I guessed that it was true. I wasn't sure it was something to be proud of. I didn't like to do some of the things I did.

"Shit, we never got your lube, dammit," exclaimed Aaron. He glanced at his watch. "Oh, come on. Let's just get you up there."

Chapter 14

Eventually, we arrived on the third floor outside a closed door adjacent to a mahogany plaque with the words "Daley Room" on it in raised brass letters. The door was made of a dark-stained wood, and it was taller than a normal door. We had passed by many such doors on our walk down the hallway from the spiral staircase that took us to the third floor of Mr. Stone's mansion.

I had never seen so many doors, so many rooms, or so much opulence. I hadn't yet been on the second floor, but if there were a like number of rooms on that level, I would guess that there were at least 20 separate rooms on the first three floors of the house combined, and that didn't include the basement level. Most of the doors on the third floor were closed, but not all. I saw an inordinate number of bathrooms–Aaron hadn't been kidding when he told me that the house was littered with them. There were other doors with name plates, and others without. I saw the "Perlman Room," the "Pereira Room," and the "Pabst Room" all on the third floor. Together, they made the "Daley Room" seem alliteratively out of place.

"All right, listen to me," said Aaron as we came to a stop before the door. He turned me to face him with his hands on my shoulders. "This is important, Davey. Final instructions, and then I'm going to leave you to it, okay?"

I nodded as I looked up at Aaron. His expression was serious. Down the hall, I heard a toilet flush. I couldn't be sure which of the many bathrooms the sound came from.

"I'll be right downstairs on the second floor, okay?" Aaron continued. "There's nothing to be worried about. Your job is to stay up here–no leaving, no wandering, no disappearing. You take good care of Mr. Emerson tonight, and I'll see you in the morning. We're not in any hurry to get back, so if you want to sleep in, that's okay. You may be tired. Don't feel like you need to rush–just come down when you're ready. Breakfast will be waiting for you. Actually, it's more like a brunch. Mr. Stone always puts on a nice spread, and it'll be there regardless of what time you get up. Got it?"

I nodded up at Aaron once again. "Got it," I said softly.

"Good boy. Now, be sure to thank Mr. Emerson before you leave. Like I said, he's friends with Mr. Stone, and this will be good practice for you. I want you to take good care of him. I want to hear a good report, okay?" He waited for me to nod again before continuing.

"No shenanigans, Davey," Aaron warned. "You've done very well today, and I'm impressed. Pete's going to be super pleased when he hears how well you did. When we're done with breakfast and it's time to say good-bye to Mr. Stone, I'm going to call him and tell him what a good boy you've been. You want me to make that call, right?"

I really did. I really, really did want Aaron to make that call. It seemed like so long since I had last seen Pete, even if it had been only a little more than 24 hours ago. I missed my friend, and I wanted to see him again and take the opportunity to apologize to him. I also wanted to thank him for doing so much for me. I'd thanked a lot of other people for a lot of different things, but I knew that I hadn't been very good at thanking Pete, and he had done more for me than anyone else.

My eyes nearly misted over with longing as I nodded up at Aaron. "Yes," I said in a soft voice. "When you call, can I please talk to him?"

"We'll have to see, Davey," Aaron replied. "He was very angry when I spoke to him before." He paused for a moment and gave my shoulders a little squeeze. "He loves you, Davey. I hope you know that."

Now my eyes did fill with tears as I nodded my affirmation. "I love him, too," I said with a series of little sniffles.

"Hey, hey," said Aaron. "None of that. Dry those eyes," he said as he pulled me in for a hug, gave me a shake, and hugged me again. He flicked my nose. "Can't be sad for Mr. Emerson," he said as he wiped his robe-covered forearm across my eyes, wiping away my tears. He hugged me again, then poked my side, tickling me. I flinched, laughed, and tried to defend myself with my hands and arms.

"Oh? A fighter, are we?" said Aaron in a playful, whispered tone as he grabbed me and started jabbing and poking at my flanks with his fingers.

"Hey," I gasped and giggled in protest as I tried to deflect and push his hands away. "Stop it!"

I could tell that Aaron was trying to cheer me up, but it worked. I had to push Pete from my mind to respond to Aaron's attack, and by the time he pulled me hard against him for another hug and gave my head a noogie, I was grinning and giggling at his antics.

Okay," he said after we had goofed around for the better part of a minute, "are you ready to go see Mr. Emerson?"

"Yes," I said with a nod.

"Then I'm going to leave you to it. Knock, and then just go right in. You can close the door behind you. Now don't forget–I'll be right downstairs, just one floor below you, okay? There's nothing to worry about."

"Okay," I confirmed with a nod, but it wasn't lost on me that Aaron hadn't told me what room he was staying in. That meant that I wouldn't be able to find him even if I wanted or needed to, and I think that was half the point. After all, Aaron didn't want me to come looking for him during the night; he wanted me to stay with Mr. Emerson and be a good boy.

Beyond that, I already knew that Aaron's plans for the evening were more fluid than he was letting on. I had heard him tell Mr. Singh that he might visit the lower level to see whatever Mr. Tal was "undertaking" with the "Southsiders." I didn't know what that meant, but I knew that it was taking place in the D-Room, and that made it worrisome enough to me. I knew enough to know that I didn't want to be a Southsider tonight, that was for sure. Not after the screaming I had heard.

"Okay," said Aaron with a tap on my head. "Be good." With that, he was off.

Aaron had told me to knock on the door and go right in, but I wasn't ready to do anything of the sort. Go in and say what? Do what? Once again, I had no idea how any of this worked, but at least this time I couldn't fault Aaron for not telling me anything. In a departure from his usual practice, he hadn't left me entirely in the dark–only mostly so. He had taken the time to escort me to the Daley Room and speak to me, but most of his instructions were just warnings to behave and take care of Mr. Emerson. I still wasn't sure entirely what was expected of me, but I had a pretty good idea. I'd had enough hints along the way. Maybe I wasn't as stupid at figuring things out as I thought because I thought I had this one pegged.

Then, I suddenly remembered something: Mr. Emerson had asked me to wear my pouch when I came to see him. I had almost forgotten. I reached into the pocket of my robe, and to my relief, it was still there. I drew it out and held in front of me. Frankly, it had looked better. It was still damp, and it looked a bit bedraggled. I tried to smooth the fabric part out with my hands, but it didn't work.

I wasn't sure what to do. Should I wear the garment even though it was wrinkled and damp, or should I look for a way to dry it? If I wore it, was I supposed to have my bathrobe on over it, or did Mr. Emerson want me in the pouch and nothing else? These were the types of decisions I wasn't good at making on my own. I simply wasn't sure what I was supposed to do, and once again, there was nobody around to ask questions of or help me to decide.

I tried to make the right decision. I tried to place myself in Mr. Emerson's shoes. What decision would he want me to make? He had commented a few times how sexy I looked in the pouch and had asked me to wear it when I first came in the room. That suggested that he wouldn't also want me in the bathrobe. Would he mind that the pouch was still damp? I didn't think he would mind too much, and I certainly had a good excuse for that, since it had gotten wet when I was with him in the pool.

In the end, I made the best decision that I could: I would wear the pouch and nothing else. But my decision only brought more uncertainty. If I wasn't going to wear it, what should I do with my bathrobe? Was I supposed to keep it with me? Should I carry it into the room? Should I leave it somewhere to retrieve it later? And where could I go to change into my pouch? I didn't want to do it while standing in the hall. I wished parties like this came with instruction manuals, because without one, I was lost.

There was a bathroom across the hall that seemed to be the solution to my problems. I ducked into it. Now I could change into my pouch without being seen–but it did occur to me that there was nobody there to see me, anyway, and that I had been skinny dipping for all the world to see only a few short hours ago. No matter. One didn't change clothes in public, and I was going to follow that rule even if it didn't seem to make much sense under the circumstances.

I slid the bathrobe from my shoulders and piled it on the counter next to the sink. I wondered if I should fold it. It occurred to me to check the back of the door, and sure enough, there was a hook there. It was quite high for me, and it took a few tries, but I eventually was able to swing the neck of the bathrobe over the hook. It hung there securely, but I knew I would be able to tug and shake it down when I needed it, even if I couldn't reach all the way to the hook.

I stepped into the pouch once again and adjusted the triangle of fabric over my penis. I wasn't very big down there, but I was big enough to worry whether I should pull my penis up inside the pouch, or let it hang down. It seemed more natural to let it dangle over my balls, but if I got a boner, it would make more sense if it already were pointed up. I adjusted it straight up, but it fell right back down. Penises apparently did what penises wanted to do. I gave up.

It was well past time to meet Mr. Emerson, so I left the bathroom and walked back across the hall to the Daley Room. I knocked twice, but didn't go right in. Instead, I waited, and to my great relief, a voice from the other side of the door answered in short order.

"Come in," it said.

I entered nervously, turned immediately, and carefully closed the door. I turned back around and took in the room for a moment. Like everything else in Mr. Stone's house, it was massive. The ceiling was much higher than a normal bedroom. A fireplace and mantelpiece were nestled along one wall. All the furniture was of a polished dark wood that looked like mahogany. The floor sported not one but two large oriental rugs. And then there was the bed. It was simply massive. I had heard of king beds before, but never seen one. If this one wasn't the king of all beds, it certainly was the crown prince.

Sitting in the middle of it, dressed in what looked like silk pajama bottoms and nothing else, looking as hairy as ever, was Mr. Emerson.

"Davey," he said with a smile and a beckoning motion. "I thought you might have gotten a better offer," he said. "Don't be a stranger, come on over."

"Hi," I said as I walked over to the bed. It wasn't a short walk. The room was quite large.

"Have I mentioned that you look quite sexy in that thing?" he asked with a smile.

I gave him a nod and a little grin. He had mentioned it before–several times, in fact.

"Turn around for me–let me look at you," he instructed. I turned, knowing that my butt was fully on display for him, with only the thinnest of thongs obstructing his view.

"How's your bottom doing?" the man asked.

I hadn't thought about my bottom since Aaron had applied the creams, so if that was any gauge, I supposed it was doing okay. It didn't hurt unless I thought about it, and even then, it was no more than a little sore.

"It's okay," I acknowledged as I turned back around to face the bed.

"I wasn't sure you were coming," he said. "Did you talk to Aaron?"

His comment took me aback. I had planned to come all along. Why did he think I wouldn't come? Was he angry with me? I nodded, but as I did so, it occurred to me that Aaron and I had detoured to the lower level, and I had been delayed getting to the third floor. We had postponed my arrival further with our conversation, and then I had waited a few more minutes deciding what to do and changing before I entered the room.

"I talked to him, um, we had to do something," I explained vaguely. "I was coming, though."

"I was just teasing you, Davey," said Mr. Emerson. "Don't be a stranger–come on up here."

I walked to the side of the bed and climbed up, then crawled my way to his right side. He immediately grabbed me and drew me atop him, my body lying on his lengthwise, my legs between his, and my head at the level of his upper chest. His hands caressed my back and bottom as he spread his legs farther apart.

"Mmm, you're a nice boy, Davey," he cooed as his fingers caressed my lower back and buns. "I'm glad you came. Are you having a fun time at Mr. Stone's party?"

"Yes," I said with a nod as I propped myself up on my elbows while trying not to dig them into the man's chest. "It's fun."

"Tell the truth–you were downstairs playing arcade games instead of up here with me, weren't you?" he teased, as he gave my butt a little spank. "Bad boy!"

I jumped at his touch, but it had been delivered playfully and had startled me more than anything.

"No, I didn't get to play yet," I explained. I was still holding out some hope that I might be able to. "Aaron and me had to go do something."

"Aaron and I had to go do something," Mr. Emerson corrected me.

I was lying on top of the man almost naked, so I thought it was a strange time for a grammar lesson, but adults were weird with that stuff. Sometimes it seemed like they couldn't control themselves.

"Sorry," I said sheepishly.

"Oh, don't be so uptight, Davey," said Mr. Emerson as his hands alighted on my butt cheeks once again and gave them a little squeeze. "It's just the schoolteacher in me. But we're here to have fun, right? You like having fun, don't you?"

I nodded. I liked having fun, including playing arcade games, but I was pretty sure he was referring to a different kind of fun–the kind that adults liked more than I did.

"Good," he said as his hands worked their way under the little thong of my pouch thing. He used his left hand to spread my cheeks apart, while the fingers of his right hand gently played up and down my butt crack.

"I see you're already lubed up for me, Davey," he said. "Smart boy."

"Um, it's not lube, Mr. Emerson," I explained politely. "It's just, like, um, medicine–for when it hurts a little bit."

"Did it hurt from earlier, in the pool?" he asked.

"A little," I admitted.

"You were a very brave boy for me, Davey," Mr. Emerson replied. "I have lube right over there," he said, pointing to the bedside table. "When it's time, I'll make sure it doesn't hurt, okay?"

"Okay," I said with a grateful nod, as his probing fingers glided over my slippery butt hole once again. His touch didn't hurt, but I was pretty sure his penis would. I was also pretty sure I could deal with it. I had been there before.

He removed his hands from my bottom and placed them on my shoulders, then gave me a little downward push.

"Why don't you slide down now and do your thing, Davey?" he asked, even if it came out as more of an instruction.

As I moved to comply, he reached down and shifted a bit underneath me while tugging his silk pajama bottoms down off his hips. I slid down his body–careful to avoid elbowing or kneeing a sensitive part–and his penis came into view. He already was fully erect. As I positioned my head over his shaft to get ready to start the blowjob, Mr. Emerson slid down even a bit more on the bed and adjusted the pillows behind his head.

"I've heard wonderful things about your mouth," he said in a near-whisper as I grasped his erection in my right hand. "Go ahead and show me what you can do, but be sure to stop when I tell you to. A man my age can only cum so many times in one day, you know."

I went ahead and showed him what I could do, taking my time and going at my own pace. I wasn't sure what the night ahead held for me, but I had a feeling that Mr. Emerson and I were going to be awake for at least a couple more hours no matter what I did, so it didn't seem to make sense to try to rush things. Truth be told, by now I didn't mind giving blowjobs that much. I had given so many of them–including several already today–that in my mind, sucking dicks was just something I did. To me, it was a task about on par with doing homework.

If I had been a bit more mature, I might have recognized that giving blowjobs to various men I barely knew or didn't know at all was not a normal thing for an 11-year-old boy to be doing. But I took pride in my fellatio skills–which were considerable–and the way the act had been introduced to me by Pete made it seem so normal and expected when I was in the company of adults that it never really occurred to me to object to it, or even really think about it all that much. If I had a concern, it was that all the sex I was having with men might make me gay, but that ship seemed already to have sailed. Personally, I didn't even care all that much if I were gay–it was having anyone find out that I was gay that scared the hell out of me.

I sucked Mr. Emerson for a good long while, using all the techniques I had learned from Pete and emulating others that had been tried on me. I bobbed on his shaft and worked his cockhead into my throat, dragged my tongue up one side of his shaft and back down the other, laved his cockhead with my lips, and licked and suckled at his frenulum. All the while, I slowly masturbated his cock with my right hand and gently fondled his balls with my left. I didn't rush. I was tired, but not in a hurry. I had a skill, and I wanted to use it to make the man feel good. If I did that, I knew that I could get a good report, and if I got a good report, I knew that I could win Pete back.

"You are as good as advertised, young man," said Mr. Emerson in a surprisingly normal tone of voice. I would have hoped to have elicited some moans and gasps from him by this point, but he was remarkably stoic in the face of my efforts. Some men were like that. He had been a bit noisier earlier when he fucked me in the pool, but a lot of that could have been due to all his jumping around and the physical exertion of the act. With this, all he needed to do was lean back and let me do the work.

About 15 minutes in, his breathing changed, and it seemed like he was getting close to an orgasm. Taking a page from his book, and essentially ignoring his earlier warning, I tried to emulate the rapid, up-and-down, "squelcha-squelcha" bobs that he had done on me in the pool. I sucked my cheeks in as hard as I could and sucked for all I was worth, but try as I might, I couldn't emulate the wet, slurping noises that he had made, nor could I take more than half of his shaft in my mouth. If anything, my lips just ended up moving a bit faster up and down his shaft. I'm sure it felt nice, but I was disappointed, even if Mr. Emerson didn't seem to miss a beat.

"That feels good, Davey," he whispered in that tight, pinched tone men often used when they were about to succumb to the pleasure of an orgasm. "I'm getting close–keep doing what you're doing, but a little slower, okay? Can you taste my precum?"

I could taste it and I tried to nod. Precum always tasted a little tangy and metallic to me, but I wondered if that was because whenever I tasted it, I was on high alert, and my taste buds already were bracing for foreign flavors. When I started giving blowjobs to Pete and first learned to swallow his ejaculate, I always worried that the arrival of precum in my mouth meant that he was about to orgasm, but that wasn't always or even usually the case. In fact, there didn't seem to be a high correlation between the start of his precum flow and his climax. Eventually, I stopped using precum as a barometer at all and just learned to detect the physical signs of a man's impending orgasm, of which there were many. That, more than the taste of precum, allowed me to brace for the always-sudden arrival of a mouthful of cum.

I went slower, then slower still. I still was working Mr. Emerson's cock with my mouth and tongue, but my actions were more languid. I spent a lot of time working on his frenulum, which he really seemed to like. I licked all around it, flicking my tongue against his sensitive skin and darting it into his piss slit before taking his cock between my lips and slowly going down on it, stopping only when I had a bit more than half of it in my mouth and the tip of his cockhead against the opening to my throat. I held it there, then forced myself to swallow several times in quick succession, thereby giving the end of his penis a miniature throat massage.

"Okay, that's enough," Mr. Emerson gasped as he pushed my head away. I remove his glistening cock from my mouth and watched it quiver with need as the man clenched his fingers and toes to fight off his orgasm. For a moment, the issue appeared to be in doubt, as I saw his testicles draw up in his scrotum and prepare to expel their contents. His cock quivered once, then a second time, before he overcame the sensation and successfully brought himself back from the abyss.

After a few moments, he opened his eyes, looked at me, and shook his head.

"You have a real talent there, Davey," he gushed. "That was amazing–truly one of the best boy blowjobs I've ever received. Aaron has taught you well, indeed."

I wanted to tell him that it wasn't Aaron who taught me, but I refrained. Save for Aaron, none of the adults here knew Pete, and I didn't want to have to explain to Mr. Emerson who Pete was. In my mind, Pete was in a completely different category from any of them. It seemed a little strange that I was here at the party doing what I was doing because of Pete, but nobody but Aaron even knew who he was. Mr. Tal had been derisive about him, and even Mr. Stone had mangled his name. But Pete was my friend. I knew who he was, and that was all that mattered.

"Thanks, Mr. Emerson," I said as I knelt up from between his legs.

"Come on up here," he said as he patted the mattress to his right. I crawled over, and he had me snuggle against him with my arm draped across his chest. With his right hand on my bottom, he pulled me even closer to his side before he turned his head toward me and guided my face to his with his left hand.

We kissed in silence for the next several minutes. The only sounds in the room were the gentle smacking sounds of two sets of mouths and tongues playing and jousting wetly with each other. Mr. Emerson was a talented kisser, and I did my best to show him that I was a people person. Each time I thought he was going to break the kiss and come up for air, his tongue went back in my mouth to look for mine. All the while, his hand played with my bottom, caressing and squeezing, as his fingers played across my cleft and probed at my slippery hole.

At one point, Mr. Emerson let go of my face but only to reach for my right hand and place it on his erection once again. I took the hint and gently masturbated him as we continued to kiss. My own penis had reached boner status in the little pouch as Mr. Emerson stimulated me orally and anally. I wondered briefly if my arousal was a betrayal of Pete or even Aaron, but I didn't think it was. I was as susceptible to the pleasures of the flesh as any other boy my age, and none of the adults I had met had tried to place a guilt trip on me for enjoying what we did. Physical pleasure derived from sex acts between men and boys and the sharing and swapping of sex partners was starting to become the norm for me, and I didn't really question it. It seemed to me that I had been admitted to a secret club for sex pleasure that less than a year ago I hadn't even known existed.

It was several minutes, perhaps as many as ten, before Mr. Emerson broke our kiss. By then, the lower half of my face was wet with saliva, and my tongue felt like it could use a break. The thing I had discovered about kissing adults is that their mouths are a lot bigger than mine, and as a result, their kisses tend to get sloppy and wet–especially if they like to lick your chin and cheeks while they're kissing you. I used my right hand to paw some of the wetness from my face, then placed it back on Mr. Emerson's penis and continued to masturbate him with slow, soft strokes.

"Keep doing that, Davey," said Mr. Emerson in a voice that sounded very content. "Suck my nipples while you're doing it–not too hard, though."

Aaron sagely had introduced me to nipple sucking only yesterday, so I knew what the man wanted and how to do it. I scooched up a bit higher on his body, leaned my head a bit over his hairy chest, and took his right nipple in my mouth. As Mr. Emerson tapped my bottom approvingly, I began to suck it and play my tongue over it. I could feel it firming as I got it wet and ran my tongue in circles around the hairy perimeter.

"That's very nice, Davey," said the man. "You have a very skilled tongue, young man."

I didn't respond other than with a gentle squeeze of his penis as I continued to suckle his nipple. After a minute or so, I leaned across his chest and did the same for his left nipple. All the while, I continued to masturbate Mr. Emerson with my right hand. His penis was rock hard, and big enough that I couldn't quite get my fingers all the way around its circumference as I stroked.

Every minute or so, I switched between his nipples, leaving one glistening and erect as I went to the other to lick and suck. Mr. Emerson's chest hairs tickled my cheek as I moved from nipple to nipple. The man was extremely hairy, and at one point, I stopped stroking his boner long enough to play my hand up his abdomen and onto his chest, feeling his thick fur as it went along. At that age, I was fascinated by pubic and body hair, of which I of course had none. It seemed so weird and exotic to me, and I couldn't even imagine what it would feel like to be hairy all over–especially as hairy as Mr. Emerson was.

After a while, Mr. Emerson pushed my head back down to his penis and I took him in my mouth once again. I wondered if he wanted me to finish the blowjob, but he didn't speak. I sucked him for only a couple of minutes before he lifted my head up by my chin, looked down at me, and smiled.

"You keep that up and you're going to get a mouthful of cum before you know it, Davey, my boy," he said. "You have a very talented mouth and tongue for a boy your age."

"Thanks," I said as I knelt by his side. I placed my right hand on his penis and resumed stroking him, going even slower than before.

"Have you ever been tied up for sex, Davey?" he asked me as he flexed his penis a couple of times. I was starting to pick up on the little physical cues that signaled appreciation or approval during sex, like a tap on the bottom, a gentle squeeze, or a flexing penis. Not everything had to be spoken, and it seemed that Mr. Emerson and I were doing very well being on the same page with each other.

I had been tied up for sex–many times, in fact–so I nodded.

"I assumed so," said the man. "With Aaron Richter?"

I shook my head, which brought a smile to the man's face.

"An experienced boy, then," he said with approval. "How old are you, Davey?"

"Almost 12," I responded. That brought a look of surprise to Mr. Emerson's face, culminating in two raised eyebrows.

"Well, that explains your magic tongue and mouth, young man," he said with a smile. "No wonder," he added with a chuckle. "I thought maybe I had discovered a prodigy!"

"What- what does that mean?" I asked uncertainly.

"Well, let's just say that you have very advanced oral skills for a young boy. That means you suck a nice cock, Davey, and I mean that as a compliment. You're absolutely excellent at it, regardless of your age, but I thought you were a bit younger than you are."

"How old did you think I was?" I asked, but I was pretty sure I already knew the answer. Like a rubbernecker at an accident scene, I just had to ask.

"I had you pegged at about nine–just a little bit older than Mikey."

Mr. Emerson must have seen my face fall. I couldn't help it. It was a sore and sensitive subject for me, and I couldn't help but react to what he had said.

"Davey, that's nothing to be ashamed of," Mr. Emerson said encouragingly. "It's actually a good thing–do you want to know why?"

I shrugged indifferently. I was pretty sure I already knew the answer to that, too.

"It's a real plus to look younger than you actually are," he explained. "Trust me–as you get older, that becomes even more true. But for a boy your age, who might aspire to be an actor or a model–am I right?–it's a big advantage to look younger."

I nodded politely at his explanation. I had heard it all before. Directors and producers all liked to work with kids who were more mature but who looked younger. It was easier to get them to do what you wanted them to do.

"I guess so," I added with a shrug.

Mr. Emerson sat up on the bed a little bit higher, looked over at the clock on the bedside table, and then looked back at me.

"When do you turn 12, Davey?" he asked.

"September 2nd," I replied.

"You're coming right up on it then. That's great. I can tell you probably wish you looked a little older, but I'm telling you, you're very marketable the way you are right now. I'm no expert, but I think you would be a very hot commodity in the industry. Have you met Malcolm, yet? You really should talk to him."

There was that word again. Commodity. Aaron had used it, too, but I wasn't sure what it meant.

"I met him earlier," I replied. "We talked about acting and being a model, and stuff."

"Good, good," said Mr. Emerson as he repositioned himself more upright on the bed. He seemed to be excited to talk to me about these topics, which I assumed as being out of a genuine desire to want to help me. I knew from Aaron that he wasn't much more than a bit player, but his enthusiasm on my behalf seemed sincere.

"Have you by any chance met Mr. Tal? He's an older gentleman who–"

"I met him, too," I interrupted with a nod. I didn't let on how much of him I had met.

"That's good, Davey," Mr. Emerson replied. "So, you know his … line of work, then?"

I shrugged. "I guess so. I think so."

"And you've talked to Aaron about it?"

"A little," I said uncertainly.

"You don't sound sure."

"I'm sure," I replied, a bit defensively.

"Are you on board with it?"

I shrugged. "I guess so."

"What about your foster parents?"

"Wh-what?" I asked as I looked at him strangely.

Now it was Mr. Emerson's turn to look confused. "Your foster parents–I assume they let you come here this weekend with Aaron, right?"

"I don't have any foster parents," I replied. I felt just as confused as he looked.

"Oh, you're not in the Cook County system, then?"

"No, is- is that for Chicago? Are we still in Chicago?" My head was starting to spin.

"It's the foster-care system for the Chicago area, yes," Mr. Emerson replied. "You're not in foster care Davey?"

"No, and I'm not even from Chicago."

"Oh–I didn't know that. Most of Aaron's boys are foster placements–at least the ones he brings to the parties. I guess he has an in with the director of the Cook County program. Where are you from then?"

"St. Clair. It's in Michigan."

"I see, I see. Are you in foster care there?"

"No," I said with a shake of my head. I couldn't figure out why he kept asking me about foster care.

"Do you live with your parents, Davey? Your real parents?" He seemed almost incredulous.

"With my mom," I answered.

"Oh, I see. You live with your mom. And she's the one who let you come here this weekend? All the way from Michigan?"

I nodded my head.

"And what does your mom do, Davey?"

"She works at a gas station."

"I see. And she's supportive of you being a model and an actor?"

I nodded again. "She signed all the papers and stuff."

"I see," Mr. Emerson said with a nod of his head. "And that was to make Aaron your agent?"

"Kind of," I replied. I didn't really want to explain about Pete. "I mean yes."

Mr. Emerson nodded once again. "Well, you're a very lucky boy to have Aaron Richter as your agent," he said. "He's very well-connected in the industry. And for special boys like you," he said with a wink, "there are parties like this one and loads of opportunities to have fun and make some money at the same time."

This was about the millionth time that someone had told me that I was lucky to have Aaron Richter in my corner, so I accepted that it had to be true. Aaron did seem to know a lot of stuff, and I knew that he was trying to help my mother and me. I supposed that I should have been more grateful for his efforts, and I vowed to try. The biggest problem I had with Aaron was that he wasn't Pete, and that he sometimes seemed to get in the way of me being with Pete. I also didn't trust him. I was starting to figure out that his main interest was business–making money in the industry. He would help me, but only if it helped him at the same time.

"Stick with Aaron and just keep doing what you're doing, Davey," Mr. Emerson continued. "You'll go a long way, especially with your skill set. Did Aaron teach you how to do that thing with your throat?"

By that point, I wasn't sure who had taught me what. I only knew what men liked when I was sucking their penises, but it didn't seem to make sense to get into a long-winded explanation with the man.

"I guess I just do it," I said with a shrug. It was a little embarrassing to be talking about how well I performed fellatio.

"Can you deep-throat, too, Davey? I bet you can."

I shook my head. I couldn't deep-throat. Pete had always talked about teaching me to suppress my gag reflex, but so far, he hadn't shown me how. I knew he wanted me to learn, but the most I could do was take the very tip of a penis partially into my throat and do what I had done with Mr. Emerson. I didn't want to do more than that because I was afraid that I might gag or vomit.

"I know a great technique for teaching that, Davey," said Mr. Emerson. "Remember the way I did it in the pool? Did you like that? You can do the same thing once you learn to deep-throat. Would you like to learn how to do it?"

I did remember and I had liked it. The "squelcha-squelcha" sucking the man gave me in the pool had felt very nice. Still, I was wary of deep throating. I didn't think I was big enough to take an adult penis any deeper than the very opening of my throat. They just seemed too big for me, and I was afraid I would choke on one and vomit. I hated throwing up more than just about anything else, and I wasn't very fond of gagging or retching, either.

"I'm not sure," I answered honestly.

"Men like it a lot, Davey, and I'm an excellent teacher," he said cajolingly.

When he said men liked it a lot, I was reminded of how many times Pete had mentioned it to me. Pete had said that the key was learning to suppress my gag reflex, and after that, it was easy. He said he would teach me someday, but so far, that hadn't happened. Maybe he just hadn't gotten around to it, but it also was possible that he was waiting for me to get bigger. He usually just fucked my bottom rather than have me suck him off. Still, although Pete had never come right out and said he wanted me to learn how to do it for him, I already kind of knew that to be the case.

It suddenly occurred to me that if I could learn to do it from Mr. Emerson, it might be a nice surprise for Pete the next time I saw him–if there were a next time. I was more than a bit nervous about it, but this could be a good opportunity for me–if I could overcome my anxieties.

"I- I'm not sure if want do that," I stammered.

"It would be a great skill to have in your back pocket," Mr. Emerson persisted. "Especially for a kid your a- I mean, your size." He paused for a moment. "You want know a secret?" he asked in a conspiratorial tone.

Of course I did. I liked learning and knowing secrets as much as any kid, especially adult secrets. "What is it?" I asked.

"Mikey already knows how to deep-throat, and he's only eight," the man said with more than a hint of pride. "He sucks cock better than most kids twice his age, and I taught him myself."

I contemplated that information for a moment. Mikey was tiny–clearly younger than I, and verifiably smaller. It was hard to imagine him deep-throating Mr. Emerson's penis, but then again, I had seen the man provide incentive to Mikey's backside earlier in the day, and it didn't look to me like it was the first time it had happened. Had Mikey learned deep throating willingly, or unwillingly? There was no way for me to know, but I certainly had my suspicions.

Yet, the implications of the man's words were not lost on me. If Mikey could learn to deep throat at the age of eight, presumably I could learn, as well. If I could, I would be able to make Pete exceptionally happy the next time we had sex. Pete wouldn't have brought the subject up so many times if he didn't want me to deep throat him. I probably should have picked up on that earlier and let him know I wanted him to teach me. I shouldn't have let my fears get in the way of bringing him pleasure, and I regretted that, but now I had a chance to fix it.

"Was it hard?" I asked. "I mean, for Mikey."

"He had to work at it," Mr. Emerson acknowledged. "I'd compare it to learning to ride a bike. But here's the thing about that: It's a lot easier for an older kid to learn to ride a bike than a little kid, right? You're a lot older than Mikey was when I taught him, and bigger, too. I think you'll pick it up pretty easily, Davey. I really do."

I pondered this for a second, then nodded. "I want to try it, then," I said. I resolved on the spot that I would try to learn to deep throat for Pete.

"That's fantastic, Davey!" said Mr. Emerson with a big smile. "You'll see that I'm a good teacher. Now, do me a favor and go grab a couple of towels from the bathroom, okay?"

I hopped up and headed to the bedroom door, intending to dart across the hall to the bathroom where I had hung my robe.

"No, no, Davey–over there," said Mr. Emerson as he stepped out of his pajama bottoms and kicked them away. "The en suite," he said.

I must have looked confused because he pointed to a door inside the room. "The en suite bathroom–it's right over there."

I suppose I should have realized that a room as impressive as the Daley Room would have its own bathroom, but that was a new thing to me. The bathrooms in my old house were communal, and it was the same for the bathroom in our apartment. I didn't come from a life where people had private bathrooms attached to every bedroom.

I went in the bathroom and grabbed some towels. There were a lot of them, and I didn't know what size he wanted, so I brought two of the very big ones, two of the medium ones, and two of the smaller. I could have grabbed two of the hand towels, too, but I figured six towels were enough. I brought them to Mr. Emerson, who was seated naked on the bed, still sporting an erection.

"Those will do just fine," he said as he stood and took them from me, then dropped all but one of them on the floor beside the bed, using his feet to spread them out a bit on the hardwood floor. He kept one of the medium-sized ones in his hand, which he placed on the bed.

"Now climb up on the bed for me and lie on your back," he instructed. "Lie this way with your head towards me," he added, indicating with his hands that he wanted me to position myself perpendicularly.

I did as he asked, climbing up on the bed lying across the short side of the mattress. I made my body rigidly straight with my arms at my sides and my legs together. I wasn't sure how he was going to teach me to deep throat like this, but I was willing to give it a try.

Mr. Emerson approached the bed from directly behind me as I tried to look back to see him. He must have been standing right on the towels. He reached over and grasped me by my upper arms, then slid me several inches toward him across the bed. He pulled me so far over the edge that my head no longer was on the mattress, and I had to strain to hold it up.

"Just relax and let your head hang down, Davey," he instructed. "You'll see me upside down."

I slowly lowered my head as he adjusted my body a bit more to his liking. I still was on the mattress from my feet to my shoulders, but my head and neck were now dangling off. I continued to lower my head until the back of it contacted the side of the mattress. This stretched my neck, and it was uncomfortable. I lifted my head a bit and turned to look at him.

"That's a bit too much," Mr. Emerson said as he pushed on my shoulders and slid my body an inch or two away from the edge. "Just relax and lean back, Davey. We want to get the angle just right."

I still wasn't sure how this was going to work, but I lowered my head once again and found that it didn't dangle quite so much into space as before. The edge of the mattress now provided some support for my neck, which meant that my head was not angled down too much.

"That looks about right, Davey," he said. "Now I promise I'm not going to tickle you, but I want to show you something. I'm going to touch your neck, okay?"

"Okay," I replied, as I braced myself for the neck-touching. I was a very ticklish kid back then, but as his hand descended on my neck, it didn't tickle at all.

"The key is getting the angle just right, Davey," he explained. "The better the angle, the easier it is to deep throat a cock. See how your neck and throat are perfectly aligned right now with your mouth and jaw?" he asked as he drew his hand gently up my neck to my chin and over my lips.

He was right. The angle of my head stretched my neck and made a mostly straight line between my mouth and the opening to my throat. I nodded, which wasn't easy given my position.

"Good," he said. "Now open your mouth as wide as you can, Davey. Can you do that for me?

I could. I opened my mouth wide, forming a big O. Mr. Emerson knelt by the side of the bed and with his left hand gently cupping the back of my head, he drew the fingers of his right hand from the base of my neck, up my chin, and to my lower lip. He then traced my lips all the way around with his index finger.

"When you're in this position, Davey, your mouth and throat are perfectly aligned," he explained as he traced over my neck once again. "That means that anything that goes in your mouth can go in in a straight line right into your throat. That's how I'm going to teach you to deep throat, okay?"

I thought I understood, but I still wasn't sure. How in the world was I going to bob on anything while lying on my back?

"Okay," I said, as I raised my head up a bit. It's not easy to keep your head elevated when it's dangling down the way mine was. It puts a lot of strain on your neck.

"Just relax, Davey," said Mr. Emerson as he stood up once again. "Let your head down … that's good."

He grasped my forearms once again and pulled me a tiny bit closer to the edge. This made my head hang down just a little bit lower. When I took a moment to look, everything I saw was upside down. That included Mr. Emerson, who moved a bit closer and stood about a foot away from my head. I had a perfect view of his scrotum as he slowly masturbated himself with his right hand.

"Okay, Davey," he said as he moved closer still. "Let's give this a try. Open your mouth as wide as you can and I'll give you a chance to get used to my cock before we start, all right?"

It suddenly dawned on me what he was planning to do. His cock was sticking out from his groin, and he was holding it an angle that suggested I was right. I opened my mouth, and he slid the head between my lips.

"There we go," said Mr. Emerson as he continued to stroke his shaft. "You can close your mouth around it like you normally would. Just relax and get it a little wet with your tongue."

I did those things, sealing my lips around his shaft and swirling my tongue around his glans. It was weird to see nothing but his upside-down testicles and the underside of his penis when I looked "down." When I looked "up," I could see as far as his mid-thigh.

"That's it, get it nice and wet, just like a normal blowjob," he explained. "Deep throating isn't a lot different from what you already know how to do."

I kept at with my tongue, but aside from making a seal so I could add a bit of suction, my lips couldn't really do anything from this position. My head was fixed against the mattress, and it was impossible for me to bob on his shaft at all.

"Okay, Davey," said Mr. Emerson, "I'm going to give you a bit more of my cock, and when I do that, I want you to breathe in, then hold your breath while relaxing your throat. I'm not going to get anywhere near your throat for a while, but this will be good practice. Breathe in, hold your breath, and relax."

I drew in a quick breath through my nose and held it as he pushed his cock further into my mouth. I also tried to relax my throat, but I wasn't entirely sure what he meant by that or how to do it. He held his cock in my mouth for a few seconds, then withdrew until only the head still was inside.

"I forgot to tell you to exhale when I pull out," he explained. "You want to get a rhythm down–breathe in and hold, breathe out … breathe in and hold, breathe out."

I practiced as Mr. Emerson began to slide his penis in and out of my mouth, breathing in and holding as he slid in, then exhaling. I felt a bit nervous. I trusted the man, but I realized at any moment that he could push too deep in my mouth causing that gagging and choking sensation that I truly hated and possibly even causing me to vomit.

Suddenly, it occurred to me why he had wanted me to bring the towels from the bathroom and why they were arrayed on the floor under my head. I lifted my head and fought free of his penis.

"Mr. Emerson, are you going to make me choke on it?" I asked him nervously as I strained to keep my head up.

He reached down to support my head with his hand. "I'm not going to lie to you and say that it never happens," he explained. "But I'm not going to try to make you gag on it, either. We're going to go nice and slow and take it easy, okay? Let's just see what happens."

Now I wasn't sure. The whole thing about being upside down made me feel uneasy. "Can't we do it the normal way?" I asked nervously.

"This is the best way teach you how to how to it, Davey. This is how I taught Mikey. He gagged a couple of times, and that was it. There's no reason to be nervous. The moment I see you start to gag I'll pull out."

I still wasn't sure. On the one hand, the fact that Mikey already had learned how to do it made me want to try it myself. On the other hand, I didn't want to gag at all, not even once. I hated that. I also knew that if I threw up, it would make a huge mess and ruin everything. I hated throwing up and having the taste and smell of vomit in my nose, mouth, and sinuses.

"Lean your head back down," encouraged Mr. Emerson has he lowered his hand from beneath my head where it had been supporting me.

Somewhat against my better judgment, I lowered my head once again until the back of it and my neck were supported by the edge of the mattress. Mr. Emerson lost no time getting back into position and inserting his cockhead in my mouth once more.

"Breathe in and hold," he said as he slid his penis into my mouth. "Relax your throat. There's a good boy. Now exhale," he said as he pulled his member back out to the head. He was only giving me about two inches of his shaft, but the head of his penis was getting closer and closer to the entry to my throat.

"Again," said Mr. Emerson as he pressed his penis into my mouth. "Inhale, hold, exhale–and relax that throat. Pretend you're getting ready to take me there.

I did as he instructed, breathing in on the insertion, holding, and trying to keep my throat relaxed. I wasn't sure, but I thought I had figured that part out on my own. It seemed like I could open my throat a bit if I thought about doing exactly that. I wasn't sure whether that was what he meant by relaxing it, but it seemed like I could make the entrance to my throat a little wider if I concentrated on doing so.

Mr. Emerson kept at it, slowly feeding me his cock, then holding it there for a bit before retracting. I concentrated hard on my breathing, inhaling and exhaling as he had directed, trying to match my actions to his. It became easier the more times we did it. I also became more trusting of the process. I think that helped me to relax my throat, and I was feeling more confident.

"I'm going to go a little deeper on this one," Mr. Emerson said as he directed his cockhead closer to the back of my mouth and the entrance to my throat. "Remember that thing you did in the pool? That's how far I'm going to go, okay?"

I couldn't speak or really nod, so I gave him a thumbs up, which conveyed my approval but not my consternation. I had to trust that the man would go only so far as that and then stop. It wasn't that I didn't trust him–I did–but being positioned the way I was, upside down and essentially helpless, left me feeling vulnerable and anxious. There didn't seem to be any good way around that.

"Good," he replied. "Here we go–inhale, hold … okay, keep holding … yes! Davey, can you feel that?"

I could feel it. The tip of Mr. Emerson's cock was nestled against the entrance to my throat at about my maximum allowable depth. My fingers and toes clenched and curled, and it was all I could do to stop from panicking. It was very difficult to remain calm and lie still knowing that the man could plunge his cock straight into my throat at any moment. I didn't think he would, but it was the mere possibility that he might that had me on edge. My legs moved and writhed with worry before his cock finally withdrew once again.

I think Mr. Emerson could tell how nervous I was. "Reach your hands behind your head and grab hold of my hips, Davey," he instructed. "If you want me to pull out, just give me a little push with your hands and I'll back off."

I did as he asked, reaching back, and placing my open hands on his hips. It didn't give me a lot of leverage–my small hands and slender arms wouldn't have been able to push him away if he went too deep–but it did provide me with a sense of control. I at least had a way to signal to him if I got scared.

"Good–let's do that again," said Mr. Emerson. "Remember to relax your throat."

He inserted his penis to the same depth as I held my breath and did my best to relax my throat. I didn't feel like I needed to gag, but then again, I already had trained myself to be able to take a small amount of cockhead into the very opening of my throat. I couldn't do the full head, but I liked the way the squishy tip of it felt when it nestled there. Mr. Emerson was inserting his penis to that exact depth now. I swallowed around it like I had done at the pool, giving it a bit of a gulping massage.

"It feels nice when you do that, Davey," he said as he held his cock at precisely that depth. "And the fact that you can do it at all shows me that you have good control over your throat muscles. I can see your neck and throat moving as you're swallowing. Not everyone can do what you're doing, by the way." He slowly retracted his cock, then pulled it all the way out of my mouth.

I started to lift my head up, but he placed a hand gently on my chin to prevent it.

"Just relax for a second, Davey," he said. "Rest and get some air. I'm going to try to get my entire head in your throat this time. Same as before–just do your breathing, then do that swallowing thing as you feel the head getting closer to your throat. Just keep swallowing over and over–don't stop, and don't be nervous. Can you do that for me?"

"I- I'll try," I responded. In truth, I was scared, and part of me wanted to end the lesson right there. But I knew that I might not ever get such a patient instructor again, and I really wanted to learn to deep-throat for Pete. So far, Mr. Emerson had gone slowly and been very gentle. He had earned my trust, and I was willing to give it another go.

As Mr. Emerson fed his penis into my mouth once again, I tried to remain calm and relax my throat. To this point in my life, I had given head well over 100 times, but I had never attempted to take a penis deeper than the very opening of my throat. Taking one farther than that worried me. I had seen it done in Pete's magazines, so I knew it was possible, but those photos all involved either older boys or men.

"Breathe in … now hold," said Mr. Emerson as he began to slide his cock deeper into my mouth. "Relax … swallow, swallow … let me see that little neck move," he said as he pushed in even more.

As soon as I felt his cockhead at the opening to my throat, I began swallowing like mad, trying to assist his entry. It gave me something to concentrate on. I'm sure that my toes were curling, and my legs were sliding back and forth and kicking on the mattress, but my attention was singularly focused on Mr. Emerson's penis. He paused at the prior depth for just a moment, then thrust his hips a bit and popped his entire cockhead into my throat.

I could feel the moment his glans entered. It felt like my throat had expanded in size. I wanted to feel my neck to see if it was bulging, but I kept my hands affixed to Mr. Emerson's hips. I kept swallowing around his cockhead as best I could, not only because he hadn't told me to stop, but because I was afraid to, anyway, and concentrating on my swallowing gave me something to do. Mr. Emerson didn't move a muscle–at least, his cock didn't move or flex–as he gave me a moment to adjust to his penetration.

I had done it! The man's cockhead was in my throat, and I hadn't gagged or vomited! It really wasn't that bad, either–until the precise moment that it was.

Out of the blue, I must have realized that I had swallowed something big, and my gag reflex came back with a vengeance. It was very sudden. I went from copacetic and swallowing to panicky in the span of about a second. I immediately stopped swallowing, pushed back on the man's hips, kicked my legs, and tried to lift my head. To his credit, Mr. Emerson pulled back right away, and I could feel my throat contract as his cockhead popped free. That, however, apparently was not good enough for my gag reflex. Even before his cock was fully out of my mouth, I was retching, gagging, and vomiting the contents of my tummy all over my face and the underside of his cock.

It was a god-awful mess. As soon as his cock was free of my mouth, I turned face down over the towels and retched again, causing long, viscous streamers of bile to dangle down into the towels that Mr. Emerson had positioned on the floor. Fortunately, it had been several hours since I last ate, and the stuff that came out of my mouth was almost clear in color, but thick, sticky, and nasty. It was all over my face, too. Some had even made its way into my hair.

"That's okay, Davey–you're fine," said Mr. Emerson in a soothing voice. He grabbed the towel he had left on the bed and immediately began to clean my face from below, wiping the bile streamers away and cleaning my hair. I groaned, not sure whether I was going to retch again. The outcome was in doubt as I fought my tummy for several seconds, but the sensation passed, and I knew I was okay.

"I'm sorry," I gasped, as I reached up with my right hand and wiped away some wetness from the side of my nose. I groaned unhappily.

"Don't be sorry," the man said encouragingly. "You're fine. You did great." His voice was very upbeat. "You almost have to get that out of the way so you can learn how to control it. You did really great, Davey. You were right there."

I didn't feel like I had done great. For a few seconds, everything had seemed to go well, and then all hell had broken loose. I continued to lie face-down on the bed with my mouth open, my arms curled up underneath my chest.

Mr. Emerson tapped me on the back of my neck. "Roll back over and let's give it another go, Davey. Like I said, once you get that first one out of the way, it gets a lot easier."

I groaned in response and didn't move. I didn't want to resume the lesson. I had just confirmed to myself once again how much I hated gagging and throwing up, and I wasn't at all convinced that it would be one and done for me. I had no interest in throwing up again.

Mr. Emerson tapped my back impatiently. "Come on, Davey," he cajoled. "This is no time to quit. Trust me, you're doing really well. You've almost got it. Let's give it another go."

I groaned again. I could taste bile in my mouth and smell it in my sinuses. I wanted to blow my nose, wash my face, and spend some time spitting into the sink. Maybe I would feel like trying again after that, but I didn't think so.

But the man was persistent. He tapped the back of my head. "Come on–roll over, Davey. I'm not going to let you quit now. Think about it–your stomach's already empty. This is the best time to practice. You're really close! You're doing great!"

"Uhhh," I sighed, as I thought about what to do. I wasn't a kid who liked to disappoint other people, especially not adults. Mr. Emerson wanted me to continue, and part of me did, too. I knew that if I could somehow find a way to figure this out, Pete would be very pleased with me. Even though the day had gone well–better than I had expected–Pete hadn't been here to see it, and I was a bit worried that a good report from Aaron wouldn't be enough to get me back in my friend's good graces. I knew that if I could master a new skill for Pete and use it to bring him pleasure, he would see how much I loved him and how sorry I was for what had happened. Aaron also had told me to do everything Mr. Emerson wanted, and if I didn't do this, perhaps he wouldn't give me that good report.

"Okay," I sighed, stalling for another moment before I rolled over onto my back and put my head in the same position as before. "Don't go too fast, please," I asked the man. I was nervous that I would need some additional warm-ups before he penetrated my throat once again.

Mr. Emerson and I proceeded to work on deep throating for the next hour and a bit. It wasn't easy. Unlike Mikey, I retched far more than twice. I lost count of the number of times I gagged, choked, and heaved the meager and dwindling contents of my tummy onto my face and the array of towels that had been placed on the floor below my head. Mr. Emerson cleaned my face each time and got me to try again.

I would have quit if I hadn't been making steady progress. Each time Mr. Emerson penetrated my throat, I seemed to be able to hold him there a little bit longer before tapping his hips in warning. Once I was used to his cockhead in my throat, he proceeded to give me some of his shaft, and the process repeated itself. I retched less and less as the lesson went on. I was getting better at suppressing my gag reflex, but I also think at a certain point that my tummy simply gave up. It was so empty and sore that I think it just threw in the towel on the whole endeavor.

After my tummy surrendered, things seemed to get a bit easier. I stopped gagging and learned to relax my throat and allow his penetration. It's difficult for me to describe exactly how, when, or why it clicked for me, but once it did, I stopped gagging and retching entirely. After that, I not only was able to take the man's cock into my throat but welcome it there and make it feel at home. It was almost as if I wanted to prove the limits of my new skill. Eventually, Mr. Emerson fed me his entire length, pressing his thick pubes against my chin and his balls against my nose. I didn't mind. It was kind of amazing. He did that several times, praising me the entire time.

"Great job, Davey," he said as he pulled out once again to leave only his cockhead in my mouth. I had taken all of him about a dozen times now without gagging even once. I hadn't had to tap out in the last 10 minutes, and it had been almost 20 minutes since I had last retched and vomited. By this point, I was feeling very confident that I had learned the necessary skills. I was concentrating most of my effort on trying to remember exactly what I was doing so I would be able to do it again. I was extremely grateful that I had stayed with it and not quit, and I couldn't wait to demonstrate my new skills on Pete.

"My back is starting to kill me, Davey," groaned Mr. Emerson, "but you've done an outstanding job. It was worth it, don't you think? I bet you're eager to give this a try with Mr. Richter now, aren't you?"

I nodded up at him as best I could with his cockhead in my mouth, then gave him a thumbs-up sign just to be sure he understood my response. I didn't feel the need to explain to him that any benefits Aaron enjoyed from this undertaking would be purely incidental. It was Pete who I wanted to try my new skills on, and it was he who was going to benefit from them. I couldn't wait to see him. I knew he would be so proud of me. Just thinking about him made my heart ache.

"Alright, so this last part is almost easy," said Mr. Emerson. "I want you to take a really big breath this time. I'm going to go in all the way just like before, but instead of holding it there and pulling out, I'm going hump your mouth a few times, and then pull out. Does that make sense?"

I hesitated for a moment, then nodded again and gave him another thumbs-up. It sounded almost like he was going to fuck my mouth, which is precisely what he proceeded to do. As I lay on my back with my mouth wide open and my head hanging off the side of the bed, Mr. Emerson proceeded to give me my first-ever mouthfuck–not that I knew that term at the time. More accurately, he gave me my first-ever throatfuck. He was good about it and went at a reasonable pace, but I knew he would be eager to cum after working with me for over an hour and having me warm him up for a good half hour before that.

The only thing about the mouthfuck that was hard for me was the breathing. Once Mr. Emerson penetrated my throat, he proceeded to thrust his cock in and out of it a bit shy of full depth. He probably moved about 2-3" [5-7.5cm] in and out–not long-dicking my mouth by any means–but he did enough thrusts in a row that I started to feel short of breath. The rest intervals between each series of thrusts also seemed to diminish as the man's excitement grew.

"Oh, Davey," Mr. Emerson gasped with pleasure as he fucked his cock in and out of my mouth and throat. "You feel so tight–fuck. Your throat is amazing. You have an amazing, amazing throat."

I was amazed that he could do this without me gagging, but he had been right: He was a good teacher of deep-throating skills. Now I could take his entire cock into my throat, with his balls and pubes mashing against my face, and not even miss a beat. My gag reflex had been completely subdued, and my tummy was in hibernation. Whether I could repeat these skills from my knees or with a full stomach remained to be seen, but for now, I was feeling very confident.

I apparently had either overestimated Mr. Emerson's arousal or underestimated his staying power, as the mouthfuck continued for longer than I liked. My neck was starting to hurt from my position, and my jaw was aching from being open as wide as it had been for much of the last two hours. I wanted him to finish, but I was very grateful for his tutelage, and I figured that letting him enjoy himself in my mouth and throat was the very least I could do.

The other thing I hadn't known but learned that day about deep throating was the part about the cum bypassing my mouth and going straight down into my tummy. When Mr. Emerson climaxed, he crammed his cock as far down my throat as he possibly could, driving his hips against my face, and mashing his pubes and balls against my chin and nose. I could feel his shaft pulsing and as he ejaculated, but every bit of it went straight down my throat. I tasted his cum only when he was pulling out of my mouth and dragged some of it across my taste buds. I didn't hate the taste of cum, but it wasn't exactly my favorite flavor, so I considered the direct-deposit part of deep throating to be an unexpected benefit.

Afterwards, Mr. Emerson went into the bathroom to take care of business as I rolled over on the bed and lay there contemplatively. I very much could taste the essence of the man's spunk in my mouth, but I was more than okay with that. I had learned a new skill, and I felt the sense of accomplishment that comes with working hard and achieving a goal. I absolutely could not wait to see Pete again and show him what I could do. It would take all my self-restraint not to kneel before him in the hotel lobby and demonstrate my new skill. With the ability to deep throat in my back pocket, I was certain I could please Pete enough that he would want to remain friends with me. I was going to win him back if it was the last thing I ever did, and I was never going to let him down again.

Mr. Emerson was gone for a while, and in his absence, I started feeling very sleepy. It had been a very, very long day for me, full of firsts, all requiring me to be on my best behavior. I could barely even remember being at Aaron's house early in the morning. It seemed liked months ago now. The whirlwind trip to get my nails done by Fran and Tony, my hair cut by Ramses, and my wardrobe from Mr. Stalteri seemed like ancient memories–like something I had read about in a history book. I thought I heard the shower running in the bathroom, but I couldn't be sure. The bed felt comfortable. I closed my eyes and listened to the sounds. My best guess is that it was only a minute or so later that I fell asleep.

Chapter 15

I awoke sometime later to the sensation of something stimulating my penis. I was lying on my back, and whatever was happening was quite pleasing and causing me to bone up. It felt exactly like a mouth: warm, wet, and soft the way a sucking mouth feels on an erection. It was nice. I liked it. The room was dark, and I couldn't see. That was okay with me. The thing I thought was a mouth bobbed up and down on my penis, and it felt very good. I wasn't at all in a hurry to wake up.

When I went to move my arms and legs, however, I was in for a surprise. I found that I couldn't move them at all. My arms were stretched out above my head at two and ten o'clock, secured by what felt like rope around my wrists. My legs also were tied at four and eight o'clock, similarly secured with ligatures around my ankles. My legs weren't tied as tightly as my arms; there was additional slack there, and I found that I could move them a little bit.

It was then that I realized that I was blindfolded. The room must have been dark on top of that because I could see very little signs of light through what I assume was a fabric of some sort. I lifted my head–mostly just to see if I could.

"Why I am I tied up?" I asked into the darkness.

"Shhhh," said a soft voice that sounded like it belonged to Mr. Emerson. A hand pressed on my forehead and pushed my head back down. I wasn't afraid, just surprised, so I gave in and rested it once again on the pillow. The sucking mouth kept working on my boner the entire time.

Suddenly, I raised my head once again. The sucking mouth couldn't have done the speaking. That meant that there was more than one person in the room with me.

"Who's here?" I asked in a querulous voice.

"It's okay, Davey," said Mr. Emerson. Now I was sure it was him. "Just relax."

I returned my head to the pillow once more as the mouth continued to work my shaft. Knowing that Mr. Emerson was one of the two other people in the room with me made me feel at ease–even though I had only met him a few hours ago and he had fucked me hard–but I wanted to know who the other person was. He–and I had to assume that it was a male given that I hadn't seen a single member of the opposite sex at Mr. Stone's party–was swirling my cockhead with his tongue on every upstroke.

I lay there in silence for a few moments as a hand–I had to assume it was Mr. Emerson's–began to stroke my forehead.

"Just let it feel good for you, Davey," Mr. Emerson said as he caressed my forehead with his fingertips, adjusted my hair, and slid his hand down to cup my cheek. "Do you like that?"

I did like it. Whoever it was had soft lips and a gentle, swirling tongue. "Yes," I said in soft voice. I wasn't sure why I was whispering.

I closed my eyes–not that I could see through the blindfold, anyway–and relaxed. Whoever the mystery sucking person was, he was skilled at the task, and I embraced my second full-on blowjob of the day. It felt very nice. I was amazed at how many different techniques could be used when sucking a cock. I knew several of them–including, I hoped, the new deep-throating skill that Mr. Emerson had taught me–but this was a new one to me. It was first-rate. I liked it a lot.

Mr. Emerson removed his hand, and I felt the mattress move as he rose from the bed. As the mouth working my penis kept right on sucking, I felt hands untying first my right ankle and then my left. When I felt the ligatures being lifted away, I bent my legs at the knee, confirming that I could move them freely once again.

Then the mouth pulled away, leaving my erection jutting and quivering from my groin. I felt cold air on the wet surface of my penis. There was a rustling and movement of the mattress between my legs. Someone grasped my left ankle and used it to pull my leg up and back, almost to my shoulder. There was more rustling and repositioning as the same thing happened to my right ankle and leg. Both legs now were bent back with my ankles on either side of my head. I was very flexible back then, so while the position wasn't exactly comfortable for me, it also wasn't painful.

I didn't speak or try to resist as my legs were repositioned nor when I felt something hard and foreign against my butt hole, but I could not suppress a gasp of surprise as I felt a cold substance squirt directly on my hole. Surprisingly I don't remember being frightened. My instincts immediately told me that it was lube, an assumption that I confirmed a moment later when I felt fingers spreading it in my cleft and rubbing it into my anus. Another set of fingers and a palm grasped my erection and gently squeezed and masturbated it. Meanwhile, two other sets of hands continued to hold my ankles to either side of my head. It seemed like there were hands holding and touching me everywhere.

I knew I was to be fucked by Mr. Emerson or whoever the mystery second person was. Looking back on it, I probably should have been more concerned about that than I was, but my main objective at that point was just to learn the person's identity. For the time being, my blindfold prevented that. If the person who had lubed my hole was the same person who had been sucking me, that almost certainly meant the Mr. Emerson was holding my ankles. Then again, there could have been a third person in the room, but I didn't think so. My only worry was how big the second person was. I knew my hole still would be sore from what I had done earlier in the day, especially from Mr. Emerson fucking me in the pool. I didn't want to feel more pain down there, but I just accepted it was going to happen, and I thought that the lube at least would make it more tolerable for me.

"There's a good boy, Davey," encouraged Mr. Emerson in a soothing tone. I suspect that he thought I was more worried than I was about being tied and blindfolded with a mystery person in the room with us. The fact was, I trusted him–and by extension, Mr. Stone and Aaron–that I wasn't in any danger. I did very much want to know who the second person was, but I wasn't scared. It helped that Pete had blindfolded me, tied me up, and fucked me several times before when we played our games together. Pete liked to fuck me when I was tied up, and it also gave me a thrill.

As Mr. Emerson spoke by my head, the second person crawled between my legs and positioned his knees to either side of my butt. I could feel the mattress moving beneath me as he got into position.

I continued to lie still as the cock belonging to the second person worked itself up and down my slippery cleft before positioning itself at my opening. I gave a silent prayer that my butt hole wasn't too raw to take another cock. I had already been fucked twice today–assuming it still was before midnight, which I honestly didn't know one way or the other–once by Mr. Tal in the theatre and another time by Mr. Emerson in the pool. The most Pete had ever fucked me in one day was three times, so this would be tying a record of sorts for me.

A pair of hands gripped my thighs, one on each. The one on the left felt slippery, so I assumed it was the same one that had lubed my butt. I was starting to narrow down the total number of hands in the room, and I now thought there probably were only six, including two of my own.

Without further ado, the cock bore down and entered me. There was a little twang of pain at first but not much after that as the cock slid inside me. It didn't feel very big, and for that, I was grateful. I was relieved that it didn't hurt all that much. The third time with Pete had hurt, but with the help of the lube, this wasn't too bad, all things considered.

The hands gripping my ankles continued to hold them down as the mystery cock began to rock in and out of my rectum. Its owner was being gentle. I tested the strength of the ties around my wrists by tugging at them. They remained tight. I wondered how Mr. Emerson had managed to position me on the bed and tie me up without waking me up. I must have been very tired, which made a lot of sense given my whirlwind of a day and to be honest, even though I had been enjoying the blowjob, I would have been just as happy to have been left to sleep the night through.

I finally heard a grunt from the second person as he continued to thrust his erection in and out of my butt. Until then, he hadn't made a sound. I had no chance of placing the person from a single grunt. Was it someone I had met? There was no way for me to know. The thrusts became a bit more vigorous as the act continued, and I could feel the mystery male's groin and hips moving against me as the hands on my thighs squeezed me even tighter.

Pete often liked to settle in for a lengthy fuck, sometimes lasting upwards of 15 minutes if he was on his second or third go, but I had no idea what to expect from my unknown partner. Just as I was pondering that very thought, he groaned again, thrust his cock to the hilt inside me, and came, his hands sliding up to the underside of my knees and gripping me there as he climaxed. The entire fuck had lasted no more than about three minutes from start to finish, which also was a new record for me.

I felt the mattress moving underneath me once again as the mystery male's hands left my knees and his cock withdrew from my butt. At the same time, Mr. Emerson's hands let go of my ankles, and it felt like he rose from the bed. I brought my legs back down and stretched them out with a contented sigh.

"Not so fast, Davey," said Mr. Emerson as he tapped my knee. "You ready for one more?"

"I think I need a break, first," I replied. That much was true, but I was even more interested in removing my blindfold and learning the identity of the mystery male. If he left before Mr. Emerson finished with me, I might never know who he was. But I was tied to the bed, and that decision really wasn't up to me.

I felt the mattress move beneath me once again as someone climbed on the mattress and positioned himself between my legs. I had to assume that I had been overruled.

"Bend your knees," said Mr. Emerson as he tapped them with his fingers.

"What about my break?" I protested, even as I obeyed his instruction and brought my knees up to form a pair of triangles on the bed.

"Break time comes right after this," he replied as he placed his hands under my knees and pushed them up and back once again. "You two got me kind of worked up," he added with what sounded like a slight tone of apology.

I groaned at this news. Assuming he was planning to do what I thought, I was about to set a new personal best in the anal-sex category, taking a fourth cock up my butt in the span of a single day–or at least a 24-hour span. The good news was, I remained well-lubed, and my butt was full of cum from the mystery fuck, so I didn't think I would be too abraded down there, but I knew that I would be very sore tomorrow; that much was certain. It would be the kind of butt soreness that made it hard to walk, painful to run, and impossible to ride a bike.

I gasped with the fullness of it as Mr. Emerson's penis entered my rectum once again. I wondered how much more stamina he possibly could have. This was his third time having a go at me if you included the deep-throat blowjob. Even the first time had been late in the day, well after dinner, when we had sex in the pool. Had he been with any other boys earlier in the day? I had already been with two other men myself before he fucked me in the pool, and I had to assume from the nature of the party that Mr. Emerson had found some companionship of his own earlier in the day. Even if he hadn't had any other boys, he still was about to match Pete's record for orgasms in a single day.

"You feel amazing," said the man as he pushed my knees down to the mattress to either side of my head. It was a good thing that I was so flexible at that age. His cock felt slick and slippery as he humped it in and out of my cum-filled hole. Unlike water, cum seemed to act like a super lubricant, making Mr. Emerson's cock slide inside me without too much effort. It really wasn't that bad at all. While I'm sure that the lube and cum helped, I also didn't realize at the time how elastic my sphincter and anus had become after taking so many cocks.

I heard the water turn on in the bathroom as Mr. Emerson humped me, so I had to assume the mystery male hadn't left. It occurred to me that if Mr. Emerson intended to keep me tied to the bed and blindfolded, I might never know who he was. It bothered me to think that I could be at breakfast the next morning with someone who had fucked me anonymously, but I knew that there wasn't anything I could do about it. Like the other men in my life, Mr. Emerson would make whatever decision he wanted to in that regard. I was 11 years old, and I didn't really question his right to do so any more than I questioned his right to fuck me. Maybe I should have been more assertive about things back then, but it just wasn't in my nature to do so–not at that age, and certainly not at Mr. Stone's party with my friendship with Pete riding on how well I behaved.

When he wasn't jumping about awkwardly in the pool, Mr. Emerson fucked more like Pete. He took his time, and the entire process lasted well over 10 minutes by my estimation. Not that I had a watch or any ability to time him; it just seemed to be about that long before he gave me three, hard, deep, somewhat painful thrusts, grasped the back of my head in his right hand and came, letting go of my other knee and collapsing on top of me in a grunting, panting heap as he enjoyed the throes of his orgasm. He was mushing me and pressing his hairy chest into my cheek, but he weighed a lot less than Pete, and I still was able to breathe as he gave me his last few groaning penetrations. By contrast, when Pete collapsed on top of me after one his orgasms my very survival seemed to be in doubt. Pete was a big man, and when his entire body was on top of you, you tended to notice his size even more.

Mr. Emerson was panting from exertion as he rolled off me to the side. I could hear him gasping as he recovered.

"You are a nice, hot fuck, kid," said Mr. Emerson as he got his breathing under control and placed his hand on my groin. My penis was flaccid as he played with it. "Want to be adopted?" he asked.

"But you already have Mikey," I reminded him as I tugged at my binds. It was a gentle suggestion that I wanted to be released.

"Imagine the fun you two could have together," he replied. "It's always more fun with more than one." He paused for a moment. "Hey! I just made a rhyme, didn't I? It's always more fun with more than one," he repeated.

I smiled. It did rhyme, and it was kind of funny, too.

"You say it," he commanded.

"It's always more fun … with more than one," I recited.

"It's always more fun with more than one," he repeated.

"It's always more fun with more than one," I gave him back.

"It's always more fun with more than one," he said in a singsong, chanting kind of way.

Smiling, I immediately picked up the chant. "It's always more fun," I said, as he chimed in, "with more than one."

"It's always more fun with more than one!" we said together.

"It's always more fun with more than one!"

"It's always more fun with more than one!"

I was giggling as I chanted. At the same time, Mr. Emerson was playing with my penis, squeezing, and stroking it as we goofed around, but it didn't react the way I think he wanted it to. Like the rest of me, I guess it was tired, and after a time, he seemed to give up.

"Okay," he said ending the chant. "You. Bathroom. Now," he said as he began to untie my right wrist. "Get yourself cleaned up so you're not leaking all over the bed."

I pulled my right arm down as the ligature came free, while Mr. Emerson reached across me and undid my left. When my arms were free, he pulled off the blindfold, and I could see.

Squinting, I sat up immediately and looked around the room for the mystery male. After a few seconds of looking, I spotted him seated on the settee with a towel wrapped around his waist. It was one of the older boys who had been mean to Mikey earlier in the pool! Although he had just sucked and fucked me, he apparently couldn't be bothered to acknowledge my gaze with a head nod or a friendly gesture, much less did he say anything. Instead, he met my look with the same dismissive, holier-than-thou attitude that he had displayed earlier in the day. It was the same kind of aloof, can't-be-bothered look that kids my age usually got from kids his age.

I recognized him from his longer hair, and although I couldn't see it from across the room, I remembered that he had a birthmark on one of his arms. I also knew his name: Gregory. Aaron had told me earlier that he was spending the night with a man I hadn't met named Mr. Drucker, but here he was.

"I assume the two of you have already met," said Mr. Emerson as he saw my eyes fix on the other boy. "Gregory was free tonight, so I invited him to join us. You know what they say, don't you?" he added with a twinkle in his eye. "It's always more fun with more than one."

"I thought he was supposed to be with Mr. Drucker tonight," I whispered to Mr. Emerson.

The man chuckled and tweaked my nose. "Aren't you Mr. Busybody," he teased. "It just so happens that the aforesaid Mr. Drucker got a better offer on the basement level. Probably a good thing for Gregory, anyway, as I'm much more vanilla," he said with another little laugh. "Now go get yourself cleaned up," he said as he tugged me from the bed by my arm.

I didn't know what he meant by vanilla, but I stepped to the floor and walked to the bathroom, glancing at Gregory once again as I did so. He finally made eye contact with me, only to look away disdainfully as I passed.

When I emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, both Gregory and Mr. Emerson were in bed, propped up on pillows and wearing their bathrobes. My robe, of course, was across the hall where I had left it hanging on the bathroom door. The only attire I had to wear was my pouch, which was lying in a neglected little heap on the floor next to the bed. I wasn't sure what to do.

"You can climb back up, Davey," said Mr. Emerson. "There's plenty of room." He scooched over on the bed to his right closer to Gregory and patted the mattress to his left.

"Should I get my bathrobe?" I asked.

"No need, Davey," the man replied as he tapped the mattress once again. "You're plenty fine the way you are."

Feeling a bit sheepish to be the only naked person in the room, I went around to the other side of the bed and climbed up next to Mr. Emerson. He reached his arm around me and pulled me against his body, his left hand resting on my bottom. Then did the same thing to Gregory with his right arm, pulling the older boy against his opposite side. He gave my butt a little squeeze.

"Ah, this the life, boys, isn't it?" he said as he gave my butt another squeeze. "You won't find a nicer room at the Ritz-Carlton, and you certainly won't find such good company. Mr. Stone is a fabulous host, isn't he?"

"Yes," I said with a nod. I really liked Mr. Stone. No offense to Mr. Emerson, but Mr. Stone was my favorite of all the men I had met at the party, and if I were being honest with myself, I liked him even more than Aaron.

Gregory said nothing in response. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him shrug.

"Oh, you don't think so?" said Mr. Emerson as he turned his head toward the older boy. "Maybe you rather be back out on the streets? Would you like that better?"

"No," said Gregory somewhat sullenly.

"Gregory used to be a whore, isn't that right?" said Mr. Emerson matter-of-factly. He had taken on the tone of a cross schoolteacher.

My mouth literally gaped open at the man's words, but as far as I could tell, Gregory gave no visible reaction.

"You were a fixture on Cicero Avenue, weren't you, Gregory?" the man persisted.

Now I could see the kid's fidgety reaction from across Mr. Emerson's chest. He did not look happy.

"I'm sure that was a better life for you than what you have now, right?" persisted Mr. Emerson. "Keeping the chicken-hawks happy?"

"No," replied the boy sullenly. He now looked tense and unhappy. I had no idea what a chicken-hawk was.

"Well, then, maybe you should learn to show a little gratitude, Gregory," said the man. "Or is that too much to ask?"

"No," repeated the boy in a chastened tone.

"No, what?" asked Mr. Emerson.

"It's not too much to ask," said Gregory resignedly.

"Because if you don't like it here, you can go back to that life whenever you want, Gregory."

"I like it here," said the boy defensively.

"Or maybe you'd prefer having your pimp beat the shit out of you again. Was that fun for you?"

I wasn't entirely sure what a pimp was. I knew they dressed in fancy suits, wore lots of jewelry, and drove nice cars. I had no idea why one would want to beat Gregory up.

"No," said the boy. His responses were getting softer and softer as Mr. Emerson berated him.

"Who paid to have you patched up after the last time?"

"Mr. Stone," Gregory replied.

"The same Mr. Stone who's hosting this party?"

"Yes," said the somber boy.

"Well, then, maybe you better show a little respect, Gregory," said Mr. Emerson. "My recommendation is that you get off your high horse and start thinking about how good you have it here. Malcolm is a close friend of mine, and I won't see you treating him disrespectfully."

The man's lecture sounded eerily familiar to me. Pete would have ended that last statement either with "capiche?" or "do I make myself clear?"–depending on how angry he was at me. I was glad not to be on the receiving end of Mr. Emerson's lecture. Although I wasn't the target of it, his words were giving me that same unsettled feeling I got when Pete chastised me. I didn't like being yelled at, and I could only imagine how Gregory felt having it happen to him right in front of me.

"I'm not," said Gregory.

"You most certainly are," Mr. Emerson contradicted. "Your family threw you out on the streets, you sucked cock for money, and by the time you were Davey's age, you were an experienced whore as well as a speed addict. Am I missing anything, hmm?"

"I'm not on my high horse, Mr. Emerson–I'm sorry," said Gregory. "Please don't say anything bad to Mr. Stone. I'm grateful to him, really I am. He is a really nice man." His tone was very contrite and conciliatory, and I thought he seemed frightened.

"Good," said the man in a cheerier tone. "Because I have a task for the two of you," he said as he took his right arm from around Gregory waist and used it to untie the sash of his robe. "My cock needs sucking, and I'd like you guys to work on it together. What do you say?"

Despite how tired I felt I didn't get more than about four hours of sleep that night. Gregory, Mr. Emerson, and I engaged in three-way sex until the wee hours of the morning. They each fucked me one more time, which meant that my new record for being fucked in a single day–or, at least, a single 24-hour period–was six. At Mr. Emerson's urging, I tried fucking Gregory, but I had trouble penetrating, and when I finally did get my boner partly inside his butt hole, it kept slipping out again. Gregory obviously was unhappy to be fucked by me, and although it took only a single word from Mr. Emerson to stop his protests, he didn't help at all. I think he was clenching his butt cheeks and making it difficult for me the entire time. After a few more tries, I simply gave up. I could take a hint, and it didn't feel all that wonderful to me, anyway. From that limited experience, I certainly didn't get what all the grunting and moaning was about when people fucked me.

By the time I finally was allowed to fall asleep that night, I don't think I had ever felt so tired in my entire life. I fell into a deep sleep lying naked on the bed next to Mr.  Emerson. When I woke up to go to the bathroom at my usual early morning time, I saw Gregory stretched out on the settee in his bathrobe. It seemed that he thought he was too good to sleep with us in the bed, even though there was plenty of room. I couldn't have cared less. After peeing, I returned to the bed next to Mr. Emerson and was out again before my head hit the pillow.

When I awoke again an hour or so later that morning, I was the only one left in the room. I lifted my head and glanced over at the clock on the bedside table. It was 8:22 a.m. I was tired, and I wanted nothing more than to roll over and go back to sleep, but it weirded me out to be in the room all by myself. I rubbed my eyes, worrying if everyone else was at breakfast wondering where I was. Someone had said something about Mr. Stone putting on a nice spread, but I couldn't for the life of me remember who had told me that. I also couldn't remember whether Aaron had told me what time the party ended or what time he wanted to leave.

I still was in the process of waking up when a worrying thought entered my mind. What if Aaron left the party and abandoned me here? It made absolutely no sense that he would do so, and I knew that, but the sudden worry jarred me fully awake. I was in a strange house in a strange city with people who were complete strangers to me not even 24 hours ago. The only person I had known for more than a day was Aaron, and it wasn't like the two of us knew each other all that well, either. What if he had somewhere to go? He seemed to rush around a lot. What if he decided he couldn't wait for me any longer? What if he forgot I was here?

I knew that my concerns were irrational, but that didn't make them any less real to me. I threw the covers back and sprung out of bed, intending to don my robe and head downstairs as quickly as I could, but it was not to be. I took two steps and my butt suddenly cried out in protest. It was sore. To be more specific, my butt hole felt like it had been impaled by a telephone pole, and the area around it felt chafed and raw. I stumbled and pulled up limping, almost in disbelief at how much it hurt. Apparently, being fucked six times in a 24-hour period was not something that my butt hole found amusing. It even hurt to walk, and I had to spread my feet almost shoulder-length apart to prevent my butt cheeks from chafing as I did so.

Once again, the only garment I had with me in the room was my pouch. It always seemed to be around, and by that point I didn't know whether to love or hate the thing. After being discarded as a swimsuit in favor of skinny dipping immediately upon my arrival at the party, it eventually had come in handy in Mr. Stone's office, and again thereafter with Mr. Emerson. I stepped into it, groaning at the throbbing pain from my nether regions as I did so. I certainly hoped that the sex part of the party was over with because I knew that there was no way I could take another cock up my butt at least for the next 24 hours, if even then. I was that sore down there. It really hurt.

The door the hallway was closed, but I opened it and ventured across to the bathroom to retrieve my bathrobe, but to my surprise and horror, it was gone. By now I had worked myself up with the fear of Aaron abandoning me, so despite my shame at only having the thong to wear, I steeled myself to go back downstairs dressed in nothing more than the skimpy little garment. Barefoot, I proceeded slowly down the hall to the staircase that Aaron and I had climbed so many hours before.

I dreaded navigating the stairs even before I got to them because I knew that they would wreak havoc on my sore butt. They did. Each step was a trauma, and I ended up taking them very slowly, stepping down one step at a time with my right foot, then bringing the left foot down to join it on the same riser. It was a relief to step free from the staircase. Walking slowly, but trying not to appear to be limping, I made my way into the great room where I hoped to meet up again with Aaron.

The atmosphere was subdued as I entered the room. A great spread of food was laid out on the banquet tables. A couple of men were milling about in the lounge area. I heard splashing from the pool. Three people were eating at the tables nearby. None of that, however, interested me all that much. Although I had gone downstairs to find Aaron, what caught and held my attention were the two Space Invaders games, only one of which was being played as I entered the room. I guess I was easily distracted but I had missed out on playing them the night before and I really wanted a turn. I saw Mikey standing to the side of the working machine, still dressed only in the bottoms of his Superman Underoos. One of the tanned twins I had seen earlier was playing the game as Mike watched. He was dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of white briefs.

My mind willed me to walk quickly to the game machines, but my butt had other ideas. I hobbled my way over instead and immediately was greeted by Mikey.

"Hi Davey!" he said with a huge smile as he saw me.

"Hi," I replied wearily. I liked Mikey just fine, but he was younger than I, and that meant that I felt almost obligated not to seem as excited to see him as he was to see me. There are certain rules of being a kid that simply cannot be violated no matter what the circumstances.

"We're playing Space Invaders!" he announced.

"I can see that," I said with a nod as I approached the console. The tanned kid glanced at me for a split second before turning his attention back to the game.

"That's Dillon," said Mikey as he saw me look at the other boy.

"I'm Darrin, dork," said the boy.

Mikey laughed at his own mistake. "You look like Dillon," he said with a shrug.

"Hi," Darrin said as he ignored Mikey's comment and ventured another quick glance in my direction.

"Hi," I replied. I watched for a bit as he shot at the aliens making their way across his screen. I looked over at the other machine to see that it was dark.

"Is this one working?" I asked Mikey.

"It broked," he declared. "Mr. Stone's gotta get it fixed."

It was just my luck. Here I was, available and eager to play Space Invaders, but one of the two machines already was broken, and the other one had first Darrin and then Mikey in line ahead of me.

"You can play after Darrin," said Mikey.

I wanted to hug the kid for that, but of course I refrained. "Thanks," I replied.

As I watched, Darrin's second battery got blown to bits by one of the alien's bombs. He was down to his last life and then it would be my turn to play!

"Hey there," said a voice from behind me as a hand clamped down on my right shoulder. Startled, I immediately turned to look over my shoulder, but I already knew from the man's voice that it was Aaron.

"Hey," I said with a nod.

"Morning," he said. "You're up earlier than I expected. Everything go–" he started to say, but his voice trailed off. He turned me around, then looked directly at me. He seemed to be studying my face. After a few seconds, he pulled me by my arm away from the arcade games, mostly out of earshot of the other boys.

"Jesus Christ, Davey, you have cum all over your face and in your hair," he said in a whispered voice that sounded on the verge of being angry. He turned me around and looked at my backside. "And on your butt, too. Didn't you take a shower when you got up?"

Although I didn't know what he was talking about much less where it was, I brought my right hand to my face and touched it sheepishly.

"No," I replied in a worried voice. I didn't know I was supposed to take a shower when I got up. Aaron hadn't told me that. Nobody had told me that. I didn't even think I was due for one. I had taken a shower yesterday before Aaron and I set off on our errands, and I had gone swimming twice since then, which I always thought was kind of like taking a shower. Aaron kept mentioning it to me, but I still didn't think I needed one. At that age, I simply didn't need to shower every day.

"Davey," Aaron said with a shake of his head, "Mr. Stone's house isn't a brothel. How many times have I told you that there are a million bathrooms in this place? You look like a cum rag."

I didn't know what a brothel was, nor was I familiar with the concept of a "cum rag," but I had a pretty good idea what he meant. This appeared to be another one of those things that I was just supposed to know without anyone telling me. Aaron had told me to take a shower before, but only after I pooped. I hadn't needed to go poop yet, so I hadn't showered. Once again, he was angry at me.

"Sorry," I said as I drew my hand over my face once again, trying to find the cum. It had been several hours since my last sex escapades with Mr. Emerson and Gregory, so I was very surprised to hear that any cum remained on my face. I would have figured that it had long since evaporated.

"Stop rubbing it," commanded Aaron. "I want you to go back upstairs and take a shower," he continued. "Scrub your face and be sure to wash your hair. Try to find a hairdryer so you don't come back down looking like a wet mop."

"Okay," I said dejectedly and perhaps a little sullenly. I wanted to play just one game of Space Invaders before I did those things, but I didn't dare to ask.

"Watch your attitude," warned Aaron. "Did you thank Mr. Emerson for hosting you last night?"

"No," I answered nervously with a shake of my head. "He was gone when I woke up, Aaron, I swear."

The man studied me for a moment before speaking. "Am I going to get a good report about your behavior last night?"

"I- I think so," I replied. "But it wasn't just me. That kid Gregory was there, too."

"He was?" Aaron asked. He seemed surprised.

"He came in after me–a long time after," I explained. "Mr. Drucker was in the basement."

My explanation seemed to kindle something in Aaron's brain, as he looked pensive for a moment, then started to nod.

"That's right," he said. "You're right–he was supposed to be with Carl last night. That makes sense. Mr. Drucker was … he was doing something else."

"Did you go the basement?" I asked him directly. I still wanted to know what had gone on in the D Room after I had heard those screams.

"That's not something you need to know the answer to, Davey," he replied evenly. "Put that out of your mind. Now get yourself showered, and then I want you to go find Mr. Emerson and thank him properly."

"Okay," I replied with a nod. "Then can we call Pete?" I asked hopefully.

"I'll decide when it's time for me to call Pete," he replied. "Now get going!"

Walking slowly and carefully, I made the painful climb back to the third floor and returned to the Daley Room. It remained empty, so I went to the bathroom to take my shower. Before I did, I looked in the mirror to see where the cum was on my face. I had flakey streak of whiteness on my left cheek and anther patch of it on my left forehead that was matting my hair. Mr. Emerson had cum on my face last night, and it seemed that I hadn't wiped it all off. My face was a mess, and my hair was ridiculously disheveled. I could see why Aaron was perturbed with me.

With my concerns about Aaron leaving the party without me alleviated, I ended up taking a nice, long shower, and it felt good. I gently soaped my sore anus and washed the dried cum from my butt cheeks. When I was finished, I stepped from the bathtub and was about to grab a towel when there was a sharp knock on the bathroom door that startled the living daylights out of me. I almost fell over in surprise as the door opened. It was Mr. Emerson. He was dressed in his silk pajama bottoms and holding a stack of linens in his hands.

"Morning, Davey!" he said with a bright smile, as I stood there naked and dripping wet. "I brought you some towels and a bathrobe," he said as he stepped into the bathroom and placed the items on the counter to the side of the sink. "Toothbrush and toothpaste on top. I don't know if you use deodorant, but I brought you some of that, too." He turned to face me.

"Personally, I like a boy's natural scent," he said with a grin, as he looked over my naked, dripping body. "Did you sleep alright? You're up earlier than I expected."

"I slept okay," I said with a nod, followed by a yawn. "Nobody was there when I woke up, so I just got up."

"You were still sleeping when we left, and we didn't want to wake you," the man replied. "Gregory had someplace he had to be, so I got him going and then made a couple of detours. You were in the shower when I got back, so I waited until I heard you turn off the water before I came in."

"Thanks," I said amiably. I was still dripping wet from the shower, and I wanted to grab a towel. Mr. Emerson seemed to sense that, as he smiled and turned toward the door.

"Why don't I let you finish up, and then we can head down together for breakfast. Sound like a plan?"

"Yes," I said with another nod, as I reached for the stack he had brought and extracted the largest towel.

"There's a hairdryer in one of the bottom drawers if you need it," said Mr. Emerson as left the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

It took me another few minutes to brush my teeth and blow dry my hair. There was a brush on the counter that I used to part my hair in the middle the way Ramses and Aaron had done it for me. It wasn't perfect, but I think I did a decent job, especially for my first time. I was hoping to show Pete my new hairstyle later today and I wanted it to look nice. When I was finished with that, I stepped into my pouch and unfolded the new bathrobe that Mr. Emerson had brought me. I put it on and reached in the pocket for the sash. Sure enough, there it was.

I stepped from the bathroom to find Mr. Emerson seated on the bed, seemingly waiting for me. He gave me a big smile.

"All clean and fresh?" he asked.

"All set," I replied with a nod.

"Come on over here for a second," he said as he spread his arms welcomingly. "Morning hug."

I walked to the bed and into his embrace, and as I did so I was pleased to find that the shower had helped to soothe the pain in my bottom. It still was sore, but not as much, and it no longer felt like my butt cheeks were grinding against each other as I walked.

Mr. Emerson brough his face to the top of my head and drew in a big breath through his nose. Ummm," he sighed. "Fresh, clean boy. I love the way you smell, Davey."

That was a first for me. Nobody had ever told me before that they liked the way I smelled.

"Thanks," I replied, "and um, thanks for, um, letting me stay here last night."

"The pleasure was all mine, Davey my boy," he said, as he ended the hug and ruffled my hair. "You are quite the talented young man. You learned some new tricks last night, didn't you?"

"Yes," I acknowledged with yet another nod, but I wasn't sure what to say after that. It seemed to be my turn to speak, but the words wouldn't form in my brain. Finally, some came.

"Thanks for … teaching me that," I said a bit sheepishly.

"Again, the pleasure was all mine," replied Mr. Emerson. "I'm always happy to show a nice boy a new trick or two, and you were quite the diligent student."

"Thanks," I said again with a smile as I looked up at him.

His eyes met mine, but he didn't say anything further–neither of us did. Once again, I wasn't sure whose turn it was to speak, but Aaron's admonition kept running through my head. I knew I was supposed to thank Mr. Emerson the proper way, but I wasn't sure how to go about making the offer. He wasn't pulling his cock out to be sucked, and I had never propositioned a man to do the sucking. It was awkward. The silence lingered in the air for several moments.

"Um, maybe um … ," I started to say uncertainly. My voice sounded nervous. "Would you, um, like me to do that? What you taught me?"

Mr. Emerson responded with a chuckle. "Davey, I don't think the Budweiser Clydesdales could stop me from taking you up on that offer. Tell you what–why don't you grab a couple more towels from the bathroom just in case, and I'll get myself ready here."

I nodded and turned toward the bathroom, but Mr. Emerson call me back.

"Are you still wearing that thing you had on yesterday and last night?"

I nodded in response.

"Just come back out in that," the man instructed. "You don't need the robe," he added with a wink.

I did as he asked, and when I emerged from the bathroom once again, Mr. Emerson was stretched out naked on the bed. His eyes drank me in as I walked across the room in my pouch while carrying a couple of towels. He already sported a full erection.

"I just love how that looks on you, Davey," he said in a sultry, teasing voice. Of all the men I had been with over the last 24 hours, Mr. Emerson was the most playful.

I climbed up on the bed and handed the towels to him. With a hand on my upper arm, he tugged me into position between his spread legs. His cock was rock hard and levitating from his groin.

"I'll put these here, Davey," he said as he positioned the towels next to his right hip. "If you feel like you might want to gag or throw up, do it on the towels so you don't get me or the bed okay?"

I nodded as I knee-walked a little closer to him. I was hoping that I wouldn't throw up, but now it was in my mind.

"Okay," I said as I eyed his erection and took it in my hand. I must have looked a little worried.

"It's okay if it happens, Davey," Mr. Emerson reassured me. "It's going to take some time before you can do it flawlessly every time. Some guys like it when you gag on it, anyway–it's cute and it makes for a nice sensation. Either way, it's a good skill to have, especially at your age."

I nodded as I contemplated the man's erect dick. I wasn't all that worried about how he might react if I gagged or threw up–I was worried about the gagging and throwing up part itself. I didn't like the sensation. Who did? But I had a thank you to deliver and cock to suck, so I lowered my head and bent to the task at hand.

I wanted to get Mr. Emerson's cockhead wet before I tried anything involving my throat, so I licked around his glans and frenulum before taking the bulbous helmet between my lips. I swirled it with my tongue, wetting it copiously all the way around before beginning some light bobs that got the shaft wet from the crown to a point about halfway down his shaft. The man said nothing as I worked on him. He seemed content to lie back against the mountain of pillows behind him and let me do my thing.

Once I had his cock sufficiently wet and slippery with my saliva, I braced myself to take the literal plunge down the length of his shaft to his pubic bone and the top of his scrotum. I willed myself to remember the lesson he had given me last night about relaxing, opening my throat, taking a breath in, and holding it. I also had the swallowing technique that I had developed all on my own. I just needed to get them all working in the right sequence to suppress my gag reflex, and that took some planning.

Only one thing was different this time, but it did give me some pause for concern. Because I was kneeling and facing Mr. Emerson, his penis was angled the opposite way, and it was more difficult to recreate the straight shot through my mouth and into the opening to my throat. I wondered how much of a difference this would make. Would his penis catch at the opening to my throat? Would I have trouble getting it all the way down?

As it turned out, I didn't need to worry. When I got Mr. Emerson's cock sufficiently wet and mustered my courage, I opened my throat and took his cockhead inside, breathing in and then swallowing as I went. His entire head popped into my throat without any issue.

Not only did I not feel any urge to gag or vomit, but it was neat the way my throat fit around his cockhead and molded to its size. I don't know how to describe this feeling, nor do I know if anyone else ever has experienced it quite the way I did, but Mr. Emerson's cock felt comfortable in my throat–like a sword in a custom-fitted scabbard. It wasn't just that I felt a sense of accomplishment that I could now do something I had been scared even to try before with Pete; it was more than that. It felt nice to have his penis in my throat, like it belonged there. I felt no urge to gag whatsoever.

In fact, on the very next bob, I took Mr. Emerson all the way down until my nose was crammed against his public bush and my lower lip was in contact with his scrotum. I still felt no urge to gag at all. I held my breath and kept my head there for a while, bobbing rapidly up and down on the last little bit of his cock, almost astonished to find that I could do what I was doing. His entire penis was in my mouth and throat, and by entire, I mean all of it. I not only had swallowed his entire length, but I felt like I could take even more if he had it to give.

"Oh, wow, Davey," said Mr. Emerson, "that feels nice. Keep doing that."

I bobbed on that last little bit of cock for another few seconds, reveling in my accomplishment before I slid my lips back up his shaft until only his cockhead was in my mouth. I swirled it with my tongue, working his glans, piss slit, and frenulum while I drew in some much-needed breaths. Then I went back down on it again, straight into my throat, right to the hilt until his thick pubes were tickling my nose. I held it there for a few seconds before moving quickly up and down a couple of dozen times, this time bobbing on about half an inch [1.5 cm] of his shaft.

I was amazed at what I was doing. Mr. Emerson had taught me to suppress my gag reflex and not be afraid, and now it seemed like I could deep throat like a champion. He had been right that he was an excellent teacher; it had taken me only one session to become proficient in the art. The key to it in my case was just the confidence to know that I wouldn't gag and throw up when I did it. Once I had that part down, the actual throat penetration and performance of the blowjob was easy.

That may sound like bragging but given my experience, I suspect that most everyone has it within them to deep throat a cock if they really want to. Literally overnight, I had gone from almost too scared to try to skilled at the task. I couldn't wait to try my new trick out on Pete! I was sure he would be pleased with me when I showed him what I could do.

For now, though, I had a thank you to deliver and a cock to suck, so I concentrated my efforts on making Mr. Emerson feel good. He seemed to like me taking him deep in my throat while bobbing quickly up and down on a small part of his shaft, so I did that several times. He put his hand on my head to guide me, using it to help push me gently down when I began my plunge, but once I had him impaled all the way he pretty much let me do my up-and-down thing. I could tell that he was enjoying my performance by the little groans and grunts he gave and the way his hips bucked involuntarily toward my mouth.

When I sensed him getting close, I drew in a big breath and took him all the way into my throat, then bobbed as quickly as I could on the last part of his shaft. The speed of my head movements was not unlike the "squelcha-squelcha" blowjob he had given me in the pool, only I wasn't doing it on his full cock the way he had done it for me. The reason for my more limited bobbing was simple physics; his cock was much bigger than mine, which meant that I had to cover more territory with each bob if I tried to do it over his full length. He seemed perfectly content with the way I was doing it, however.

He came on the fifth of my deep-breath plunges to the base of his shaft. I could feel his cock pulsing and contracting in my throat as his hand pushed down on my head, stopping my frenzied bobs, and holding me impaled on the full length of his cock as he ejaculated. I was short of breath by that point and was relieved when he twitched his hips a few last times and let me go.

I immediately pulled off, tasting his cum in my mouth only as his cockhead withdrew from my throat and dragged across my tongue. There wasn't much cum to taste, as the rest of it had been deposited directly into my tummy. I pulled off entirely and looked up at the man for what I hoped and expected would be his words of praise. I would not be disappointed.

"That, my young friend, was an excellent blowjob," he gushed as he looked up at me with a smile. "Wow. I mean it, Davey. That was truly outstanding. I've been fortunate to have experienced a lot of blowjobs in my life, but honest to God, that was one of the best. It felt amazing. Thank you," he said as he reached up to cup my left cheek.

I beamed at him. I was on cloud nine both from my sense of accomplishment and his words of praise. I knew that I had done well. I had given enough blowjobs by then to know what men liked, and there was no question in my mind that any normal man would like what I had just done for Mr. Emerson. I couldn't wait to give one of those to Pete. I knew that he would be very proud of me, especially since deep throating was something that he had talked to me about and promised that one day we would practice together.

Although I had been concentrating on being the best boy I could be at the party, I had rarely gone very long without thinking about my friend. Over the course of the last 24 hours, every time things became too difficult or I didn't want to do something, I had reminded myself that I was doing all this for Pete, and that I wanted and needed to have things go well to make him feel proud of me once again. My overriding goal had been to perform well at the party and earn Pete's praise, but now I had a new skill to demonstrate on him that I knew would come as a welcome surprise. Between the two things, I was very hopeful that I could win Pete back and undo the damage I had caused with my bad behavior. I also planned to apologize to him and had been reviewing and practicing what I planned to say.

"Are you ready for some breakfast?" said Mr. Emerson as he withdrew his hand from my cheek. "Not that I wouldn't prefer to spend all day with you right here, but you must be plenty hungry right?"

I was hungry, but not for food. I wanted to play Space Invaders like nobody's business.

"Yes," I responded with a nod as I crawled out from between the man's legs and made for the edge of the bed.

"Stand up and pose for me, Davey," he said. "I love that thing on you."

Feeling a little sheepish, I climbed off the bed and showed Mr. Emerson my pouch. I did a slow 360 for him then struck some silly poses as if I were primping for a camera.

"I'm going to have to get one of those for Mikey," he said, as he suddenly stood from the bed and approached me. "Hug?"

I went to him, and we hugged. My cheek pressed against his hairy chest as we embraced each other, his left hand running up and down my back and bottom as his right hand held me around my waist. After a few moments, he broke the hug, took my face in both hands, leaned down, and kissed me chastely on the lips.

"You sure you don't want to be adopted?" he asked with a grin, still holding my head.

"I don't think my mom would like that," I said sheepishly.

This elicited a chuckle and a smile from Mr. Emerson. "Well, if you ever change your mind, Mikey and I have plenty of room. It's just the two of us, you know, and did I mention that I have horses?" he teased.

"Thanks," I said as he leaned down and gave me another kiss.

"Okay, go brush your teeth and let's head down to breakfast," he said as he released my face and gave my nose a little tweak.

Aaron was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. He was fully dressed in the same clothes he had worn to the party yesterday, which was my first indication that things might be wrapping up.

"There you are," he said to me, before looking toward my companion. "Hello, Randy," he said as he held out his hand

"Aaron," replied Mr. Emerson as the two men shook. "It's good to see you. Business is good? I'm sorry we didn't get much of a chance to catch up this time around."

"Business is good," said Aaron as he began to walk with us toward the great room. "Much too busy but can't complain."

"Busy is good," replied Mr. Emerson. "Speaking of which, your little charge here kept me plenty busy last night."

"Good report?" queried Aaron.

"Nothing but accolades across the board, start to finish," said Mr. Emerson as he squeezed my shoulder through my robe. "I think he even learned some new tricks, isn't that right, Davey?"

"Yes, sir," I said politely as we entered the great room once again. Men and boys were milling about, mostly gathered by the food tables and in the lounge area, but my eyes were drawn elsewhere. There, in the middle of the room near the punch table, were the Space Invaders games.

A group of five boys was gathered around the one working game, while the other stood silent and abandoned to its right. I immediately started to head in that direction, but Aaron grabbed my upper arm and pulled me back.

"Not so fast," he admonished me. "You're not going to lose yourself in video games again. Get yourself some breakfast, and then we're going to get going."

I was crestfallen. Lose myself in video games? I hadn't played a single time! Every time I got close to playing, someone pulled me away either to talk to me or yell at me.

"I assume you thanked Randy for last night?" added Aaron.

"He certainly did," Mr. Emerson answered for me. "Great kid you have there, Aaron," he said as he looked over at the throng of boys assembled around the game machines.

"Toad, get over here!" he suddenly called in their direction. Several of the boys turned to look at us at the sound of his angry tone, Mikey being one of them. I watched as he separated himself from the pack and came running toward us. He was still dressed in his Superman Underoos briefs. He slowed to a walk as he drew near, looking sheepish and worried.

"What did I tell you about those games?" asked Mr. Emerson sternly.

"Not to play anymore times," replied Mikey contritely.

"Did you eat?" asked the man.

"No," whispered Mikey with his eyes averted downward. He looked very unhappy.

"Did you find your clothes as I asked?"

Mikey hesitated before replying, then seemed to shrink where he stood.

"No," he said softly.

Without further discussion, Mr. Emerson reached for Mikey's arm and pulled the boy roughly toward him. He bent Mikey over at the waist, encircling his head and shoulders with his left arm, then used his right hand to yank the boy's briefs down almost to his ankles. Still holding Mikey tight, he reached for his slipper, extracted it off his foot, and proceeded to administer five blistering spanks to Mikey's bottom, one after the other.

"POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!" went the slipper as Mikey writhed and squirmed in the man's grasp.

When he was finished, Mr. Emerson released the boy and stepped back into his slipper as Mikey began to whimper and cry, reaching behind him to clutch his bottom in both hands while doing the pain dance on his tip toes right in front of us.

"I told you no more video games!" said Mr. Emerson angrily. "Now get your breakfast and don't give me any more trouble. And find your clothes. We will discuss this again along with the other matters when we get home."

Mikey didn't reply as he clutched his bottom and looked up at the man. Tears overflowed his eyes and began to run down his cheeks. He reached down to tug his Underoos back into place.

"Give me those!" said Mr. Emerson as he pulled the boy close with another yank to his arm.

Instead of pulling his briefs back up his legs, Mikey now stepped out of them altogether. He reached down to grab them and handed them to his man, whimpering the entire time. I watched as Mr. Emerson stuffed them into the pocket of his robe.

"Go and eat," instructed the man, "then find your clothes. We're leaving in half an hour."

I turned slightly to watch Mikey scamper off. His bottom glowed red from his chastisement as he made his way toward the banquet tables, sobbing as he went.

"He'd play that damn game all day if I let him," growled Mr. Emerson. "I already told him we didn't have time for that this morning."

"Nor do we," said Aaron as he gave me a look. "Get some breakfast and find your clothes," he told me. "They're usually over by the boulders or near the bathroom. Don't dawdle. You need to thank Mr. Stone and say goodbye before we leave."

So that was that. I wouldn't get to play a single game of Space Invaders. Not only that, but Aaron apparently thought that I already had played too much. It was incredibly unfair. The fairness meter in my brain almost went haywire as I contemplated the sheer outrageousness of it. As much as I wanted to see Pete, I really wanted to play a few games of Space Invaders before we left. Now, I couldn't, and my disappointment and anger must have showed on my face.

"Attitude," warned Aaron. "Unless you want some smacks on the bottom yourself."

I knew instinctively that Aaron was just trying to show off for Mr. Emerson. I wasn't happy about that, but I also wasn't about to challenge the man's authority. With or without Space Invaders, the party had gone well, and I wasn't about to cause a scene and ruin things now.

"Okay," I said wearily as I turned toward the banquet tables to get myself something to eat.

I ended up sitting across from Mikey. He seemed to have recovered quickly from his spanking and was eating a Belgian waffle the size of a small plate, holding it in both hands and munching on it like it was an ear of corn. I was surprised to see that he was sitting on his bottom. After Pete punished me, I often couldn't sit down for a good while, which sometimes made it difficult to ride my bike home from his house. Often, whether it was because I had been spanked, fucked in my butt, or both, I ended up riding the entire way home without my backside so much as touching the seat, but Mikey was sitting like his bottom didn't even hurt. Although he had only got five whacks, they had been hard ones and he was only eight.

"Hi!" he said as he saw me approach. He seemed genuinely happy to see me again and even happier to have me join him across the table.

"Hey," I replied as I sat down. "How'd it go last night with Mr. Stone?" I asked the younger boy. I still was a bit envious that Mikey got to stay with him while I was with Mr. Emerson.

"Good," Mikey replied as he munched away on his waffle. He held it out to me to see. "It only gots syrup on this part so my fingers don't get sticky."

I looked, and sure enough, the waffle had syrup on the part he was eating but not the part he was holding in his hands. It was ingenious, although that hadn't stopped some of the syrup from running back onto his fingers, and the sides of his mouth already were sticky with it.

"Nice," I said with a nod before turning the conversation back to the original topic. "Was anyone else there, or was it just you and Mr. Stone?"

Mikey put the waffle down on his plate and picked up a miniature donut. "Just ush," he said as he proceeded to add powdered sugar to the mess around his mouth.

I wanted to ask what the two of them had done together, but that seemed too private to me, even if Mikey was all of eight years old. I don't think he would have minded telling me, but part of me didn't even want to know. I was more than a bit jealous that Mikey got to spend the night with Mr. Stone. Mr. Emerson had been nice enough and had taught me a new skill, but Mr. Stone and I seemed to have hit it off earlier in the day, and I think I would have enjoyed his company even more.

"Did you talk about baseball?" I asked the younger boy.

Mikey shook his head as he put the half-eaten donut down and reached for a wedge of watermelon. "No, we talked 'bout horses. He's going to take me riding wif him."

Now I really was jealous. Not about the horses–I'd never ridden one before–but about the time Mikey got to spend with Mr. Stone. I wanted to be the one spending time with the man. I wanted him to take me to a baseball game.

"Only I can't ride Mable 'cause she's too far," explained Mikey. "Mr. Stone gots a boy horse and said I could ride wif him."

"Is Mable your horse?"

Mike nodded. "She's a girl horse. That's called a mare."

It was my turn to nod. It was impossible not to like the kid. Despite having just been spanked, he was as happy and talkative as ever.

"Did Mr. Emerson adopt you for real?" I asked, changing the subject.

Mikey nodded as he pushed a strawberry into his mouth and picked up a piece of crumb coffee cake. "Judge Randolph signed it, only he's not here this time," said the younger boy.

"Here at the party?" I asked. Sometimes Mikey was hard to understand.

Mike nodded. "I stayed wif him last time. He's nice."

"And he helped Mr. Emerson adopt you?"

Mikey nodded as he took another bite of the coffee cake. "He's a judge. He can 'dopt anyone."

It was my turn to nod. I didn't know anything about Judge Randall, but it made sense that it took a judge to get adopted. I wondered how Mikey had come to be adopted by Mr. Emerson. Did the boy have any parents? Had he been given up by them? Taken away from them? I wanted to ask him about these things, but I refrained.

"Why does he call you Toad?"

"You know when a actual toad goes jump? Before he does?"

I was confused. "Before he jumps?" I repeated.

"Yeah when, before he jumps, he goes like this," said Mikey, as he held his arms up and lifted his knees into the air.

Based on Mike's demonstration, I tried to picture in my mind the image of a toad at rest and ready to hop. It still didn't answer my question, and Mikey must have sensed my confusion.

"Like this," said Mikey as he suddenly got up from his chair, turned away from me, went down to the floor on all fours, and assumed the toad position. His hands rested on the floor in front of him spread a bit wider than his shoulders, while his legs were bunched up underneath him and splayed out to either side. He was quite flexible, and in that position, he really did look a bit like a toad or a frog.

His reddened bottom was on full display, and his butt crack was spread wide, displaying a dark, sunken butt hole that almost seemed to disappear into his body.

"Okay, I get it," I said sheepishly as I glanced around to see if anyone was looking in our direction. If anyone did happen to look, it probably would appear to them that Mikey was offering himself to me for anal sex, and that embarrassed me to no end. On the other hand, perhaps I shouldn't have been so concerned. After all, it was that kind of party.

Mikey hopped up from the floor and climbed back into his chair. "That's like a toad, so he calls me that, but I don't mind," he explained as he took another bite of the powdered-sugar donut.

"Cool," I replied with a nod. Mikey's demonstration had left little to the imagination, and I didn't see a need for further questions.

It wasn't long afterwards that Aaron came up behind me to check on my progress.

"Hey, Mikey," he said, ignoring me. "How's my buddy?"

"Good!" replied the boy with a big smile.

"Did you have a good time last night with Mr. Stone?"

Mike nodded in reply. "He's going to take me riding on his horse!"

"He is?" replied Aaron. "That's exciting!"

"It's a boy horse. That's called a stallion."

"Yes, it is!" gushed Aaron as he gave the boy's hair a ruffle. "I bet that'll be fun."

Mikey nodded as he munched on another wedge of strawberry. The kid's hands and mouth were sticky with his breakfast, and he needed a cleanup like nobody's business, but Aaron let him be.

"You almost ready?" he asked me with a hand on my shoulder. "It's after 10 o'clock."

"Yes," I nodded as I pushed back my chair and stood up from the table. I felt a little tingle go through my body. I knew I was shortly to learn when I would next see Pete.

"Go find your clothes," said Aaron as he guided me in the direction of the pool and gave me a little pat on my bottom through my robe.

I headed toward the grotto and as Aaron had suggested, there was a cart there piled with individual piles of clean, folded clothes. Mine were on the middle shelf. My plaid shirt had been neatly buttoned and folded, and it rested atop my khaki shorts that had received the same treatment. My tan loafers rested on the cart's bottom shelf, lined up there with other sets of footwear. Everything looked neat, orderly, and nice.

I removed my robe and placed it in the canvass hamper located to the side of the cart but hesitated for a moment before reaching for my shorts. I wasn't sure whether to leave my pouch on or off. I hadn't worn it when I arrived for the party, but now I was leaving, and I didn't have any underwear. I decided to leave it on under my shorts. If Aaron yelled at me again for making the wrong decision, I could always take it off.

I got myself dressed once again and ducked into the bathroom to pee. I emerged to find one of the tanned twins getting dressed by the cart. I didn't know whether the one I saw was Darrin or Dillon, but we gave each other head nods as I walked by.

I found Aaron in the lounge area talking to a man I hadn't met.

"I think he's here now," said the man as I approached Aaron from behind.

Aaron turned to see me, then motioned me closer. "Davey, this is Mr. Drucker," he said as he placed an arm around my shoulders.

"Hi, Davey," said the man with a smile as he held out his hand. I took it and we shook. His grip was quite firm, and his eyes never left mine once as we pumped up and down.

"Nice to meet you," I said as the handshake came to an end. I watched as his eyes drifted down my body from my unbuttoned shirt to my shorts and legs, then back up again. He seemed to be appraising me.

"He's a fine-looking boy, Aaron," said Mr. Ducker. "If I hadn't been otherwise occupied, I'd have been happy to host him."

"Next time, then," replied Aaron with a smile as he gave my shoulder a little squeeze. "Davey's a people person, and he likes to please. Isn't that right?"

It was one of those patronizing, rhetorical questions that adults asked kids when they wanted them to answer a certain way, but I wasn't about to give Aaron any guff about it in front of the other man. I nodded vigorously, trying to look like a puppy eager for a treat.

"Well, good then," Mr. Drucker said to me with a smile. "Next time–we'll talk," he added with a wink.

"Yes, sir," I said with another nod. I was on my absolute best behavior. There was no way I was going to screw up anything now.

The two men shook, and then we were on our way. Aaron escorted me to Mr. Stone's office. The door was closed, and he gave a discreet knock.

"Come in," came a voice from inside the office.

Aaron opened the door and we stepped into the man's office. I heard the door click shut behind me as I saw Mr. Stone standing by the side of his desk. Mr. Tal was there, too.

"Davey!" Mr. Stone said as he approached us with a beaming smile on his face. His eyes were bright, and he seemed very pleased to see us, which was very much in contrast to Mr. Tal. "Did you get some breakfast?"

I smiled and nodded. "It was really good."

"I'm glad you liked it. Did you sleep well?"

As far as I knew, I had slept like a stone. I nodded once again.

"Excellent!" Mr. Stone replied. "Did you like the Daley Room?"

"It was really nice," I replied.

"Mayor Daley slept there once a couple of years before he died," the man explained. "It used to be called the Best Room, after a man named Jacob Best, but I had it renamed in honor of hizzoner," he added with a laugh.

I just nodded cluelessly. I had no idea who either of those people were, and I think Mr. Stone may have sensed that.

"Well then, I'm glad you liked it, and I also hope you enjoyed the party, young man," he said with a smile.

"It was fun," I said with another nod. It had been fun. Much more fun than I had expected, anyway.

"Did you like the game machines?" he asked. "I'm told they're all the rage. They were just delivered on Thursday."

"A little too much, I think," interjected Aaron with a laugh. I wanted to kill him.

"That's alright," said Mr. Stone with another smile as he reached out to cup my cheek. "Everyone's here to have fun and relax. Even our accomplished young thespian, right Davey?"

"Yes, sir," I answered.

"Our young friend here is a Michigander," said the man as Mr. Tal appeared at his side. "Or perhaps he's a Michiganite. Which do you prefer, Davey?"

I was clueless. "Um … either one?"

Mr. Stone gave a hearty laugh. He looked pensive for a moment, his eyes staring off into space behind my head, and then began to sing.

"Home of my heart, I sing of thee. Michigan, my Michigan. Thy lake-bound shores I long to see, Michigan, my Michigan."

I simply stared at him as he broke into the sad-sounding song. He had a nice voice that suggested he had some formal training in his background. The song ended as quickly as it had begun.

"I would have figured you for a Tiger's fan, young man," Mr. Stone said to me with a smile. "But," he added as he gave my nose a little tweak, "I sure am glad you root for the Cubs."

"They're in the American League," I explained about the Tigers with a shrug. I knew I should have been a fan of the Tigers, but I had fallen in love with the Cubs at an early age and never looked back. I glanced at Aaron to see if he was okay with my demeanor and performance so far.

"A purist!" declared Mr. Stone. "I like that! Oh, and that reminds me," he said as he held up his index finger and walked back to his desk.

I watched him go for a moment and then looked up at Mr. Tal. As was typical for him, he wasn't smiling.

"Hi, Mr. Tal," I said, feeling just a little cheeky.

"Hello, young man," he replied neutrally. It was as if he barely knew me, which I suppose was true. I couldn't tell if he had forgotten my name or just didn't want to use it. It wasn't a very effusive greeting from a man who had fucked my butt less than 24 hours ago, but I didn't have long to think about that before Mr. Stone returned.

"I'm told you can make very good use of these, Davey," he said as he handed me what looked very much–indeed, very, very much–like a pair of tickets.

Might they be? Could they be? I glanced down. They were. Two tickets to the game for Sunday, August 6, Cubs versus Expos at Wrigley Field, 2:00 p.m. start. That was today. I almost peed my shorts with excitement.

I was so happy I felt like crying. Rather than risk speaking, I stepped toward Mr. Stone and gave him a big hug, wrapping my arms around his terrycloth-robed midriff and placing my cheek against his chest.

He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. "Cubs fans stick together, right, Davey?" he said as he gave my back a little rub.

I still didn't speak. I hugged him for a bit longer before stepping back.

"Thank you," I said. It was heartfelt.

"A little birdie told me that Dave Kingman's going to hit a pair of homers today–you can take that to the bank," he added with a wink.

I gave him a nod. If anyone could hit two today, it was Kingman, and if Mr. Stone said it was true, I believed him.

"I'm glad you came, and you're welcome again any time, Davey," Mr. Stone continued. "I'll be in touch with Aaron, and we'll see you again real soon, okay?"

"Thank you," I said with a nod.

"In the meantime, somebody has some catching up to do with his friend and mentor, so you'd best get on your way," he said as he held his hand out to Aaron. Aaron shook his hand and then turned and did the same with Mr. Tal, who took his hand almost grudgingly.

"I'll be in touch," said Aaron. "Thanks for everything, gentlemen."

Mr. Stone then offered his hand to me, but I was having none of that. I closed the distance between us once again and gave him another hug. He hugged me right back even harder than before.

"You enjoy that game, young man," he said as he leaned down and took my face in his hands. "Go to Pete," he said in a soft voice. "Tell him how much you love him."

My eyes did well with tears then, and it was all I could do to nod. I was touched that he had not only remembered my friend's name but also realized how much the man meant to me just from what I had told him about Pete yesterday. It made me like him even more.

Chapter 16

I didn't say anything to Aaron as we left Mr. Stone's mansion and traveled back through the breezeway to the BMW. I didn't say anything as we got in on opposite sides of the car, closed the doors, and fastened our seatbelts. I didn't say anything as he pulled away and inched toward the security gate that opened automatically for us as we exited. I didn't even say anything as we pulled out of the driveway and turned right onto the street, but by then, my patience was exhausted. I couldn't wait any longer to ask what was on my mind.

"Did you talk to Pete?" I asked as I turned suddenly to look at Aaron.

"Yup," the man replied.

I paused for a moment. I wanted to think that he was teasing me and playing hard to get, but I wasn't sure. I was extremely nervous about the way things had ended up with Pete two days ago, and I was on pins and needles hoping that things would go back to normal when we next met. If we next met. Aaron's answer didn't help to ease my anxieties.

"When did you talk to him?" I persisted.

"This morning."

"Was he still here?"

"In Chicago, you mean?" asked Aaron.

"Yeah," I replied.

"He's here."

"Are we going to go see him?"

"Do you want to go see him?" inquired Aaron.

Now I was sure that I was being teased. Aaron knew full well that I wanted to see Pete.

"You know I do," I said a bit sullenly.

"I don't know anything, Davey," denied Aaron. "I know he was pretty angry with you, but maybe you're angry with him, too."

"I'm not," I told Aaron. "Why would I be mad at him? It was my fault."

"That wasn't the first time, was it?"

"No," I said forlornly.

"Davey, you do realize that Pete's put a lot of his life on hold for you, right?" said Aaron after a pause.

I hadn't realized that, not exactly, but I supposed that it was true. I spent a lot of time with the man at his house, eating his food, using his shower, even sleeping in his bed. He had taken me to Chicago twice, paying for everything each time.

"I know," I said glumly. I suddenly felt unworthy, like a leech.

"I'm not even sure you understand what he's done to help you and your mother," said Aaron. "It's pretty rare to have a friend as good as he is–I hope you know that."

"I know," I replied, but did I? Did I truly appreciate everything that Pete had done for me, especially over the last few weeks? Ever since my mother had lost her job, Pete had been the one dependable person in my life, the one constant. He had been there for me time and time again.

"I'm not sure you do, Davey," Aaron said, taking the words almost straight out of my mouth. "Pete's one of my best friends in the entire world. I don't want to see him invest all this time and energy into someone only to get hurt."

Hurt? I would never do anything to hurt Pete. I wasn't sure what Aaron was talking about. I hadn't hurt Pete–or had I? I knew I hadn't physically hurt him–that part of our relationship went only one way, of course–but had I hurt him somehow with my actions and words? I hoped not, but I was worried that I had.

"You know you hurt his feelings, Davey," Aaron continued after another pause.

"I know," I replied, even if I didn't know. I felt like I was about to become emotional again, but I managed to hold back my tears. I wished things hadn't worked out the way they had, and I was desperate for everything to get back to normal. I knew that if I could just see Pete again and talk to him, I could show him that I was a changed boy.

"Are those tickets for today?" Aaron asked, changing the subject.

"The Cubs tickets?"

"The ones Mr. Stone gave you."

"Yes," I replied.

Aaron didn't say anything after that. We got on the highway and drove toward downtown Chicago in silence. I didn't know where we were going. Aaron hadn't said anything to me about our destination or even if we were going to see Pete. I assumed that we were, since Pete still was in Chicago and was my ride back to Michigan, but I couldn't be sure. Once again, the silence became too much for me to bear.

"Did you talk to him about the party?" I asked Aaron.

"What do you mean?" he replied.

"Just … how it went and stuff."

"We didn't talk about it much."

Aaron's response both stunned and worried me. They hadn't talked about it? Why not? I had been trying as hard as I could to be the best boy I could be so that Aaron would give Pete a good report about my behavior. I needed him to give Pete a good report, but it appeared that he hadn't. Now Pete would have no reason to think that anything had changed.

"Did he know that I was even at the party?" I asked in a worried tone.

"He knew," was all Aaron said. The man was making it very clear to me that he wasn't in a talkative mood. I felt like I was interrogating him, but I was too worried not to.

"When you talked to him this morning, did you tell him how things went?"

"It didn't come up," replied Aaron.

I was becoming increasingly worried with every response Aaron provided. It seemed like an eternity since Pete had stormed out of our hotel room and left me there by myself. I hadn't spoken to him since, and apparently Aaron hadn't given him any updates about me. That meant that Pete didn't know that I had changed. For all Pete knew, I was the same obnoxious, disobedient kid he had left behind when he drove away.

I wasn't sure what to say. Aaron didn't seem to want to talk, and I wasn't sure what else to ask him. I also wasn't sure what to do. I had been counting on Aaron giving Pete a good report on my behalf, but apparently that hadn't happened. Pete apparently knew nothing about the party or how well I had done at it. I thought I had done well. I had done everything that Aaron had asked me to do. I had done everything that the other adults had asked me to do. I hadn't had any episodes–certainly not any major ones. The party seemed to have gone well. It had gone much better than I had expected.

"Are you going to tell him?" I asked sheepishly. Aaron's incommunicativeness was weighing on me.

"I think you should tell him yourself, Davey," he replied.

My heart leaped into my throat at this news. I gladly would tell Pete myself. Did that mean that we were going to see him? Although my rational brain knew that I needed Pete to drive me home to Michigan, my emotional, 11-year-old side remained very worried that he didn't ever want to see me again. Aaron's simple statement gave me hope that that was not the case.

"Are we going to see him?" I asked in a tight, nervous voice.

"We're meeting him for lunch in a few minutes," he replied.

Those might have been the best and most welcome nine words I had ever heard spoken. I felt like a tremendous weight had been removed from my shoulders. Just seeing Pete again was the first hurdle in winning him back. Everything else depended on that.

We drove in silence after that. Aaron drove in his typical style, which is to say aggressively and at breakneck speed, but he couldn't have driven fast enough for me. I couldn't wait to see Pete. I missed him terribly, and the knowledge that he was angry at me had weighed on me the entire time we were apart. As we drove, I practiced in my mind what I would say to him, but I couldn't seem to seize upon the right words. When I finally had the chance to speak to him, my words would have to happen naturally and organically.

We left the highway at an exit for Skokie and soon were driving once again on city streets. I had no idea where we were. I had seen signs for Chicago, so I knew we were close, but I didn't know where Skokie was in relation to the city. I also didn't know where we were going because Aaron hadn't bothered to tell me. I was getting used to being taken places by adults without knowing the destination.

Making sharp turns and accelerating rapidly from stop lights and stop signs, Aaron made his way through city streets and traffic, finally turning into the parking lot of a restaurant called the Charcoal Oven. As soon as we pulled in, I saw something that made my heart leap in my chest: Pete's maroon Mercury Marquis was parked in a space not far from the restaurant's front door. The vehicle had Michigan plates on it, and there was no question that it was his.

Aaron pulled into the space next to the Marquis and parked. We unbuckled our seatbelts and stepped simultaneously from the car, but as we did, I felt a small pit form in my stomach. After pining for my friend for the better part of the last two days, suddenly I felt anxious about seeing Pete again. I was worried that he would still be angry at me, or even cold or distant. I wasn't sure how I would be able to handle that if it came to pass.

As I stepped out of the car, my mind couldn't help but replay what had happened after the first time Pete had fucked me while I was tied to his bed acting the role of Sebastian McCardle from Parasols. After we had sex, I had disappointed him with my attitude and he had rejected me, telling me to leave his home. I had been an absolute basket case then, and I don't think my fear of being rejected by him had ever fully abated from that day. Those fears were back in full force again now.

I touched the Marquis with the tips of my fingers for luck before Aaron and I walked inside the restaurant. The hostess's station was unstaffed, but we didn't need any assistance to find Pete. I spotted him seated at a black leather booth along the restaurant's far wall. He was looking down at his menu and didn't see us. Aaron spotted him too, and we made our way over. I went to his side of the booth, hoping that I could sit next to him. He looked up and nodded as we arrived but didn't move over, nor did he speak.

"Davey, you scooch in," said Aaron with a hand on my shoulder as he ushered me into the opposite bench and sat down on the end directly across from Pete. And there we were. Seated. Silent. It felt a little like we were about to start negotiating an arms treaty with the Soviet Union.

Pete flipped his menu around and slid it across the table between the two of us. "I asked the waitress to bring two more menus, but I already know what I'm having," he said to no one in particular. Then he turned his head to look directly at me.

"How are you, Davey?" he asked me in a neutral, perhaps even friendly tone. I couldn't quite tell.

It was something, and I felt a little more relieved. "Good," I replied with a nervous nod. "Hi," I added.

Pete smiled. "Hi," he said with a little chuckle.

"You two have met, I take it?" said Aaron with a smile of his own.

"Yes," confirmed Pete as he looked at me. "We're rather well-acquainted in fact."

Things went a bit silent after that as Aaron glanced at the menu. I took a quick look down at it myself, but I wasn't in the least bit hungry, and the pit in my stomach seemed to be taking up all the room there anyway. The silence stretched on between us and made me feel awkward. Besides, I had something that I needed to say, something that I had practiced while we drove.

"Pete, I'm sorry for what happened in the hotel room," I said in a level voice that wasn't all that far from becoming emotional. "I'm sorry I let you down." As soon as I finished speaking, I carefully studied his face for any reaction.

My friend looked a bit uncomfortable by my apology, almost as if he hadn't wanted to hear it. I didn't know what to make of his reaction, but my mind clouded with dark thoughts. Had he already decided that we were through? Had he already concluded that it was time to end our friendship? Was he rejecting me? If he did, who would be my friend? Who would replace him in my life? I answered my own questions in my mind as I waited for him to speak. No one could replace Pete in my life. No one person possibly could. The man was everything to me.

Aaron pulled the menu closer to him as if he needed to study it carefully. He didn't look up. He didn't speak, nor did Pete. My apology hung in the air unacknowledged, at least not verbally. I wondered if I should have waited a bit longer to say it. It was almost as if Pete hadn't expected it. He certainly didn't seem like he had.

The silence lingered and lingered for what seemed like an eternity. I desperately wanted Pete to say that it was okay, and that things could return to normal, but he didn't seem willing to tell me that. I studied his face. He didn't look angry. His look was contemplative, but I couldn't tell if he was preparing to reply to me or simply lost in thought.

With each passing second the pit in my stomach grew along with my anxiety. Finally, I could take the silence no longer and began to speak.

"I know you're mad at me," I said in a quavering voice, "but I'm not like that anymore. I'm a people person now. I don't care how old people think I am. At the party people said … I went to Malcolm's party, um, and it went really good. I was a people person. I was a good boy. I met Mr. Stone. I met all sorts of people. I met Mr. Tal, and Mr. Campise. I watched a movie. And, um, I went swimming with other people. Mr. Stalteri made the pouch for me … "

I had so much more I wanted to tell him, but I was getting myself upset, and I decided to stop speaking before I became emotional and made a scene. As it was, I felt like I was pleading with him to take me back under the guise of telling him about the party. In fact, that's pretty much exactly what I was doing. I had so much more to tell him, too. Pete and I had been very close for months, and the details of the party were the types of things that I always told him about when we were together, but now it just seemed awkward. Whether because of the restaurant setting, or Aaron's presence, or because Pete was giving me no verbal or even non-verbal encouragement to keep talking, I got the impression that he wasn't all that interested in what I had to say. It seemed like he didn't care, and if he no longer cared what I had to tell him about our time apart, it seemed to me that he had moved on. He was over us now. He was over me now.

More silence lingered. For a moment, Pete looked uncomfortable, almost as if he had something awful to tell me but didn't want to. I wished he would. Even if he had bad news to impart, I wanted to hear it. I wanted him to say something. His silence was getting to me, playing tricks on my mind.

Finally, he looked up at me and met my eyes. His expression was neutral, but he no longer looked uncomfortable. He looked like a man who had decided on a course of action and was confident that he had selected wisely.

"I'm not mad at you, Davey," he began in a toneless voice, "and I'm glad that you decided to go to the party. Aaron gave me a couple of updates yesterday and this morning. I hear there were a few incidents?"

My eyes shot nervously to Aaron. Incidents? Had Aaron told him about the bad things that had happened? What incidents? There had been hiccups along the way for sure, but for the most part I thought that the party had gone extremely well. Aaron thought so, too. He had said so. I had expected him to give Pete a good account; in fact, I had been counting on it. Had he told Pete otherwise? Had he ruined everything for me? I stared at him uncomprehendingly. Had he thrown me under the bus with Pete? If he had, it would be the ultimate betrayal, the worst of my entire life.

"It really went pretty smoothly," explained Aaron a bit sheepishly. It sounded like he was backtracking from what he may have said before. "There were just a few things, nothing major."

I looked back at Pete for his reaction. Aaron's statement wasn't exactly a ringing endorsement of my behavior at the party, but nor was it the outright betrayal I had feared.

"A few things," repeated Pete. "How many things, Davey?"

I swallowed nervously as I tried to remember everything that had happened at the party. I hadn't expected to have to focus on the bad things. For the most part, I had kept everything together and done what Aaron told me to do, but there were a few times when he had taken me aside and chastised me. I had thought that those instances were small compared to my accomplishments. I didn't think that I had had any major episodes.

I looked over at Aaron once more, but he was looking down at the menu. There would be no help there. I was on my own.

I returned my gaze to Pete. My expression must have revealed my anxiety.

"Pete, it went good," I replied, wishing that he would believe me. This time, I was unable to keep the emotion out of my voice.

Pete ignored my statement. "How many things, Davey?" he repeated.

I tried again to think of the different times that Aaron had spoken to me sternly or corrected my behavior at the party. My worst episode and near tantum occurred after I drank the mouthwash and got upset, but Aaron also had been angry when I wore my shorts instead of my pouch, when I left the lube in the theater, when I didn't check with him about being with Mr. Campise, when I went swimming without telling him, and when he thought I had played too many games of Space Invaders. In addition, I had argued with him about wearing the pantyhose and gotten upset with the screaming coming from the D Room, causing him to speak harshly to me on both occasions.

Reviewing it all in my mind, there had been a lot of things and incidents, but I didn't think it was fair for Pete to focus on those, and frankly I was angry and disappointed that Aaron had mentioned any of them to him at all. Every time something like that had happened, I had corrected my behavior and fixed things. I had done exactly what Aaron told me to do each time, and I knew in my heart that the party had gone well overall. I had been good. I knew that I had been good, and I wanted Pete to know that, too. I wanted to talk about the good things.

I looked over at Aaron. I felt betrayed. Even if there had been several incidents, he knew that I had done well. He didn't have to mention them to Pete. He really had thrown me under the bus, but Pete's question still lingered in the air, and I knew I had to answer it.

"Um, there were a few things I could have done better," I admitted. I felt like I was confessing to crimes I hadn't committed. Most of what Aaron had chastised me for had taken place between him and me. Nobody else had even noticed.

"A few things?" asked Pete.

It seemed like a rhetorical question and a criticism at the same time. I hung my head. My reunion with Pete was turning into a disaster. I was sad, angry, disappointed, and nervous all at once. Where would all this lead? Was this the end of our friendship? My eagerness to show Pete my new hairstyle and demonstrate my new deep-throating skill on him seemed so irrelevant now. I began to question how well the party had gone after all. Maybe I had deluded myself about my behavior and performance. After reviewing them quickly in my mind, there had been a lot of things. A lot of incidents.

"There shouldn't be any things, Davey," said Pete. "Not with the time and effort that's being invested in your future by the two of us. There's no room for things in that equation."

I didn't say anything in reply. I couldn't speak. My reunion with Pete was becoming very traumatic for me. It was not going at all as I had planned. I couldn't look at him. My shoulders slumped in dismay.

"Look at me," Pete commanded, and I did so. Our eyes met. Pete's expression was impassive and unreadable. There was no friendship in his eyes.

"First of all, did you thank Aaron for taking you to the party?" the man asked me.

At first, I wasn't sure which meaning of the word "thank" he was referring to, but whichever way he meant it, I hadn't thanked Aaron, and I knew right away that I should have. That had been an error on my part, and I felt selfish. Once again, I hung my head.

"No," I replied. "I was going to, though," I added lamely.

"When?" persisted Pete. "When did you think that might be appropriate, Davey? You had the whole drive down from Glencoe to say two little words to him, but you couldn't be bothered, could you?"

It was true. I hadn't said thank you to Aaron, and there really was no excuse for it. I was guilty as charged. I considered saying thank you to him right then, but I realized right away how hollow that would look and thought better of it.

"I'm not sure," I said softly. I felt like a complete heel.

At that moment, the waitress came by with two more menus and a pair of coffee mugs. She placed them before the two adults.

"I'll be back for your order in a moment," she proclaimed. "What can I get you to drink, young man?"

I looked up at her, my eyes uncomprehending. I wasn't thirsty or hungry.

"Nothing," I replied morosely.

"He'll have a Coke," countermanded Pete. The waitress nodded and left. I was hoping that the interruption might have changed the trajectory of the conversation, but it was not to be.

"Do you think maybe thanks might be in order, Davey," asked Pete as he picked up right where he had left off.

"Yes," I replied in a near whisper.

"And why is that?"

"Because he took me to the party," I said glumly.

"Is that all he did?"

"He, um, introduced me to people there."

"What else?"

"He … he took me places. To get me ready."

"Did he buy you meals?"

"Yes," I said dejectedly.

"Did he stay overnight with you in the hotel?"

"Yes."

"Did he drop everything to come to you when you called him?"

"Yes." I felt like I was being indicted on felony charges.

"Did he take you to his house?"

"Yes."

"Did he look out for you and keep an eye on you for the last two days straight?"

"Yes."

"Was he working at his business, or spending time with his clients, or doing anything else when he was with you?"

Aside from enjoying himself with Jordan the house pet, I supposed Aaron hadn't been able to do much of anything while he was looking after me. I well understood the point that Pete was trying to make.

"No," I replied in a defeated voice.

"And it never occurred to you to thank him?"

I hung my head. Was I that much of an ingrate? Really? It certainly seemed that way, but I still wasn't sure. I thought maybe I had thanked Aaron. Somewhere in all that, I must have thanked him for something. I must have expressed my appreciation for him at some point. I remembered hugging him for all I was worth in the hotel room, but had I really thanked him? Had I told him how much I appreciated the time he had devoted to me and all the different things he had done for me? I knew that I hadn't, certainly not enough times, and certainly not with a sufficiently heart-felt expression of gratitude. So many people had told me how lucky I was to have Aaron on my side, but I had never bothered to thank him. Instead, I had spent most of our time together resenting him. I felt like a complete and utter jerk.

"I thought about it," I replied defensively, but I knew I was lying. My lower lip quivered. I was almost sobbing now. "I was going to."

Pete didn't even respond to my words. We both knew that my explanation was so lame that it didn't even warrant comment.

"What about me, Davey?" he Pete. "Why have I been in Chicago for the last four days living out of hotel rooms? Did you think about that?"

The waitress chose that moment to return with my Coke and place it before me before hurrying off once again. Her presence gave me a few precious extra seconds to think.

"Because of me," I answered. My lower lip was quivering again.

"So, you're saying that the two of us, Aaron and I, dropped whatever else we were doing to take you to Chicago and help you break into the industry that you told us you wanted to be a part of. Do I at least have that part right?"

"Yes," I whispered. I felt three inches tall.

"And why did we do that, Davey?"

"To help me," I said as I gave up trying to suppress my emotions and my eyes glimmered with tears.

"To help you and your mom?" he emphasized.

"Yes," I replied with a nod.

"Do you even want our help, Davey? Because if you don't, just say the word."

"I w-want it," I said in a shivery, desperate, emotional voice.

"Do you think you could show us some gratitude?"

I nodded. My eyes were wet with tears. "I'm sorry."

"Do you know how many times you've told me you're sorry?" Pete asked.

"Too many," I sobbed.

"Or maybe not enough," he corrected me. "But there have been far, far too many times when you needed to, haven't there been?"

I nodded. I couldn't speak. What he said was true.

"Way too many times, Davey," he continued. "For things we've talked about over and over. Silly things. Immature things. Am I right?"

He was right. I knew he was. I nodded again. I had been reduced to non-verbal responses.

"That has to change, doesn't it, Davey?"

I nodded again. I wanted it to change. I wanted to change it. I really did.

"Answer me."

"Yes," I whispered. I could barely hear my own voice, but there was the slightest suggestion of a future in his last question. Was there any hope? Hope was all I had at this point.

"Yes, what?"

"I need to change it," I said softly.

"What needs to change?"

"My behavior."

"What about your behavior?"

"Doing things you tell me."

"And what Aaron tells you?" asked Pete.

"Yes," said with a nod. We were talking about the future now, which at least signaled that I had one. I was grateful for that and didn't want to blow it now.

"Are you going to do as we tell you without arguing, fussing, having tantrums, and acting like a baby?"

His words cut into me. I knew I was guilty of all those things.

"Yes, Pete."

"Every time?"

"Yes," I whimpered.

"Even things you don't want to do?"

"Yes, Pete."

"Every time?"

"Yes, Pete."

"To help you and your mom?"

"Yes," I said with a dejected nod.

"Does your mom need your help, Davey?"

She did. I knew it. I nodded.

"Yes."

"And do you need our help to help her?"

"Yes."

"Are you willing to accept that help as is, and do what we tell you to do?"

"Yes, Pete," I nodded.

"And make the decisions for you?"

"Yes."

"Even if you don't like them?"

"Even if I don't like them," I repeated with an earnest nod.

To my immense relief, Pete paused his questions for a moment, which was a very good thing for me. I felt exhausted. I already was tired from my exertions at the party and lack of sleep, but Pete's rapid-fire interrogation had just flattened me. I felt like I had just climbed Mt. Everest. I was mentally and emotionally spent. I needed a break, but the one I got didn't last very long at all.

"What did Mr. Stone give you?" Pete asked suddenly.

For a moment, I looked bewildered. It took me a few seconds to figure out that he was asking about Cubs tickets, but my next thought was to wonder how he even knew about them. It seemed that Aaron had told Pete a lot more about the party than he had let on, but he couldn't possibly have told Pete about the tickets. Aaron had been present when Mr. Stone gave them to me, and we had been together ever since. He couldn't have called Pete to tell him about the tickets. He couldn't have told him about them as we all sat together in the booth without me knowing about it. So how did Pete know that Mr. Stone had given them to me? The answer to that question remains a mystery to me to this day.

"Cubs tickets," I replied.

"Let me see them," demanded Pete.

I dug them out of the pocket of my shorts and handed them over to my friend. Pete looked at them for a moment before looking back up at me. I had a very bad feeling just from looking at his expression.

"Who decides whether and when you get to go to baseball games?" he asked.

"You do," I said in a soft, whispered voice. "And Aaron," I added quickly.

"That's right Davey," Pete said as he looked up at me, making firm eye contact.

I then watched in horror as he turned the tickets sideways in his hand and tore them in half. A part of me died inside as he combined the two piles and tore them in half again and then once more before dropping on the table them like confetti. The remains of the two Cubs tickets now lay in 16 scattered, valueless, and unrecognizable little paper squares in the middle of the table.

"You're not going to the game," declared Pete. "I've decided." He stared at me, obviously seeking my reaction.

I was numb. I couldn't stop staring at the remnants of the tickets. Now nobody could use them. The seats would go empty. If Dave Kingman hit two home runs today, I wouldn't be there to see them. Nobody would see anything from those seats, as they would go unused by anyone. The destruction of those tickets before my eyes had a profound impact on me. It was such an incredible, terrible waste. To this day, I've never forgotten the image of those destroyed tickets lying on the table, and I never will.

"Yes, Pete," I whispered as a gigantic tear escaped my left eye and rolled down my cheek. I wiped it away.

"We're eating lunch, going back to Aaron's house to get your things, and then we're hitting the road, capiche?"

I hated that word. I especially hated it because Pete wasn't even Italian.

"Yes, Pete," I replied.

Almost as if on cue, the waitress returned to take our order. I hadn't even looked at the menu and had absolutely no appetite. I felt numb from Pete's destruction of the Cubs tickets. I knew then that I would never forget the feeling of watching him rip them into pieces. It was bit like watching a treasured pet run into the road to be hit by a car. I couldn't do anything to stop it, yet it had happened right in front of me, and the resulting sense of loss was immense. I understood that Pete may not have wanted to delay our departure to attend the game, but that wasn't the reason he gave. Pete knew what the Cubs meant to me. He knew what those tickets meant. Tearing them up right in front of me was heartless and cruel, but he had made his point: He decided things. It was a lesson I would not soon forget.

On the other hand, looking back on it from the standpoint of an adult, Pete's behavior at the restaurant was over the top and ridiculous. Considering my age and inexperience at the time, the party really had gone well, and I think that both Aaron and Pete knew it. Pete was cool as a cucumber as he asked me about the things that had gone wrong, but Aaron had seemed visibly uncomfortable with Pete's interrogation. I think I can chalk that up now to the fact that Pete was an excellent actor and merely was playing a role with me. He wanted me unsettled so that I would obey him. On the other hand, Aaron wasn't an actor. He knew that I was being treated unfairly and was unable to hide that fact. He knew how hard I had tried at the party. He knew the things that I had been asked and made to do and the anxieties I had had to overcome to do them. Yet, as Pete had interrogated me, Aaron didn't intervene at all on my behalf other than the one comment about things going "pretty smoothly." That was the extent of his help. Otherwise, he had simply let Pete carve me to pieces.

The rest of that lunch is a blur to me. To be honest, I don't remember much of any of it. Aaron ordered something from the waitress, but I wasn't paying attention. Pete ordered for both of us. I think he got me a hamburger, but I don't remember eating more than a few bites. I also don't remember if we conversed as we ate, or if we did, what the topic of conversation was. I doubt I said much if we did speak. I was much too tired and upset to be a good conversationalist that afternoon.

After the meal, we made our way back to the parking lot. We had two vehicles, so the question arose: With whom would I ride? We were going back to Aaron's house to get my things, but would I go with Aaron or Pete? Pete answered that question for me by simply walking to his Marquis and getting in without saying anything to me. I felt utterly rejected by this and stared after him with a disbelieving and disappointed look on my face. Aaron must have seen my reaction as he placed his hand on my shoulder and gently steered me toward his car.

"Come on Davey," he said in a sympathetic voice. "You can ride with me."

It took us about 15 minutes to travel from the restaurant to Aaron's house, which meant it probably was a 25-minute trip for normal drivers. Aaron was anything but a normal driver. As usual, he drove like a maniac, accelerating wildly from stops and taking turns at breakneck speed. I wondered how Pete managed to keep up with him. Even more remarkably, he managed to engage me in conversation as he drove. Apparently, it took less concentration than I had thought to be a race-car driver.

"You're feeling pretty down in the dumps about things right now, aren't you Davey?" Aaron asked as he gave my left knee a little squeeze.

I shrugged noncommittally, but there was no denying how I felt. Besides, Aaron already knew that without having to ask.

"I've known Pete for a long time, Davey," said Aaron. "Way, way longer than you've been alive, right?"

I nodded in response, but I really wasn't in the mood for chit chat. I knew that they had been college friends back in the day–whenever that was–but that hardly interested me right now.

"Did you ever wonder why Pete never settled down to raise a family?"

Even at the age of just-about-12, I had my suspicions as to why Pete wasn't married, and they had to do with the fact that I don't think he was at all attracted to women. But I didn't want to say that to Aaron because I wasn't entirely sure how those things worked, and in any event, he seemed to be building up to a different point.

"I don't really know," I replied, mostly to hold up my end of the conversation.

"He'd make a great father, don't you think?"

I had to ponder Aaron's question for a moment. Despite his temper and mercurial ways, Pete had been a wonderful teacher and mentor to me. For the most part, he'd been an excellent companion, and there was no doubt that he was my best friend in the entire world. But would he make a good father? Were those the character traits that made someone a good father? I simply didn't know because I'd never had one. They seemed like fatherly traits to me, and more than once I had fantasized about Pete marrying my mother and becoming my father, even if I knew that never could happen.

"I think so," I said after a short pause.

"I know so, Davey," countered Aaron. "There's not the slightest doubt in my mind. But he's never had kids even though he wanted to. Why do you think that is?"

I wasn't sure what Aaron was driving at. Pete's sexual tastes would seem to be a pretty important factor in that decision, but Aaron appeared to be avoiding that topic like the proverbial elephant in the room.

"I'm not sure," I replied noncommittally.

"Well, for one thing, I don't think he'd ever want to be tied down like that," explained Aaron. "He's very much a free spirit as you know."

I nodded and held on for dear life as Aaron accelerated the BMW around a curve fast enough to squeal the tires and make my body lean toward the driver's side of the car. I didn't bother to look behind me to see if Pete was still there. One way or the other, I figured he would find his way back to Aaron's house even if he couldn't stay on our tail.

"I know," I relied verbally as we came out of the curve.

"He's also not one to suffer fools for very long, Davey," the man continued. "Do you know what that expression means?"

"I … not really," I admitted sheepishly.

"It means that Pete's not the most patient guy in the world," Aaron explained. "It's pretty much his way or the highway if you know that I mean."

"I know," I said with a nod. I knew exactly what he meant. I had seen and heard Pete in action and more than once been on the receiving end of his impatience. I had seen him become very angry when things didn't go to his liking. I was quite worried that my own trajectory was taking me further from his way and closer to the highway with him.

"Remember what we talked about in the hotel? About Pete being dominant?"

"I remember," I said with a nod.

"You could probably see why that might not go over all that well if Pete had a wife and family that didn't buy into that, right?"

I thought about that for a moment and nodded. Aaron had a good point.

"You see that, right, Davey?" Aaron repeated. "About the buy in?" I thought that perhaps he hadn't seen me nod, but maybe he was just making sure I understood his point.

"Yes," I replied.

"You and Pete have been friends for months and months now, coming up on a full year, right?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered.

"Which makes you two pretty darn compatible in my book. I think that's a record for Pete, for sure, and probably for you, too. It means you've bought into who Pete is–maybe not fully, but mostly."

Aaron's comment made me wonder whose record I had broken. Who was the other person? Was it a woman? A potential wife? Someone else? Another boy? On the other hand, what did it matter? Pete was very distant right now. The reunion I had been so looking forward to having had not gone well. I was consumed with worry that my friendship with Pete was slipping away.

"He's really mad at me, even though he said he wasn't," I replied, my voice full of anxiety even as I tried to suppress it.

"Davey, if he's still mad at you, it's only because you were being disobedient with him," said Aaron. "That's his dominant side speaking. But I happen to know that he loves you and cares about you. You just don't want to do things that set him off, that's all. You need to buy in fully with Pete. Submit to him. Let him make the decisions for both of you."

I wanted to believe what Aaron said about Pete's love for me, but I wasn't so sure. I didn't think that I ever could rid my mind of the sight of Pete storming out of our hotel room or ripping up those Cubs tickets. Never in my entire life had I felt so rejected and lost. I had spent the last two days trying to atone for my misbehavior and be a better boy for Pete, but it still seemed like everything had gone to shit.

"I didn't mean to," I mumbled as I contemplated how poorly things were going.

"What exactly happened in that hotel room, Davey?" asked Aaron. "What did you do to get him so angry?"

I swallowed nervously before answering. It was embarrassing to talk about, and it was a little bit of a long story, but I supposed Aaron had the right to know. After all, he had been stuck with me for two days because of what had happened with Pete.

"He was saying I shouldn't get mad if people said I looked younger," I explained. "People are always saying that. And I said I wouldn't but then I did, and he got mad. Really, really mad."

"I see," said Aaron contemplatively. "So, you did something he told you not to do."

"Not on purpose," I replied at bit defensively.

"That doesn't matter, Davey. Not in Pete's book. You're either in or you're out."

"I know," I said dejectedly.

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Not do it again."

"No, what I mean is, what are you going to do about what happened in the hotel room?"

I wasn't sure what he meant. "Obey him?" I asked. I felt confused.

"Yes, of course," Aaron replied matter-of-factly. "But I'm asking what you plan to do about what happened two days ago."

I still wasn't sure what he meant. "Apologize?" I ventured.

"You already did that at the restaurant," said Aaron, "It sounds to me like Pete thinks you've been doing a bit too much apologizing recently anyway. Am I right?"

My head was starting to spin. Had I apologized too much for things? Not enough? Pete hadn't been happy with my apology, that much was clear. Aaron certainly was right about that.

"I'm not sure what else to say to him," I replied, sadly and a bit defensively.

"There may be one thing you can do, Davey," offered Aaron.

I turned my head to look at him. If he had an idea that I could use to salvage things with Pete, I was all ears.

"What is it?"

"Have you ever asked him to punish you for something you did wrong?" he asked. "I know you haven't for this, but for something else."

"No," I replied, "but he does sometimes."

"I know he does," said Aaron. "That's part of his dominant side and that whole 'my way or the highway thing.' But have you ever come to him and said 'Pete, I know I screwed up. I was disobedient. Please punish me.'"

I hadn't ever done that, so I shook my head no.

"I think you should try it," Davey," suggested Aaron. "That's the purest form of apology you can make to a man like Pete. It tells him that you know who is in control. It appeals to his dominant side, and if he chooses to punish you, it'll help to get the anger out of his system."

I pondered what Aaron had just said. I didn't really want to be punished by Pete for something that had happened two days ago, but if it helped to right the ship between the two of us, I would do it.

"I should just ask him to do it?"

"The sooner the better, don't you think?" asked Aaron with an indulgent nod.

"I guess so," I said glumly.

"I think it'll help to smooth things over," Aaron replied. "Plus, I can put in a good word for you with him after you've asked," he added with a wink.

I didn't respond to Aaron's comment. All along I had hoped and expected that he would tell Pete how well I had done at the party, but it didn't look as if he had done so. I wasn't sure if he had betrayed me and told Pete only the bad things that had happened, but those were the only things Pete had commented on, so it seemed possible. I still didn't trust Aaron, that was for sure.

We weren't that far away from Aaron's house now and we drove the rest of the way in silence. I had a lot to think about. I was worried enough about winning a second chance with Pete, but I also knew that even if I succeeded in that regard, I needed to change my behavior and my attitude with the man if I wanted to stay in his good graces. As Aaron had put it, I needed to buy in with Pete, not partially, but fully. Pete had alluded to that himself. The man had given me a lot of latitude in our relationship thus far, but there were signs that things were starting to fray at the edges. I knew I needed to fix that if I wanted to keep Pete, and I very, very much wanted to keep him. I needed to keep him.

We pulled into Aaron's driveway and drove straight into the four-car garage. Leaving the overhead door open behind us, Arron got out and walked back outside down the driveway. As I emerged from passenger side, I saw Pete's Marquis pull in from the road. He hadn't managed to stay right on Aaron's tail, but he had arrived less than two minutes after we did, which was impressive considering the way Aaron drove. Pete put the car in park and sat there with the engine running.

"You stay here," said Aaron as he walked the short distance down the driveway to where Pete was parked. Pete rolled down his window as Aaron approached, and I watched as Aaron leaned down and spoke to him through the driver's side door. I couldn't hear a word of their conversation, which seemed to go on for a while but in truth was no more than a couple of minutes. At the end of it, Aaron stood back from the car as Pete killed the Marquis's engine, opened the door, and stepped out.

"Let's go inside," said Aaron as he approached me with a smile and a quick wink. He placed his hand on the back of my neck and steered me first back into the garage, where he hung the BMV keys on the wall, and then into the house. Once inside, we walked from the mud room into the kitchen. Aaron took his hand from my neck and turned to face me as Pete stepped into the room behind us.

"I think Davey has something to say to you, Peter," said Aaron as he looked at me expectantly.

I swallowed nervously as I turned to face Pete. He was leaning against the kitchen table and had his arms folded across his chest. He eyed me impassively as if he could care less whether I had something to say to him or not. I took a moment to gather my thoughts. I needed this to go well.

"Um, I- I'm really sorry for what happened in the hotel room," I began in a slightly stammering voice. "I didn't mean for it to happen." I paused for a moment as my eyes flitted to Aaron for reassurance and then back to Pete. "I know I was disobedient, and I know I screwed up, and I'm asking you to please punish me for what I did."

My words seemed to hang in the air for several seconds after I finished speaking. Pete hadn't moved a muscle as I spoke and did not immediately reply. He continued to look at me with his arms folded across his chest as the silence between us grew longer and more awkward. Nobody moved. Nobody said anything. Time seemed to stand still.

"I have punished you, Davey," Pete said finally in a neutral voice. "Plenty of times. What makes you think that this time will be any different?"

I paused to think about my answer before I responded. I knew it was important to get this right.

"Those times … those times were when you decided," I explained. "But this time is because I'm asking you to do it because I know I was bad."

"And exactly why do you want me to punish you?"

"So I stop disobeying you?" I replied, but I wasn't sure. My words were more of a question than a statement.

Pete looked skeptical. I wasn't sure he was buying my explanation, but it was true. I had embraced Aaron's idea in full and was ready to be punished for my behavior. I was contrite about what had happened, and I never wanted it to happen again. Being punished would help me to remember not to repeat the offense.

The room went silent once again as I waited for Pete's answer. The silence lingered, but Aaron chimed in before either of us could speak again.

"For what it's worth, Pete, Davey did a really nice job at Malcolm's party," he observed. "There were a couple of hiccups here and there, but for the most part, he was a very obedient boy. There were some things he didn't want to do, but he still did them, and I think he has a good understanding now of what it's going to take for him to be successful in the industry."

"I understand," I said with several desperate nods. Here I was almost begging Pete to punish me, but he stood there impassively, apparently undecided.

"Why don't we go downstairs," Aaron encouraged as he gestured toward the back wall of the kitchen. "There's a little more room down there for what we need to do."

I nodded again and was the first to proceed down the flight of stairs that led to the basement. Of course, "basement" was a misnomer for what greeted me on the lower level of Aaron's house. It was a vast, open space complete with foosball, ping-pong, and billiards tables, as well as an octagonal game table with eight chairs around it that I was reasonably certain was for poker. There was a wet bar with an island, a seating area with a large television, and a stereo rack and turn table with adjacent standing floor speakers. The walls were adorned with wood paneling and the ceiling must have been at least ten feet high. This was no basement. It was bigger than my entire apartment.

Aaron and Pete followed me down, their feet clumping on the uncarpeted wood risers. I still wasn't sure what Pete had decided to do, but shortly after he reached the bottom of the stairs, he turned to me and spoke.

"Get naked, Davey," he said calmly as he began to unbutton the cuffs of his shirt.

Suddenly, I wasn't so sure that I wanted to be punished. I felt even less confident about it as Pete began to roll up his sleeves one at a time. But matters had progressed to the point where they were now out of my hands. I could not renege on my own request without ruining everything, and there was no way I was going to do that. I was going to be punished by Pete whether I wanted to be, or not.

I stepped to the side of the couch in the seating area and began to take off my clothes. My shirt was first, followed by my loafers. After kicking them off, I unsnapped my shorts and slid them down and off my legs, leaving me in my pouch. I folded my shorts and placed them on the couch, then looked up to see Pete staring at me and the pouch a bit oddly.

"Let me see that," he said as he motioned me a bit closer. I came to him and stood there, displaying the garment that Mr. Stalteri had made for me.

Pete reached down and touched the strap on my left hip, then drew his fingers over the little triangle of fabric covering my genitals. His touch was gentle and light.

"Turn around, Davey," he instructed and as I did so, his hand drifted across both cheeks of my bare ass.

"Well, I'll be," said Pete with a chuckle as he removed his hand. I turned back around to see Pete smiling at Aaron. It was the first time I had seen a full smile on his face today, and it lifted my spirits to see it.

"Where in the world did you find that?" Pete asked his friend.

"Stalteri Men and Boys," replied Aaron with a gleeful grin. "Do you like it? It went over pretty well at the party, I can tell you that."

"I can imagine," said Pete as he turned his attention back to me. "Off with it," he said simply.

I stepped out of the pouch and placed it on top of the little pile of clothes on the couch just as Pete began to remove his belt from his pants. I gulped, swallowed hard, and blanched at the sight. Pete had taken the belt to me before, and it had hurt like blazes. I now knew that I was in for a world of hurt.

Pete stepped to the side and motioned me to the end of the couch. "Lie over that, Davey," he instructed. "Put your hips across the armrest and lie your head on the cushion. Stretch your arms out in front of you, lace your fingers together, and keep them there."

"Uh, Pete?" interrupted Aaron as I moved toward the couch to get in position. "I was going to offer these if you wanted," he added as he produced a length of rope and a pair of what looked like padded cuffs or manacles.

Pete reached for the manacles and inspected them. They appeared to be made of leather with buckles and straps on the outside. The inside was a padded fabric of some sort. They were connected by a stainless-steel chain about eight inches [20 cm] in length.

Pete looked at me. "Are you going to need these, or can you stay in position?" he asked.

Without waiting for me to answer, he turned back to Aaron. "What are you thinking?"

"I had some ceiling rings installed behind the support pole over there," said Aaron as he pointed at an area of the basement directly behind Pete.

Pete turned his head to look for a moment, then turned back to me and gestured me closer.

"Put your arms out," he said as he held the manacles out to me by one of the cuffs.

I presented my arms to him and watched as he slid the first manacle up my left hand to my wrist, then tightened the straps. He did the same with my right hand.

"You can clip them together like this," said Aaron as he stepped closer and used the snap hooks affixed to the manacles themselves to connect them together. My wrists were held now together in front of me with about two inches of play between them. The eight-inch chain dangled uselessly between them.

"Come on over here, Davey," said Aaron as he guided me toward the back of the basement with a hand on my neck. We soon reached the support pole, and when I looked up at the ceiling, I saw that several rings had been affixed to a metal track of some kind, which in turn had been embedded in the ceiling itself. The track was recessed and painted the same white color as the ceiling. The rings were thick and black, and looked like they were made of wrought iron.

"Grab a chair while I get him ready," Aaron told him as he tied the length of rope to the snap hooks between my wrists and then wrapped the coil through my arms a few times. As Pete walked toward the poker table to retrieve a chair, Aaron grabbed me under my chin and tilted my head up to look directly into his face.

"You're doing very well, Davey," he said in a whispered voice. "This was a good idea, don't you think?"

I wasn't sure what to think. I was scared. Pete had tied me up before to spank me, but not like this. I hadn't been manacled like this. I hadn't had an audience for my punishments before. There had never been this much careful planning before I was spanked. It was unsettling, but it seemed like there was nothing I could do or say about it at this point.

"Yes," I heard myself replying in a tight, frightened voice. "Thank you for helping me." I didn't want to repeat the mistake of not thanking him again.

Aaron chuckled as he gave my chin a little tap. "Don't mention it, Davey," he replied. "You'll get through this okay, don't you worry."

But I was worried. It wasn't just that I knew it would hurt; I also was worried that it wouldn't work. Pete had been nothing but cold and distant to me since the restaurant and that had me feeling very unsettled.

Pete returned with one of the poker chairs and positioned it under the rings closest to the pole. He climbed up on the chair as Aaron handed him the loose end of rope.

"I was going to get a few lengths of chain, but I just never did," said Aaron. "You know it's not really my thing," he added sheepishly.

"This will do fine," replied Pete as he ran the rope through one of the rings. The end of it just touched the floor as he stepped down from the chair and moved it to the side.

"There's a cleat on the pole," said Aaron as he pointed at the center of it.

Pete nodded as he retrieved the dangling rope and approached the pole. He pulled down on the rope, causing it to slide through the ring and pull my arms into the air above my head. He didn't stop there, and the next moment, I felt my feet lifting off the floor. With my shoulders straining to bear the weight of my body, I turned my head and watched as Pete wrapped the middle of the rope around the cleat in a figure-eight pattern and cinched it off. I was left dangling in the air with my feet about six inches from the floor.

Pete stepped back from the pole, and I moaned with apprehension of what was to come. I was not a happy boy. I was about to be beaten with Pete's belt, and I knew it was going to hurt. It always did. I didn't like the way I was positioned. Pete had never beaten me like this before. My naked body dangled helplessly in the air. I didn't weigh all that much, so my shoulders weren't in agony, but they certainly hurt. I moved my feet a bit, causing my body to twist.

"No moving, or I'll tie your feet off," said Pete as he retrieved his belt from the seat of the poker chair. I looked to my right to see Aaron watching the proceedings with his arms folded across his chest. This had been his idea, and now I wasn't so sure that it was a good one. I was beginning to wonder if I had been set up. I didn't trust Aaron at all. Had it really been smart to offer myself up to Pete for a punishment, or was I about to be beaten for no reason? I didn't like the way Aaron was looking at me. I didn't want an audience for something this personal, but there was nothing I could do about it now.

"You're going to have a sore butt for the drive home, Davey," warned Pete as he stepped behind me. "It will remind you to do as you're told, whether it's me or Aaron doing the telling, capiche?"

"Capiche … yes," I replied. I was miserable.

"I don't want to hear any noise, either. You asked for this, so you'll take it like a man, am I clear?"

I didn't want to take it like a man. I was a kid. I wasn't even 12. I knew it was going to hurt and I wasn't sure I could stop myself from making sounds. I wasn't likely to be able to stop myself from crying, that was for sure.

"Yes, Pete," I replied, making a promise that I wasn't at all sure that I could keep.

The first blow from the belt landed on my backside at the speed of light, sending a firecracker report reverberating across the basement. It hurt like blazes, immediately bringing tears to my eyes, and confirming that I was, indeed, unable to refrain from crying. I managed not to cry out, however, and even kept my legs together to prevent them from kicking. I used my arm muscles to lift my body straight up a few inches for something do and to combat the pain. It didn't help much.

The second blow forced a grunting exhale from my lungs. I hadn't even been aware that I was holding my breath, but I must have been. I lowered myself back down, my body twisting slightly as the blistering pain washed over me like a heat wave. My heart rate spiked through the roof from the pain, and I began to pant from lack of oxygen, but I was determined not to cry out. I glanced briefly to my right to see Aaron looking at me with his arms still folded across his chest. He looked almost disinterested, like he was waiting for his bus to arrive at the stop.

The blows kept coming, landing on my exposed bottom with sharp, slappy reports. Each one hurt like crazy, and after the first three or four, the ones after that all hit skin that had been hit before, which made everything hurt even more. The crescendo of stinging pain kept building and building as Pete laid the licks into me. I still hadn't cried out, but it was hard not to. It hurt so much, but I was determined not to show it. I wanted to beg him to stop, but this had been my idea in the first place–or my request, anyway. I couldn't renege on my own idea, and I didn't think Pete would let me do so anyway.

One of the blows hurt so much that I lifted myself by my arms and drew my knees up to either side like a frog ready to jump. Somewhat incongruously give the circumstances, that made me think of Toad. Mr. Campise was quick to discipline that boy, and he did it in public, too. Mikey always seemed to take his chastisements in his stride like he was used to them. He was a brave little kid. I didn't feel brave at all.

"Put your legs down," commanded Pete. With a moan and sigh, I did so, letting my body dangle limply as the man applied the next two stripes to my bottom. The second one forced another agonized grunt from my lungs. I leaned my head back in pain and stared up at the ceiling through my tears. My butt cheeks clenched and quivered. I exhaled a shivery, pain-filled breath. My butt was on fire.

"That was 12, Davey," said Pete as he paused the beating. "That's where I usually stop, but I think we'll do another set to make sure the that the message gets through to you this time. I am sick and tired of you acting like a baby and going into a funk every time someone comments on your age. It's not happening again; do you hear me?"

"Yes, Pete," I gasped. My bottom was killing me, and I didn't know how I could do another set. I wanted him to stop. How many were in a set? How many more? Another full 12? My butt already was on fire.

"Can we please take a b-break?" I asked Pete desperately.

"No," declared Pete as he sent the belt smacking into my backside once again. "I decide how many, how long, and how fast, don't I?"

"Y-yes, Pete!" I sobbed as the pain made my body shake. I lifted my knees into the frog position once again, trying to alleviate the pain.

"Legs down!" Pete commanded. "That one didn't count."

I moaned in despair and began to sob audibly even as I lowered my legs once again. Those were the worst four words he could have said to me. I didn't want any extra blows. No matter how much it hurt I resolved to keep my legs down and my feet together.

I managed to do so for the next two stripes, but the pain was outrageous. I was whimpering now, unable to control the sounds I was making. I managed to stop myself from completely losing control, crying out and begging for mercy, but it wasn't easy. My bottom was in agony.

I glanced over at Aaron once again, and this time he gave me a wink. A wink? Really? I saw it clearly even through my tears, and it left me befuddled as Pete applied yet another blistering blow to my backside, causing me to arch my back and thrust my hips forward. I glanced at Aaron again even as I clenched my teeth and moaned in pain. This had been his idea, and now I regretted having followed his advice. It simply hurt too much.

I managed not to cry out again as Pete continued to spank me. As the blows landed fiery hot on my butt, I tried to keep reminding myself that the punishment was deserved and that I literally had asked for it. My mind wandered and I lost count of the number of times he had hit me, but I assume that he gave me an entire second set of 12. By the end of it I was grunting and groaning with every breath. My butt felt like it had been soaked in kerosene and ignited.

When it was over, Pete walked up to me and draped his belt around my neck like an Olympic medal.

"We're square, Davey," he declared. "Well done. Your punishment is over, and you have a clean slate with me, but this will give you something to think about on the drive home. Start thinking about it now so you don't forget the lesson. We'll be back down in a few minutes once you've composed yourself, capiche?"

The punishment may have been over, but the pain I felt most certainly wasn't. My butt cheeks burned and throbbed.

"Yes," I gasped through my tears to my friend and mentor. It was then that I realized how much my shoulders hurt from the strain they were under, but part of me knew that I needed some time alone to collect myself, even if I spent it hanging from the ceiling in Aaron's basement.

Nothing more was said as the men trudged upstairs. I did nothing but hang there and try to contain the stinging pain on my bottom while I collected my thoughts. I wouldn't want to go through that again, but now that it was over, I was glad that I had done so. Hearing Pete say the words "we're square" and "well done" relieved me of much of the stress and worry that I had been carrying around for the past two days. I seemed to be back in my friend's good graces, and I thought that was well worth the pain radiating from my butt cheeks.

I'm not sure how long they left me hanging there, but it was long enough for me to compose myself and stop crying. As I waited for them to return, the pain I felt in my shoulders slowly began to compete for first place with the pain in my bottom. I tried to lift myself up a few times to alleviate it, but my arm strength was completely gone, and I couldn't do much more than flex myself up an inch or so. It wasn't enough to help my shoulders, which continued to bear the entire weight of my body, but it helped. Granted, I didn't weigh much back then so the weight on my shoulders wasn't extreme, but I didn't have the upper body strength of a weightlifter, either.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to me, I heard footfalls on the basement staircase as both men returned to the basement. Aaron approached me and supported my weight with a tight, one-armed hug as Pete untied the rope from the cleat on the side of the pole. Aaron lowered me to the floor, and I found myself standing once again. I brought my arms down with a sigh of relief. My shoulders instantly felt better.

"I believe you have somebody to thank before we hit the road," said Pete as he lifted my hands and began to unloop the rope from between my wrists and then untied it. As the rope fell away, I continued to hold my hands out to him, expecting him to remove the manacles, but he simply placed his hand on my neck and began marching me toward the seating area. I stood next to the couch and watched as both men kicked off their shoes and began to undress. They removed their pants almost simultaneously and placed them on a nearby chair, followed by their underwear. Pete already was fully erect in anticipation of whatever they planned to do, which made sense because as far as I knew, he hadn't had any sex since he left me alone in the hotel room. Aaron, despite having had sex multiple times over that same period, was well on his way to a full erection.

I watched as Aaron sat on the couch and then rotated his body 90 degrees and lay on his back. He moved himself closer to the one edge and placed his legs over it, his feet dangling down.

"Turn around," directed Pete from behind me, and when I turned to face him, he reached for the manacles and began to release the snap hooks and undo the buckles on my right wrist. I was glad to be rid of it when he pulled the right manacle free, but my relief was short-lived.

"Hands behind your back," said Pete as he turned me around by my shoulders. As soon as I complied, he reapplied the right manacle to my wrist and reconnected the snap hooks. I was just as trussed up as before, only now my arms were secured behind my back.

Pete directed me to the edge of the couch and walked me between Aaron's dangling legs. When my hips touched the padded armrest, he pushed me over by my shoulders forcing me to lie across it with my face in Aaron's lap. Aaron wasted no time grasping my head in both hands and repositioning himself slightly on the couch so that his penis was directly below my mouth.

"You can start, Davey," Aaron said as he guided my face and mouth to his now fully erect penis. Without hesitation, and eager to make things right, I lipped his now-familiar cockhead into my mouth and began to give him some tongue.

Although I knew that this was a thank-you blowjob and Pete was watching, I already had decided that I would not use my newfound deep-throating skill on Aaron before I first had demonstrated it on Pete. It didn't matter what I decided anyway, because with my arms secured behind my back the way they were, deep throating Aaron wasn't even an option. I wouldn't be able to position his penis the way I needed it to be without using one of my hands, and both were out of play. I would have to give Aaron a more conventional suck, and that's what I proceeded to do.

Although I had seen Pete remove his pants and underwear, I was distracted by the task at hand and had lost track of his whereabouts until I felt his hands spread my stinging butt cheeks apart and something cold being applied to my anus. A few seconds later, I felt Pete's cockhead nestle between my cheeks and his hands on my hips. He entered me unceremoniously, simply jabbing his cock past my sphincter and into my rectum.

The weekend's activities had left me very sore back there both inside and out and Pete's cock hurt as it rammed inside, but I didn't mind. As far as I was concerned, I was Pete's boy, and he could fuck me whenever he wanted whether I was sore or not. I was grateful that he had taken me back. After two days of worry, we were now "square," and that knowledge filled me with tremendous relief. Aaron had been right about asking Pete to punish me. My bottom was killing me, but Aaron's plan had worked, and that was all that mattered. There was nothing I wouldn't do now to remain in Pete's good graces.

Aaron cradled my head in his lap with both hands and helped me to bob up and down on his erection. With my hands secured behind my back I had no leverage, so he was able to control the pace and depth of my blowjob. He didn't go overly deep, but his hips drove his cockhead to the opening of my throat with every upstroke.

"That feels really nice, Davey," Aaron whispered as he slid his cock back and forth between my lips. Given my position, I couldn't do much to respond except emit a little hum from my nose.

"How many cocks did he take this weekend?" asked Pete as he fucked me none too gently over the couch's armrest, causing my body to rock back and forth and forcing me to use my neck like a shock-absorber to keep my mouth in the proper position for Aaron.

"I lost count, but he was a very good boy," replied Aaron with a little chuckle as he continued to lift and lower my head on his penis. "Duck to water type of thing."

"And he met the people he needed to meet?" queried Pete as he fucked away.

"Definitely the ones he needed to for this trip," answered Aaron. "Not everyone was there, though. You never quite know what the lineup will be until you get there."

"He did alright with the one guy? The guy with the fetish? What's his name again?"

"Tal," replied Aaron as he leisurely fucked my mouth. "Max Tal. That went great."

"Nice," replied Pete. "Great work."

I had never been double-teamed like this before, so it was weird for me to be fucked at both ends simultaneously. Even weirder was listening to Aaron and Pete talk about me like I wasn't even there. On the other hand, it wasn't like I could participate in the conversation with a cock in my mouth, nor did I have a lot to add. Aaron was doing a decent job describing what had happened at the party, although I noticed that he didn't provide a lot of details about what had happened with Mr. Tal. I wondered if I was allowed to tell Pete what had happened with the pantyhose, but I rejected the idea almost as soon as it entered my head. I didn't want to give Pete any bright ideas, lest he develop an interest in pantyhose on his own. I never wanted to have to wear them again.

"Your mouth feels so nice, Davey," said Aaron as he pulled me off his penis and held my head up a bit higher. When I looked up, he was smiling.

"Thanks-uhhhh," I replied, grunting as Pete thrust into me once again.

"Good boy," said Aaron as he put me back on his erection. "Do you like taking two cocks at the same time?"

I hadn't really thought about whether I liked it or not, as I hadn't been given a choice in the matter. I supposed it was okay. Not having the use of my arms and hands made it a bit weirder, but Pete had tied me up for sex plenty of times before, so I was mostly used to that.

"Answer the man," said Pete as he gave my right butt cheek a little slap. It wasn't too hard, but my bottom was nothing but a series of angry welts from the belting I had received, so it hurt nonetheless.

"Mmmummmm," I replied, as I also tried to nod. I was finding it nearly impossible to communicate with Aaron's cock in my mouth.

"You'll need to get used to it," advised Pete matter-of-factly as he thrust away into my rectum.

Despite everything I had learned over the weekend, I still wasn't sure what he meant. What would I need to get used to? What did Pete and Aaron have planned for my future? What exactly was in store for me? I didn't know then, but it wouldn't be long before I found out.

Chapter 17

I didn't realize quite how tired I was until Aaron and Pete had both finished with their fun. I was exhausted. The entire weekend had been a whirlwind for me, and I was both physically and emotionally spent. Aaron offered me a shower before we hit the road, but Pete declared there wasn't time so instead I had to make do with some toilet paper to try and clean up Pete's leakage. My butt was throbbing from my beating as I wiped it up and I wasn't looking forward to sitting on it for the drive home, but I was feeling better about things with Pete, and that was all that mattered to me.

When I came out of the downstairs bathroom and into the kitchen, Aaron was ready with the clothes I had brought with me from Michigan.

"I like your haircut, Davey," said Pete as I climbed into my briefs. "Are you going to keep wearing it like that when you get home?"

I was pleased that Pete had noticed my new hair style and reveled in his praise. As far as what the future held, I hadn't thought about it all that much, but I liked the look and thought that I might just keep it. I was going to a new school in a month, and I wanted to get off to a good start. I was hoping that a new style would allow me to remake myself and impress my new teachers and classmates.

"I think so," I replied. "Do you really like it?"

"I do," said Pete. "It looks handsome on you. It makes you look a little older, too."

As much as I was pleased with his compliment, I didn't say anything further as I put my t-shirt back on. I wasn't going anywhere near the subject of how old I appeared–certainly not with Pete. Whether I looked older or younger no longer mattered to me. I wasn't going there. I wouldn't make that mistake ever again.

"Don't forget your pouch," said Aaron with a smile as he held the garment up for a moment and placed it in my bag. "You might want to hide it from your mom though."

"I'll take that," said Pete picking up the pouch and stuffing it in his front pocket. "You can wear it at my house. Probably best if your mother doesn't see it."

I nodded in response, but inwardly, I was thrilled at the mention of his house. It seemed that I was back in the man's good graces, and he was starting to talk about my future with him once again in a casual manner. Only a little over an hour ago, I hadn't been sure that I ever would see the inside of his house again. Now, it seemed that things were going back more to the way they had been between the two of us.

I pulled my old shorts up my legs and crammed my feet into my worn sneakers. I was fully dressed and ready to go. Aaron picked up my bag and packed it with the shorts, shirt, and loafers he had purchased for me from Mr. Stalteri.

"These are yours to keep, Davey," he said. "You look good in them. If your mom asks, just tell her you got to keep them from the Sears shoot."

"I will," I replied with a nod as he handed me my bag. I looked up at him and we made eye contact. He was smiling as he gave me a nod of his own.

"Thanks, Aaron," I added, and not because of Pete. This time, my appreciation was genuine.

"Come here, you," he said as he grinned broadly and held out his arms.

I didn't hesitate, but dropped the bag and almost ran to him, flinging myself into his arms and pressing my face to his chest.

"Thank you," I said as he hugged me tight to his body and gave me a pat on the head.

"Any time, Davey," he said as we separated. "You be a good boy for Pete, okay?"

"I will," I said with a determined nod.

"We'll see you back here soon, I'm sure," Aaron said. "I'm going to make some calls," he added with a wink.

"Thanks," I said yet again. I was starting to feel emotional. I still didn't fully trust Aaron, but he had been my constant companion and guardian for the past two days and saying good-bye to him was more difficult than I had thought it would be. He had done a lot for me, including the most important thing of all, which was helping me to patch things up with Pete. For that, I was grateful.

"Let's go," said Pete in a businesslike voice as he tapped my shoulder. He held his hand out to Aaron. "I'll be in touch," he said as the men shook. "I'll let you know his schedule when I get back."

"Sounds good," Aaron replied. "You guys travel well."

Pete and I left Aaron's house together and piled into the Marquis. Pete was right–my butt hurt from my spanking and sitting on it the entire way back to St. Clair was not going to be comfortable–but I gladly would have let Pete spank me a dozen more times if that was what it took to get back in his favor. I felt like I was there now, and I vowed to myself not to do anything to jeopardize our friendship like that ever again.

As we drove, I debated following Mr. Stone's advice and telling Pete how much I loved him. I did love the man, but our relationship wasn't gushy like that, and I wasn't sure how to go about saying what was on my mind. I knew that the very best way for me to show my love for Pete was to make him feel good with my new deep-throating skill, but I couldn't really do that in the car. Besides, Mr. Stone had planned for me to tell him that at the Cubs game that we were not attending because the remnants of the tickets were sitting in so many pieces in the trash back at the Charcoal Oven. Expressions of love for Pete would have to wait.

"So, you had a good time at the party?" queried Pete as we headed toward the highway entrance.

"Yeah, it was great," I replied with an enthusiastic nod. I wanted Pete to think that I would be comfortable going to other parties if that's what he wanted me to do.

"You liked the pool?"

"It was really cool," I replied. "It goes outside even in winter."

"I hear you got to play some arcade games," said Pete.

Warning klaxons sounded in my brain even as I rolled my eyes in frustration. I didn't dare deny that I had played them, even though I hadn't. If I denied it, I knew that Pete would conclude that I was lying to him, and I would be back in the doghouse right away. He might even punish me for it when we got home, and my butt was far too sore to take that risk.

"Not that many," I said in a voice that sounded defensive even to me.

"Hmmm," said Pete, but he left it at that and didn't follow up.

We drove in silence for a few miles, working our way to the highway on ramp. It was a Sunday, so traffic was light. I think we were sharing the road mostly with Cub fans making their way to Wrigley Field, and I tried not to dwell on that as we made our way out of the city. The destruction of the Cubs tickets had left me with an empty feeling inside and a profound sense of loss that I wasn't sure that I ever would be able to overcome. Indeed, as ridiculous as it seems, I still think about what happened to them sometimes, now well over 40 years later.

"You met some new people at the party?" asked Pete after a pause of several miles. Our conversation wasn't exactly flowing, and it seemed like he was trying to come up with things to say.

"Yeah," I replied, in what had to be the understatement of the year.

"That thing you were wearing–did they give that to you at the party?"

I proceeded to explain to Pete about being outfitted at Mr. Stalteri's store, and how he had made the pouch for me. Pete listened and nodded as I spoke and at least pretended to be interested. I ended up telling him about the other places I visited before the party, as well.

"Is that where you got the new haircut?" he asked when I told him about Ramses.

"Yes, and a mani and a pedi from two of Aaron's friends," I replied, as I then proceeded to tell him all about Fran and Tony. It turned into a causal, rollicking conversation, full of smiles and laughter. For a while, at least, it seemed like old times once again.

I don't remember a lot else about the drive home that day. After a while, our conversation waned, and we drove in silence for some time. Eventually, I fell into an exhausted sleep with my head slumped awkwardly against the passenger-side door and my mouth dangling open. I was out for a while as I caught up on my rest. At some point I know that Pete stopped for gas, but after waking up momentarily to the sound of his car door slamming shut, I went right back to sleep.

I finally woke up with about an hour to go in our journey across most of the state of Michigan. I sat up a bit straighter in my seat and looked out the windshield to get my bearings.

"Somebody's been out like a light for most of the drive," said Pete. "Some companion you are."

"Sorry," I replied as I rubbed the last vestiges of sleep from my eyes.

"It's okay," allowed Pete. "I'm not surprised. Did you get any sleep at all at the party?"

"Not much," I admitted. "Do you know how big that house is?"

"I've heard. Pretty impressive, huh?"

"It was amazing. It had so many rooms in it."

"Well, there's a lot of money to be made in show business, Davey," replied Pete. "That's how you get to afford a house like that."

I nodded, but I didn't think I'd ever afford a house like Mr. Stone's, or even Aaron Richter's for that matter. Both properties were so far removed from my own experiences growing up that it was a bit hard to fathom. I didn't think there were homes like that anywhere in St. Clair. If there were, I hadn't seen them.

"Are you ready to start tapping into some of that, Davey?" asked Pete. "You have a real opportunity knocking at your door right now. You know that, right?"

I wasn't sure exactly what to make of Pete's question or how to respond to it. Despite all the discussions I had had, nobody had come right out and told me precisely what the opportunity was. There had been talk among the adults of professional and private photo shoots, movies, and baseball games with lonely businessmen as well as some other hints here and there, but I still didn't know exactly what the plan was for me.

"I'm ready, but I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to do," I replied uncertainly.

Pete glanced over at me and nodded. "I guess that's where Aaron and I come in, Davey," he said. "And to a certain extent your mother. We're going to need to have a conversation with her about all this."

I wasn't looking forward to that. My mother had been depressed since she lost her job. I wasn't sure if that or being forced to give up the house affected her more. Since the move, she had been increasingly quiet and aloof, and I was worried about her drinking. She spent a lot of time sitting at the table in the kitchen with a bottle and a glass in front of her. I didn't want to admit it to myself, but I was starting to feel a bit embarrassed by what she had become, and I worried what other people would think about her when they saw her.

"What are you going to talk about?" I asked in a worried tone.

"Well, I think we need to get her buy in about all this, don't you think?" Pete replied. "If everything goes according to plan, you're going to be spending a lot of time in Chicago. I love St. Clair, but it isn't exactly a hotbed for show business if you know what I mean."

I nodded half-heartedly, but I wasn't sure how any of that was going to work. It was one thing to come to Chicago in the summer, but in less than a month it would be September, and I would be back in school. I was nervous about the start of school because I would be going to the junior high for the first time for 7^th grade. I knew I probably could persuade my mother to let me return to Chicago one more time before summer ended and school started up again, but after that, I didn't really see how it would be possible.

"School starts on September 5^th," I informed Pete. I knew this because I had memorized the date, which was three days after I would be turning 12. I also knew that September 5^th was a Tuesday, the day after Labor Day.

"That's one of the things we're going to have to talk to your mother about," Pete replied. "A lot of kids in the industry miss school during the day and then make up the work with tutors. Aaron can easily set all that up when you're in Chicago."

I was stunned to hear this. Nobody had mentioned it to me before, and I didn't think my mother was going to be very happy when she heard about it. Missing school probably would be a deal-breaker with her. It just wasn't something I did, or that she would allow. Even when I was sick it took a papal dispensation for her to keep me home from school. The odds of her letting me miss school for a photo shoot were just about nil.

"She won't let me," I said, shaking my head. "There's no way."

"I think she might, Davey," replied Pete. "It's not every kid who gets an opportunity like the one you have right now."

"She doesn't like me missing school," I insisted.

"That's what the tutors are for, Davey. I'll talk to her."

"What exactly is the opportunity?" I asked Pete directly. I still didn't know exactly what he and Aaron thought I would be doing, and it was starting to bother me.

"Didn't Aaron talk to you about that with Mr. Stone?" replied Pete with a question of his own.

"I mean, kind of," I replied. I didn't want to admit to Pete that I hadn't really understood a lot of what was said to and about me. The adults sometimes tended to talk among themselves like I wasn't even there.

"So, you tell me," said Pete. "What do you think this is all about?"

"Just … just for me to be a model and other stuff," I replied.

"What other stuff?"

"Sex stuff," I admitted somewhat reluctantly. I hadn't wanted to say it.

"What kind of sex stuff?" Pete persisted. "Like the things we do together?"

"Kind of, only for movies sometimes," I replied. "Or being with other people."

"What kind of movies?"

"X-rated ones?" I asked uncertainly.

"That's right, Davey," acknowledged Pete. "That's where the really good money is. I heard you saw one of those at the party.

I nodded. "But Mr. Tal said it wasn't very good."

"You saw it. What did you think?"

"It was pretty bad."

"You mean the acting?"

"It seemed kind of fake," I said with a shrug.

"Do you think you could do it better?"

I shrugged again. "Probably I can," I said uncertainly.

"You're not sure?"

"I never did it before," I replied defensively.

"What am I, chopped liver?" he said with light smack to my left thigh. "Haven't we been working on your acting for the past several months?"

"Not like that," I said uncertainly.

"No?" said Pete as he glanced at me again from the driver's seat. "How many times did we play pirates and cabin boy, or American spy boy and the KGB? How many times did we act out Uncle-Trowse-and-Sebastian stuff?"

"A lot," I conceded. That was all true. We had acted out a lot of scenes with sex in them.

"So how is this different?"

I shrugged. Sometimes Pete cross-examined me like this, and I wasn't very good at standing up to it, but it just seemed different to me, even if I couldn't articulate the reason.

"It's the same thing, Davey," Pete persisted. "It's just acting, and you can act. You know that. We've been practicing it for months, including the sex part."

"I know," I said morosely. "I just haven't made a movie before."

"Obviously you haven't," replied Pete. "You haven't made one yet. That's the key. There has to be a first time for everything, but you can do this, Davey. I know you can."

I shrugged uncertainly. I wasn't so sure that I could. I wasn't so sure that I wanted to.

"You're not trying to back out now, are you?" asked Pete. "After all this?"

"No," I replied quickly in a defensive-sounding voice. Pete sounded like he was starting to get agitated, and I didn't want to go there at all. Not at all. I didn't need it. I didn't want it. I desperately didn't want it. Not now. Not after everything.

"Pete, I didn't say that," I added nervously, just to be sure.

"Well, I'm not exactly hearing a lot of enthusiasm from you," he replied. His tone sounded ominous to me.

"I am, Pete, honest," I said contritely.

"You're what?" asked Pete.

"Enthusiastic."

"You don't sound enthusiastic to me," said Pete. "You sound scared."

"I'm not scared," I insisted. "Honest." I wanted to tell him about Mr. Tal, and how I hadn't been scared when I was him–or at least not too scared–but I refrained for now. "I just don't think my mom's going to let me miss school."

Silence hung in the air as Pete paused for a few seconds before responding. I glanced over to gauge his demeanor, but he seemed deep in thought.

"Do you have any idea how much money you can make for a single movie like that, Davey?" he finally asked.

I had no idea. I knew that the Sears shoot had paid $500, but I also knew that Sears was the biggest department store in the world and probably could afford to pay that kind of money. I guessed that a movie like the one I had seen probably wouldn't pay that much.

"Probably … maybe … would it be like … is it over … three hundred dollars?" I stammered.

"Way over," said Pete. "Try again."

"Is it over a five hundred dollars?" That would be the same as the Sears shoot, which I hardly could believe.

"More. Try again."

"A thousand dollars?"

"At least a thousand, and maybe more," confirmed Pete. "Of course, that's not all your share, since there has to be some for Aaron and me to cover our expenses and make a little bit as your agents." He paused again before continuing. "Sounds like a pretty good deal, though, doesn't it?"

I had nothing to compare it to other than the proceeds from the Sears shoot, but $1,000 [€900] sounded like an astronomical amount of money to me. It had an extra zero. The idea of making that kind of money on a single sex movie was nothing short of astonishing, even if I had to get beaten as part of the script. There was no denying that it was a lot of money, but I was old enough to know that when things sounded too good to be true, they often were.

"Is that really true?" I asked skeptically.

"Scout's honor," replied Pete. "Would you be able to help your mother out with that?"

"Yes," I replied with a nod, but my mind already was elsewhere. I was deep in thought. I was imagining myself approaching my mother at the kitchen table and handing her a wad of bills totaling $1,000. That's for you, Mom, I would say to her. You can pay the rent with some of it and the rest we can save to buy the house back. It was a very powerful thought. Very powerful, indeed.

"We could give some of it to your mother to help with expenses, some to you for spending money, and the rest we can save toward your college education and whole bunch of other things, Davey," said Pete. "Maybe get you a new bike, and a whole new wardrobe for school. Are you starting to see what kind of an opportunity this is for you?"

I did see. I could see very clearly now. I nodded.

"Thanks to Aaron, you have an opportunity to make some real money doing what you're already good at," said Pete. "Aaron's very connected in show biz, Davey. He has friends in high places, capiche?"

I nodded again, but I already knew that. I had seen it first-hand. Aaron Richter knew a lot of people.

"When we get to your apartment, I want to talk to your mother about this," continued Pete. "There's no time like the present, especially coming on the heels of that Sears shoot. Will she be home when we get there?"

"She'll be there," I replied unhappily. I knew she would be, as she never went out anymore. I just hoped she wouldn't be dressed in her bathrobe and drunk when we arrived.

I heard a click and looked over as Pete unbuckled his seatbelt, lifted himself up, and reached in his back pocket to pull out his wallet. He dropped it in my lap.

"Open that up," he instructed.

I picked up his wallet and unfolded the three segments.

"In the middle, on the right there, pull out the first five bills you find," said Pete.

There were several bills in the center section of the wallet, but the ones closest to the exterior looked crisp and new. I counted over and pulled them out, then fanned through them. I was holding five one-hundred-dollar bills in my hands.

"Those are for you," said Pete as he plucked the wallet out of my lap, stuffed it back in his pocket, and refastened his seatbelt. "Aaron and I have decided that we're not going to take a cut from the Sears shoot, not even for expenses. That's all yours to keep. You earned it, Davey."

"You should take some," I replied earnestly. Pete had driven me all the way to Chicago and spent a lot of money on gas, food, and hotel rooms doing it. I wanted him to take the money. I wanted to cover his expenses.

"Not this time," said Pete. "That was your first shoot. You keep it. You can pay me next time, and Aaron too. We can wait."

My head was spinning, and I wasn't sure what to think. For starters, I couldn't believe that I was holding five hundred dollars in my hands, much less that it was mine to spend. If there were four games of Space Invaders in every dollar, just one of the new, crisp bills I was holding would pay for … 400 games! Not that I intended to spend anywhere near that much just to play an arcade game, but still. It was amazing to think about.

"You can do what you want with it, Davey," added Pete, "but I recommend that you keep one of those Benjamins for yourself and give the rest of them to your mother. You do want to help her, right?"

I nodded. I did want to help my mom. I wanted things to go back to the way they were and see her happy again. I thought she would be happiest of all if she had her old job back and was able to live in our old house again. She had been happy then. I knew that I couldn't do anything about her old job, but I was starting to wonder if I could earn enough money to buy our house back. If I could make the kind of money Pete was talking about, maybe I just could. Maybe then things could go back to the way they were before.

"What if she asks me how I made the money?" I inquired of Pete. "Not for this, but for the other money I make?" I could hardly tell her that I was making X-rated movies if that's what I ended up doing

"Don't worry about that," he replied. "Aaron and I will take care of it. There will be statements that account for some of the income, and I think your mother will understand that sometimes you get paid in cash under the table. Lots of people do."

He must have seen the skepticism on my face because he didn't let me reply before he spoke again.

"It'll be fine, Davey," he added. "I don't think she's going to question it."

It was a long, long drive and the last part of it seemed to take forever, especially on my sore butt. It was nearly 6:00 p.m. when Pete pulled the Marquis into the driveway of the side-by-side duplex that I shared with my mother. I had been awake for most of the last hour or so, just chatting away, but as we got closer to home, I started to feel more nervous and unsettled. My mother never questioned the time I spent with Pete, but the many naughty things that I had done this weekend made me feel nervous. I had done things I wasn't proud of, and I had done them behind her back. I knew that I was going to have to lie to her about most of them, and I wasn't looking forward to that. I hadn't yet mapped out the lies in my head, which meant that I was going to have to ad lib them.

We stepped out of the car simultaneously and I opened the back door to get my bag. We walked around to the back and entered my apartment through the rear entrance.

"Hi, mom!" I called out from the little mudroom that led upstairs into the kitchen. My voice sounded a lot more enthusiastic than I felt. "I'm back!"

Pete and I climbed the three risers and stepped into the kitchen. My mother was there, seated at the small table. As I had feared, she still was in her bathrobe. I had forgotten that today was a Sunday and that there was almost no chance that she would bother to get dressed. I didn't see a bottle, but a small glass of a clear liquid sat on the kitchen table in front of her. I knew from recent experience that it wasn't water.

My mother rose to her feet as we entered and re-cinched the bathrobe sash around her waist. She looked wan and a bit disheveled as she looked at us in surprise.

"I didn't know what time to expect you back," she said as I dropped my bag and went to her, giving her a hug. "It's nice to see you, Mr. Volcker," she said over my shoulder as we embraced. "I'm sorry I'm not dressed, but I wasn't expecting company. I hope Davey wasn't any trouble."

"It's fine, Sharon, and he was no trouble at all," he replied with a little chuckle. "Don't forget to call me Pete," he added in a playful voice.

My mother broke our hug and took my head in both hands. "I missed you," she said in a soft voice and with a look that reminded me of the way things used to be.

"I missed you, too," I replied earnestly with a bit of a nod, but the truth was something different. I had barely thought of my mother the entire time I was gone, and when I did, it was only to worry how I could keep things from her when I got home. She had changed a great deal since she lost her job, and I had changed a great deal since I had met Pete. Things were different now, and while part of me longed for things to return to the way they had been, the other part of me knew that that was only a pipe dream. Nothing I did was going to get my mother's job back, and I wasn't even sure that she would take it if it were offered.

"Davey did great, Sharon," said Pete. "I'm very proud of him. I hope you don't mind me barging in on you like this, but I just had to tell you what a great and talented kid you have there."

My mother let go of my face as and as I turned back toward Pete, I rolled my eyes at him. I thought he was pouring it on rather thick with the "great and talented kid" line, but he was a good actor and if anyone could successfully pull off flattering my mother, I would put my money on him.

"How did things go in Chicago, then?" asked my mother as she motioned to the kitchen table, offering Pete a seat.

What followed was a nearly two-hour conversation that was interrupted only by the time Pete spent ordering a pizza and paying the delivery kid once it arrived. I participated in the first part of the conversation before Pete sent me away. I didn't like the idea of them talking without me but the new obedient me was not going to risk upsetting Pete, so I went into my room to read. I returned to eat when he called me but didn't say much during the meal. Pete and my mother seemed to be getting along fabulously, so I just sat on my still sore butt and let the two adults do their thing. After eating, Pete banished me from the kitchen once again, this time with the vocal support of my mother, so I watched a few minutes of TV in the living room before retreating to my bedroom, my belly full of Paisano's pizza. Once there, I carefully extracted from my pocket the five crisp, one-hundred-dollar bills that Pete had given me and placed them in my sock drawer.

I was lying on my bed lost in a Sgt. Fury and his Howling Commandos comic book I had gotten last Christmas when Pete suddenly appeared in the doorway to my bedroom.

"Come on back into the kitchen for a second," he said as he glanced around my room. "Your mother and I want to talk to you about a few things."

I scrambled off the bed and followed Pete back down the hall. I wasn't entirely sure what the adults wanted to talk to me about, but I had a suspicion that Pete had worked out some of the details of my upcoming work assignments with my mother. The man could be very charming and persuasive when he wanted to be, and he had been talking to my mother for a long time.

"Have a seat, Davey," said Pete as he motioned me back to the same chair I had been sitting in before. I carefully sat down.

"Your mother and I have been doing some talking," he confirmed. "I told her about the remarkable opportunity you have ahead of you in the industry, and we've made a few decisions–subject to your input, of course."

"I'm very proud of you, sweetheart," my mother chimed in. I wished she wouldn't call me that in front of Pete, but it was water over the dam at that point.

"Your mother has agreed to allow you to make some trips to Chicago during the school year and to let you keep up with your schoolwork using a tutor, but there are some conditions," said Pete.

I was very surprised to hear that, and I turned to my mother to see what the conditions would be.

"Mr. Volcker has explained what might be required sometimes for you to be successful as an actor and a model, Davey," she said. "On a test basis, I'm willing to allow you to go, but you have to hold up your end of the bargain."

"I will mom," I said quickly. I was surprised that Pete had been able to persuade my mother to say anything other than no, but as I said, the man could be very charming and persuasive when he wanted to be.

"Well, why don't you wait until you hear the conditions before you agree to them," cautioned my mother.

"This is important, Davey," admonished Pete. "I've given your mother my word that I'll do my best to live up to these conditions, but they all start with you."

"Okay, I'll listen," I replied with a nod as I realized suddenly that we were having a Very Serious Conversation.

"The first condition is that you are doing this for fun and not as a job," said my mother as she looked me in the eyes. "I realize that there is a potential for you to earn a lot of money and that's all well and good, but the moment it becomes a burden for anyone involved is when we're going to put an end to it."

"I really want to, mom," I said with a sideways glance at Pete. "I know I can act, and I know I can be a good model, too."

"And I know you can too, sweetheart, but if it ever becomes too much or a burden on you, I want you to tell me," said my mother. "There is absolutely no reason for you to have a job at your age unless you enjoy what you're doing."

"I promise," I said solemnly with another sideways glance at Pete. This was going much better than I had expected.

"The second thing is your grades," continued my mother. "The moment your grades start to suffer is the moment I put an end to all of this. I'm not expecting you to become a straight-A student overnight, but you're going to be at the junior high school now, and I expect you to bring home good grades every marking period with no excuses."

"I will, Mom," I said with a confirming nod of my head.

"That means your grade point average stays above 3.0 the whole year, Davey," said my mother. "That's a B average and something that you are more than capable of."

"You're going to have a tutor to work with you when you're in the city," added Pete. "Or more than one, depending on how it works out. The law requires you to get a certain number of hours of instruction every day whether you're in class or not, and I promised your mother that I would make sure that happens."

"I can do that," I confirmed. "Promise."

"Third thing: Fifty percent of your earnings goes into a college fund for your future," said my mother. "That's the main reason I'm letting you do this, Davey. With what I'm making now, I'm not going to be able to help much at all with that, but Pete thinks you can make enough at least to help pay for college."

"I'm sure he can if he works hard and does the things he needs to do," said Pete. I thought I detected just the slightest tone of warning in his words, but I didn't react to it at all.

"I will," I declared. "I promise, mom. Fifty percent."

"Wait!" I added quickly as I jumped up from the kitchen table and raced down the hall into my bedroom. I grabbed the five one-hundred-dollar bills from my sock drawer and came running back into the kitchen with them in hand. I fanned them out on the table. I thought they looked very impressive.

"Mom, I made this from being in the Sears catalogue, and Pete said I could have it," I explained. I paused for a second because I was a little out of breath from my run. "We can use half of it for college," I announced.

My mother stared at the bills for a moment without speaking. Even for an adult, $500 [€450] was a lot of money in 1978. I'm not entirely sure what my mother was making at her new job, but I don't think she would bring home even $10,000 [€9000] over the course of the year. Those new bills lying on the kitchen table probably represented over half of her monthly income, and that was before taxes.

"That's very nice, Davey," said my mother. "That's a lot of money, and yes, I think we should use some of it for your college fund."

"I was waiting to tell you, mom," I told her. "I was going to give you most of it so we can buy the house back."

"Oh, Davey," my mother said with a forced smile and a pat on my arm. "That's not something you need to worry about. We're happy here."

"I want to, mom," I replied. I could feel myself starting to get emotional. "I can help."

In the end, my mother agreed to take one of the $100 bills, but not before she reiterated several times that it was not my responsibility to be a breadwinner for our little family. Despite her present circumstances, my mother had raised me from birth without assistance from anyone else except for maybe her mother, who died when I was eight. I didn't have a father, and back in the 1970s, it was rare to see a mother working and raising kids on her own. It was a point of pride for her that she always had been able to provide for me, and she did not want me to feel like I needed to work to help make ends meet.

Even though I already knew that he agreed with me, Pete wisely remained out of that part of the conversation. Like a good actor who knew when to pour it on and when to play a subdued role, Pete was persuasive when he needed to be but took a back seat when the circumstances called for it. This was one of the times that called for it, and Pete played it perfectly.

I didn't know it at the time, but the two hours Pete spent talking to my mother that Sunday evening set in motion a series of events that would profoundly change my life. The last year already had been one of enormous changes for me. Between meeting Pete and acting in Parasols, my mother losing her job and being forced to move from the house I had grown up in, and the trips to Chicago and starting my professional career, the last few months had been nothing short of a whirlwind for me. Yet, despite everything that had happened to date, the pace of change in my life was about to ramp up, and not just because of Chicago and the professional plans that Pete and Aaron had for me. In addition to all that, I was less than a month from turning 12. I also was less than a month from going to a new school for the first time since I had started my education as a kindergartener.

Yet, despite all the changes looming in my future, I still had almost a full month to go on my summer break, and I was determined to take advantage of that. Things seemed back to normal with Pete, which allowed me to shed the anxiety of the past few days and get back to being a kid. I slept like a log that Sunday night, and the very next day I was back at Pete's house, but not before I took the remaining $100 bill from my sock drawer and took it straight over to Tucker's Pharmacy to play a few games of Space Invaders.

It didn't go well. When I presented the bill to the man whom I presumed to be the owner, Mr. Tucker, he looked at me like I had just beamed down from the Starship Enterprise in a space suit.

"We don't make change for bills that large, young man," he said. "Where did you get that?"

I had to stammer something to him about getting the bill for my birthday even though it was still a month off. I didn't want to tell him the truth, because even though the money I had right now was from the Sears shoot, in my mind, that $100 bill was inextricably connected to naked sex parties, thank-you blowjobs, X-rated movies, and the like. I no sooner would tell Mr. Tucker about those things than I would take off my clothes and dance naked around his store, but maybe he would have liked it if I had done so. After almost a year with Pete and having attended Mr. Stone's party, I had a newfound appreciation of the interest men had in naked young boys.

I left the pharmacy with a profound sense of disappointment. What good was having a $100 bill if you couldn't spend it? Not far down the street was Homestead Savings Bank. I didn't have a bank account, but I knew that banks had a lot of money. Surely Homestead Savings Bank would be able to change a $100 bill into smaller bills and quarters, right?

Nope. It turns out that banks don't make change. Or at least, this bank wouldn't make change for me. The teller looked at me like I was so much detritus on the bottom of his shoe and informed me that he could not change it into smaller denominations unless I had an account at the bank, which I clearly didn't. He smiled at me smugly as I went on my way.

My next stop was Books by Carter. I knew that if I bought something I'd have to get change, and that would give me the small bills I would need to get some quarters. I might even be able to get some quarters as change, which would solve two problems at once. I picked out a random book that I thought Pete might like, brought it up to the cash register, and handed it to the cashier. She took it, looked at it, and handed it right back to me with an apologetic expression.

"I'm sorry, we can't take anything over a fifty," she explained. "It's the owner's policy. I guess he got burned with a counterfeit bill once, I don't know."

I looked dejected. Here I was with more money than God and all I wanted to do with it was play a single damn game of Space Invaders. I would have settled for just one game at this point. It occurred to me then that instead of bringing the $100 bill, I should have scrounged around for a quarter at home and just played with that.

"Awww, sweetie, I'm sorry," the cashier added when she saw my look of disappointment. She looked to her left, then leaned toward me over the counter. "You can just take the book," she whispered. "It's on the house. It's okay. Just take it."

"That's okay," I said dejectedly as I left the book on the counter and gave her a little smile. At least she was being nice to me, which is more than I could say for old Mr. Tucker or the bank teller.

"You are the just cutest little boy," she suddenly gushed. "Can you come back and see me again when you get a little older?" she said with a little wink and a big grin.

I blushed pink and probably red. I didn't know the first thing about girls, and this one was in her late teens at least. I was embarrassed beyond belief. My thoughts turned immediately to escape, but I knew I had to answer her inquiry.

"Um, maybe- I mean, if I remember," I stammered the first words that came into my head.

"Oh!" she said as she clutched at her heart as if she'd been shot there. "Rejected! Story of my life." She leaned toward me once again with a semi-serious expression. "I'll be right here waiting, you little cutie. Don't forget. I'm Susie. What's your name?"

I couldn't tell if she was joking. I was sure she was, but not entirely. My cheeks felt hot as I blushed uncontrollably. The tips of my ears felt like they were tingling. I wanted to leave the store like nobody's business.

"D- Davey," I stuttered. "David Pierce."

"Well, Mr. David Pierce cutie patootie, you come see me in about 10 years, okay? I'll be right here waiting for you. I won't even move–I'll just be sitting right here, okay? Remember … Susie. Can you remember that?"

"Yes," I replied with a solemn nod. Girls made me nervous. I wanted to leave.

As soon as I answered Susie sat up straighter on her stool and stared off into the distance like a general surveying a battlefield. "Yes," she repeated with a smile and a nod of her own, emulating my formal tone, before slouching once again and laughing aloud.

"You're too cute, David Pierce," she said with a wink. "See ya!" she added as she reached over and gave my nose a little tweak.

Clutching my $100 bill, I almost ran from the store. Despite my recent escapades, I wasn't all that many years–or maybe it was just months–removed from the age when all girls had cooties and all boys stayed wide and clear of them. Throughout my single-digit ages, I had been rigidly compliant with that rule. The only girls I usually talked to were my mother and my teachers at school. I'd never had a girl as a friend, much less as a girlfriend. I got nervous when I had to hold hands and square dance with them in gym class. I'd never even so much as kissed a girl other than my mother and grandmother. After spending much of the last year fooling around with Pete–and now with Aaron, Mr. Stalteri, Mr. Stone, Mr. Tal, and Mr. Emerson added to the mix–I didn't think my prospects of overcoming my anxiety about girls looked very good at all.

Although I knew it probably wouldn't work, I made one last stop at Angelisa's Chocolate Confections and tried to buy a little tort-like cake that I thought Pete might like. The woman manning the counter was nowhere near as nice as Susie when she handed the $100 bill back to me.

"We don't take bills that size," she said simply. "Tell your mother nothing over a twenty next time," she added with a contemptuous air.

I gave up. It already was almost 11:00 a.m. so I made my way over to Pete's house. The screen door closed as I mounted the front steps, but the inner door was open as it usually was in the summer unless we were using the living room for sex. Usually, I just opened the screen door, walked in, and announced myself, but I still was a little concerned about what had happened and scared of crossing any lines with Pete, so I paused to knock on the jamb.

"Hey, it's me," I said as I grasped the black-metal handle to the screen door and prepared to push the button that would give me access to the house that I almost considered my own and the man who was my best friend in the world.

I saw Pete emerge from the hallway that led to the kitchen and stride into the living room. He was smiling, and right away, I knew that all was well with my world.

"Come on in," he said with an accompanying gesture. "You don't have to knock."

I flung the door open and entered, paused for just a second, and then ran to him embracing him in the widest, biggest hug I knew how to give.

"Woah, woah, down boy!" said Pete as he met my embrace and cradled me, one hand on the back of my head.

I pressed my cheek to his chest and just hugged him. I hadn't been able to do that yesterday, as Aaron had been with us at first and then my mother after that. This was our first alone time since the incident, and I hugged him for all I was worth.

After several seconds, Pete reached down with his right forearm under my butt cheeks and hefted me into the air. I still didn't weigh all that much, and he held me like a toddler as he bopped me on the nose.

"Missed me, did you?" he asked with a smile. It was a genuine, kind smile that told me he had missed me too.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged him again, cheek to cheek this time. That was my answer, but it didn't seem adequate.

"I missed you the whole time," I whispered to his cheek as he cradled me in his arms.

"I missed you, too, Davey," he said as he gently rubbed and patted my back.

The moment was perfect. It was everything I had hoped it would be after several days of anxiety. I felt safe and loved in his arms, and I wanted to stay there. I didn't even want him to put me down.

I gave him a little kiss on the cheek, and then another. I felt as his left arm caressed up my back, across my neck, and to the back of my head. Grasping my head gently in the palm of his hand, Pete turned me so that I was facing him, then brought his mouth to mine.

We kissed then, and oh, did we kiss. I didn't hold back, and neither did Pete. We kissed wetly and passionately, like we hadn't seen each other in ages. I people-personed him like there was no tomorrow, my tongue jousting and playing with his as our lips and mouths writhed and moved opposite each other.

Our kiss was deep and wet. I tasted Pete's saliva in my mouth and wanted more of it. I devoured his mouth, seeking his tongue, his spit, anything I could lick or gather. Our mouths smacked, crackled, and popped together–reminding me incongruously of a certain breakfast cereal–as we kissed like the lovers that I guess we were at that point. We were at least lovers. It seemed like we were something even more than that, but I wasn't sure. What I did know then was that I was deeply in love with that man. Deeply, deeply in love.

At some point, without me even knowing it, Pete maneuvered us to the front door and closed it. I wasn't even aware we had moved until I heard it close. I was lost in the moment and my eyes had been closed as we kissed. I felt weirdly emotional, but it was hard to know whether I wanted to laugh, cry, or both at the same time. I felt supremely happy. Safe, happy, and loved.

Pete was the one to break our kiss. If he hadn't, I happily would have continued to kiss him until our lips fell off and landed on the living room floor. I continued to hold him with my arms wrapped around his neck as he looked at me and smiled. His mustache was glistening from all the saliva we had shared.

"I think we need to take this upstairs," he said in a soft voice. "What do you think?"

I nodded in agreement at his words even as I felt an odd tingle of energy course through my veins. It almost made me shiver. It felt electric. I realized then that I had a boner. Just from kissing, I had boned up and had a stiffy to show for it. I flexed my groin muscles a few times, making it rise and fall in my briefs and shorts. It was rock-hard. I was more excited for sex than I ever had been.

Pete carried me upstairs even though he had a balky back and I probably should have climbed the steps on my own. I don't think he wanted to ruin the moment, and I didn't want him to, either. I knew we were going to have sex, and I for some reason was supremely eager for it. I had had more sex over the weekend than I had ever had in my life, but I was positively excited to have it with Pete. The electric feeling that had jolted through me was there still.

I also was beyond excited to show Pete my new skill. I felt like I sometimes used to feel when I gave my mother an especially nice, personalized gift for Christmas or her birthday–usually something that I had made in school that I just knew she would love. I felt the same kind of giddy excitement at giving Pete his gift. I just knew that he would love it. He would know right away that I had done it for him. I wanted it to be extra special for him.

We arrived at the bedroom and with a last, chaste kiss to my lips, Pete sat down on the bed and eased me to the floor, leaving me standing between his knees with his hands on my hips.

"Why don't we get you naked," he said with a grin as he grasped the hem of my shirt and pulled it over my head. I grinned right back at him as my hair got all disheveled and my bare chest came into view. His hand went to my left pectoral muscle and began to caress me there. Both my nipples immediately erected from his touch.

"You have to get naked, too," I said excitedly as I stepped back, kicked my sneakers off, and plucked my tube socks from my feet one by one.

"Oh, I do, do I?" said Pete with a raised eyebrow. "Since when does the slave give orders to his master?"

I grinned at him as I jammed my shorts and briefs down my legs as a single package, momentarily forcing my boner down at the wrong angle, only to have it spring up with an inaudible, reverberating "boing-g-g-g" as it soon as it was set free. I stepped out of the shorts and undies and left them in a puddle on the floor. I now was completely naked.

Pete reached for my hard penis and gave it a squeeze and a couple of little strokes.

"Somebody's a very eager and frisky boy today, isn't he?" he teased.

I grinned again. "Pete, you gotta get naked. Then you gotta lie on the bed like when you go to sleep."

Pete smiled as he continued to fiddle with my erection. "And what if I refuse?"

"Pete!" I exclaimed as I reached for his shirt and tried to tug it from his beltline. "Come on!"

"You get me naked then," he said as he stood from the bed. He helped me a little bit by kicking off his shoes. "I'm all yours."

I didn't need another invitation. Without further ado, I knelt before my friend, opened his belt, and with a determined grimace, pulled the end of it with enough force that I could extract the prong from the hole. Pete was a large man, especially for the late 1970s, and his belt was tight on his frame.

Once I had it free, I snaked the belt from the loops and placed it in my undies on the floor. As I did so it occurred to me that that very belt had been used to inflict a lot of pain on my body. I still had the marks and the residual pain it had given me from yesterday's whipping in Aaron's basement. No matter. That wasn't a concern of mine right now. My singular focus was on getting Pete naked and erect just as fast as I could so that I could give him his first deep-throat blowjob.

I worked his pants apart and unzipped them, then carefully pulled them down his hairy legs. His boxers were right there, and I was pleased to see that he was tenting them. He was already semi- or even fully erect, which meant he was excited for what we were going to do. I hoped to make him even more excited soon. In fact, I was almost giddy at the prospect.

I wanted him completely naked, so when I reached for his socks, he braced himself with a hand on my head as I plucked them from his feet one at a time. He pushed my head down with much more pressure than he needed to keep his balance, causing me to laugh as I almost went to the floor.

"Pete!" I exclaimed in mock outrage.

"What?" he replied with mock innocence.

I scrambled to my feet and reached up to unbutton his shirt, starting at the top and working my way down one button at a time. Our erect penises waited patiently as I worked, mine like a steel flagpole, and his more like a stooped old lady, but it was clear that both of us were aroused. I still felt that odd electric tingle across my body. I'd never felt it before, certainly not with this intensity.

When I finally had his shirt unbuttoned, I eased it off his shoulders and started to tug it free.

"Wait, one at a time," cautioned Pete as he unbuttoned his cuffs for me and assisted me by extracting his arms one by one. The shirt ended up on the end of the bed with his pants. Pete finally was naked. He grasped my left shoulder in his hand and pressed down.

"Kneel down and suck me, slave," he instructed.

I resisted. "No, Pete, you gotta get on the bed," I said as I took his other arm and began to direct him to turn around. "I want to show you something."

"You want to show me something?" he asked skeptically. "Something other than obedience, I take it?"

"No, Pete, I'm going to suck you, I promise," I explained with desperation. I had this all mapped out in my mind, and I needed it to go a certain way. "I promise. Just, um, you gotta get on the bed first."

"What has gotten into you, little slave?" said Pete with a raised eyebrow. "You want to do a little warmup before you suck? Fine. But you will suck, capiche?"

"Capiche, capiche," I said, nodding and agreeing as I steered him toward the bed. Pete dutifully climbed up, but when he went to lie down, he did it on his stomach and spread his legs. That was the position he used when I rimmed him, and evidently that was what he meant by a warmup.

"No, Pete, you gotta roll over," I said as I pushed at his hairy side a little bit. There was no way that I could roll him over on my own, but I made my intent known.

"There had better be a good explanation for all this," warned Pete as he rolled over and repositioned himself on the bed. "Someone has become quite bossy all of a sudden and sounds like he might need a reminder of how things work around here."

"You'll see," I said with a reassuring nod as I climbed on the bed and knee walked my way to Pete's right thigh. "Can you spread your legs like before?" I asked him.

"Grrrrrr," Pete growled as he reluctantly spread his legs and made room for me between them.

Although Pete was such a good actor that I couldn't be entirely sure, I thought that his ire mostly was an act. Of course, he expected me to obey him and wouldn't hesitate to punish me if I stepped out of line, but I think he could tell that something was up. I wasn't doing a very good job of hiding it or surprising him. I felt just like that kid who gives his mother a special gift and then is almost jumping with excitement just to see her reaction as she opens it. I was about to give a very special gift to Pete–one that he had mentioned several times before but never pushed, but that now thanks to Mr. Emerson I knew how to do.

With my own excitement building, my body tingling crazily, and my penis jutting from my groin like a railroad spike, I climbed between Pete's hairy legs and knelt to give him what I hoped would be the single best blowjob of his entire life. I was confident, but nervous. Mr. Emerson had taught me well, but there was always the chance that something would go wrong and ruin the occasion. The biggest risk was, of course, my gag reflex. As eager as I was, I knew that I needed to concentrate on what I was doing lest I go too fast and end up making a mess. There were no towels down to catch my vomit if I messed up. This wasn't a dress rehearsal, but the real thing.

I wanted this to be a good one. I wanted it to be special. Pete deserved it. I loved the man. I wanted to give him more pleasure than he had ever felt in his entire life, and I felt like I could to it. I was excited to do it. I was so excited that I was tingling with anticipation.

I wanted to jam his cock in my mouth and start, but I forced myself to calm down and take a different approach. Grasping his penis in my right hand, I leaned my head down and kissed the side of his shaft, then ran my tongue along it, then licked his hairy balls a few times. I forced myself to slow down. I slowly stroked his shaft as I licked at his testicles, and I could feel his member stiffening in my grasp.

Pete remained silent as I worked. He reached down once to pat and stroke my head, but otherwise, he just lay there and let me do my thing. When his balls were nice and wet, I took my mouth and dragged it up the underside of his shaft, licking as I went, trying to lubricate it as much as I could. I did this a few times, tasting the fleshy, manly, just-out-of-his-underwear musk of my best friend. I knew that taste well. It was very familiar to me, and I would also say comforting. I liked the way Pete's cock smelled and tasted. I still remember the taste of it all these many years later.

I did the same thing on the sides of Pete's cock, dragging my parted lips over the surface and wetting his smooth, veiny skin as I went. I wanted Pete's cock just as wet as possible for what I was going to do. I was eager to get started but I knew that taking this time would enhance my chances of success. We were in no hurry. It wasn't even lunchtime, and I had the whole day to spend with Pete. Unless he had something to do and kicked me out, I was planning to spend the entire day at his house. With the tingly way I felt right now, I thought I could spend all of it naked and having sex.

After a few minutes of work, I had Pete's shaft and even his balls wet and ready for the main event. My time wasn't wasted because Pete was just about fully erect, which for him was not a marble stiffness, but just a full, thick, standing cock. I knew all the levels of his arousal, and right now, he was aroused and ready. So was I. It was time.

I took his cockhead in my mouth and closed my lips around it, teasing it with my tongue. I began a light bobbing, still clutching his shaft at the base just above his balls. I rarely removed my right hand from his shaft when I sucked Pete. Not only was it easier to steer his penis into my mouth when I gripped it in my fist, but I never bobbed my mouth so low that it got in the way. As I was about to demonstrate, that no longer was the case. I would need to move my hand out of the way to do what I needed and wanted to do.

For now, I continued to fist the man's cock as I bobbed a bit lower. So far, it was just a traditional Davey-sucking-Pete blowjob. I had given my friend scores of them–well over one hundred, anyway–and I wanted him to think that this was just more of the same, but it wasn't. It wouldn't be. I was ready. I reminded myself how to do it, how to open my throat, and how to do everything in the right sequence just the way Mr. Emerson had taught me. After another couple of bobs, I thought I was ready. My throat felt fine. Pete's cock felt perfect in my mouth.

Causally, I withdrew my right hand and simultaneously lowered my head and mouth all the way down Pete's shaft. His cockhead nestled perfectly in the opening to my throat for a split second before I simply swallowed it, opening my throat, and sliding his shaft all the way down. It went down easily, with no fuss whatsoever. The next thing I knew, my nose was nestled in Pete's thick pubes, which already were damp with my saliva.

I held him there for a split second, fully inserted, before giving him a series of tiny, quarter inch [6mm] bobs that were intended to show him just how deep in my mouth and throat his cock was lodged. I couldn't help but look up at him for his reaction.

"Oh, Davey, that's so nice," said Pete as he placed his hands on the sides of my face and gazed right back at me. "Such a good slave. Keep doing that," he ordered as he removed his hands and settled back with a sigh.

I kept doing it. Indeed, that day I gave Pete Volcker the best deep-throat blowjob I could give. Possibly, given my age at the time and the corresponding tightness of my young throat, coupled with my eagerness to please Pete and to show off my new skill, it was the best blowjob I ever gave him. It may well have been. I can't think of another where I put in more effort. Certainly, it was a memorable blowjob for me, and I'm sure it was a very good one for Pete.

I poured every ounce of effort and love I had into that blowjob, trying to make Pete's cock feel so good. It was an apology, a thank-you, and an I-love-you blowjob all wrapped into one. I was 11 years old, and there was an innocence and purity to my efforts and intentions that day that I couldn't ever possibly replicate or recapture. My love for Pete was a guiding star for me. I think I would have given my life for the man. What I did, instead, was give him my mouth, throat, and tongue in the very best combinations I could until he grasped my head in both hands, leaned forward, and blew what had to be an enormous load directly into my tummy.

The remaining days of August seemed to pass by very quickly as I hurtled toward my birthday, the end of summer, and the start of school. I was very anxious about attending my new school. I wouldn't know any of the teachers at the junior high, much less where any of my classes were. I wouldn't know three quarters of the other kids either, and I was worried that they all would know each other already and that I wouldn't be able to make any new friends. These and other worries consumed me as the end of summer drew near. I grew anxious every time I thought about school, which I did with increasing frequency as August rolled along.

I know it sounds incredibly stupid and I'm almost too embarrassed to write it, but the thing I probably was most worried about was riding the bus to school. I had been a walker throughout elementary school. My old house was right around the corner from the school, and the only time I took a bus was for field trips. School buses were only for kids who lived too far away. I didn't know the first thing about bus routes or bus stops, or which bus to get on. They all looked the same to me–big and yellow–and who knew where they were going? I didn't even know where the bus to my new school would pick me up. Where was my stop? And did the bus stop automatically, or did I have to wave at it? If the latter, how did I know which bus to wave at? Which one was mine? Not knowing how to answer those questions troubled me to the point where I absolutely was dreading the first day of school.

It was at times like these that I wished I had an older sibling. As an only child, I had to figure these things out on my own. It didn't help that I didn't have a lot of friends. The truth was, I didn't have any friends my own age. My friends were grown adults, all males, and usually I had sex with them. I was okay with that part, especially since my best friend in the world was one of them, but it didn't help me to navigate the kid stuff. I couldn't ask them for help on subjects that concerned me. They didn't know which bus to ride, either.

I knew I would have to figure out the bus thing on my own, and it worried me. My greatest fear was that I would get on the wrong bus and end up at some other junior high school in St. Clair or even halfway across the state of Michigan. The bus would drop me off at a school where I wouldn't know anyone at all, and I would be mortified trying to explain how I was too stupid to know how to get on the right bus to go to the right school. Add to that the probability that they would think from my appearance that was I was going into 4^th grade at the local elementary school, and you can start to see how much these things concerned me. In my mind, I not only would get on the wrong bus, but it would happen to be the one embarking kids from another school on a field trip to Washington, D.C. or something like that. Yes, I know it was an irrational fear, but it was very real to me.

I visited Pete every day during August, and when I say every day, I don't mean most days, or all but a few of them. I mean that I spent part of every single day at Pete's house, sometimes for hours and hours at a stretch. My dress code while visiting him became extremely casual, which meant that I spent much of August naked although he did make me wear Mr. Stalteri's thong at times. We had sex every day, often twice, and sometimes as many as three times. He still tended to peter out (sorry) after the third time, but I was pretty sure that I could get him to ejaculate a fourth time in one day if I worked at it and stayed around late enough to pull it off.

Everything between us was good. I gave him nothing but deep-throat blowjobs now, which I know he appreciated it. He fucked me most days, sometimes twice, and occasionally not at all. For us, buttfucking generally was a once-per-day occurrence. Sometimes I was in bondage when he fucked me, and sometimes not. It depended on his mood. Sometimes I was "slave," and other times I was "boy." He hardly ever called me Davey unless we were with someone else, or we were having a serious conversation. I didn't mind what he called me if he remained my friend.

He still liked to be rimmed, and I also did that just about every day. If he was feeling mellow and spent from cumming, I might do it a second time later in the afternoon before I went home. Sometimes being rimmed spurred him to another erection and a further orgasm, but that was rare. Most of the time he just closed his eyes and relaxed while I worked his anus with my tongue. Once or twice I was almost certain that he fell asleep. Occasionally, he straddled my face and I rimmed him that way. He said it helped me to get my tongue deeper in his ass, and I suppose that was true. I still wasn't a fan of rimming, but he really liked it, so I didn't make a fuss. He never reciprocated, and I never asked him to. Like some other aspects of our relationship, that act went only one way.

I remained on my best behavior with Pete, not wanting any repeat of what had happened in Chicago. I never said anything about it to him again, but I think he could tell that I was a changed boy and had fully submitted to his authority. He made all the decisions for both of us now, and I simply did what he told me to do when he told me to it. When it came to sex, he called all the shots in terms of what, when, where, and how long. We did lots of roleplaying: pirate captain and cabin boy, master and slave, captured spy boy, teacher and naughty schoolboy, and boy sent to juvenile prison amongst them. The sex and the playacting were rougher than before, and Pete was more critical of my acting. He made me work on acting scared and subservient and would make things worse for me until I performed to his satisfaction.

He also still punished me when I stepped out of line, but these days it never was for disobedience or backtalk. My mistakes mostly were of the stupid-kid variety–leaving the seat up in the bathroom (I admittedly was very bad with that and probably was punished for that more than for anything else), not hanging up my towel after a shower, forgetting to turn out the light when I left a room (he hated that and would tell me about OPEC as he spanked me), or leaving a mess in the kitchen. He punished me whenever I messed up, usually spanking me with his hand but occasionally using his belt for something bad like a pee puddle on the bathroom floor. I didn't question it. He was strict, but I had taken to heart Aaron's advice that I had to accept Pete on his terms or risk losing him. Despite the pain and my constant fear of abandonment, I was just happy to have our relationship back on any basis.

For the most part, the remainder of August, 1978 passed by without fanfare. Two events occurred that are worth mentioning, plus a third that never happened. The event that never happened was a return trip to Chicago scheduled for the last week of August. I was supposed to spend Friday the 25^th through to Sunday the 27^th at the summer home of one of Mr. Bruckner's friends on a lake somewhere in Illinois. Pete originally told me about the trip a couple of weeks before it was supposed to happen and said he had talked to Aaron about me also doing a photoshoot while I was there. There was some talk of me staying into the Monday to squeeze in the photoshoot, but then the weekend visit ended up getting canceled at the beginning of the week and I didn't go at all. At the time I felt relieved, but I didn't let on to Pete or Aaron and acted disappointed, maintaining my new people-person persona.

I had spoken to Aaron about it by telephone and he had told me that it would be like the night I had spent with Mr. Emerson at the party. Mr. Bruckner's friend was lonely, old, and wealthy, and he wanted a boy companion for the weekend and was willing to pay for one. Listening to Aaron's description of the man made me think of Mr. Stone, although I had no way of knowing what the man looked like, what he was like, or even how old he was. I was nervous about going, but the trip was canceled before I could get too worked up about it. I never did learn the reason for the cancellation.

The trip that did happen in August ironically involved my mother, who typically never went anywhere. Toward the middle of the month, she received a telephone call from an old friend from high school who had moved from St. Clair and now lived near Columbus, Ohio. Her friend's name was Barbara, and I suppose that if my mother had a best friend, Barbara was the one. They talked from time to time, and I think I had even met the woman once or twice, but for the most part, given the distance between them, my mother's friendship with Barbara was conducted by telephone. This time Barbara needed help with something, and my mother managed to get a couple of days off from work and pair them up with a weekend. She also asked Pete to watch me for the four days and three nights that she would be gone, which I was delighted he agreed to do. The only question was whether my mother's mustard-colored 1969 Ford Capri would be able to make the drive.

For my part, I hoped very much that the Capri was up to the task. Not only did I think that it would be a good thing for my mother to get out of the apartment and spend some time with Barbara, but selfishly I was almost giddy with the prospect of having a three-night sleepover with Pete. We already spent plenty of time together, but I never got to sleep over at his house, and the one time I had–the night of the Parasols cast party–had been a very memorable experience for me. I liked being in bed with Pete. We always were naked, and he was big, hairy, and warm. I liked to snuggle up against him after sex. I liked feeling his naked body next to mine. It had been nice when we had slept together in the hotel rooms, but I liked it even more in Pete's bedroom at home. It seemed more domestic and permanent. If it had been possible to do so, I would have slept with Pete every night, and woken him up with a deep-throat blowjob every morning.

After a trip to the garage the Capri was pronounced up to the task, and my mom went on the trip. I packed my things and she dropped me off at Pete's house on her way out of town. I felt tingly with excitement as I watched her pull away. I think she was looking forward to the trip, and I was looking forward to spending the better part of four consecutive days with Pete. It would be our longest continuous time together since we had met.

Pete had a surprise waiting for me as soon as my mother's car left his driveway. I wasn't surprised when he ordered me to strip as that wasn't uncommon at all, but then he approached me with a leather collar in hand that he proceeded to affix around my neck. Not only did he buckle it in place, but he produced a tiny brass padlock that he used to lock the collar around my neck. I had never seen such a tiny little lock. It even had a tiny brass key.

"Now you are officially my slave until your mother returns," pronounced Pete. "That collar stays on the entire time, even when you shower. You will refer to me the whole time as 'master,' as in 'Yes, master,' 'no, master,' or 'Would you like me to bring you a beer, master.' Capiche, slave?"

I felt almost giddy with excitement as Pete explained the rules to me. My penis was well on its way to being fully erect at the prospect of being a real slave for an entire long weekend.

"Yes, master," I replied dutifully.

"Very good, slave," replied Pete. "From now on, everything you say to me, no matter what, will have the word 'master' in it somewhere just like you did there. If you forget, you'll be punished. In addition, you will ask your master for permission to do everything for the entire weekend. 'Master, may I please go to the bathroom.' 'Master, may I please take the garbage to the garage.' 'Master, may I please eat my lunch.' If you fail to ask my permission, you will be punished. Capiche, slave?"

"Yes, master," I replied. "I capiche."

"I capiche master," corrected Pete as he took my arm and pulled me into the living room. Before I knew what was happening, he had pulled me over his lap and secured my wrists in his left hand. He proceeded to deliver three smacks to my upturned bottom. These were the really hard kind–the ones that I knew had to hurt his hand, because they sure as hell hurt my butt.

"If mistakes like that continue to happen, I'll bring out the belt," warned Pete. "Capiche?"

"Yes, master," I replied from my mostly upside-down position over his lap.

"And for the record, 'I capiche' is sassy, so you get a double for that," declared Pete as he gave me three additional hard smacks to go with the first set. These stung even more, and I gasped aloud, then bit my lower lip as tears misted my eyes. I could tell right then that Pete was serious about enslaving me for the weekend, but that awareness also made me very excited. My penis already was nail-hard when he tipped me off his lap to the floor.

"Now, I think you should practice with 'Would you like me to bring you a beer, master?' And when you're finished asking and fetching, I want a little slave boy on his hands and knees making love to my feet the very best way he knows how. Capiche?"

"Yes, master," I replied before fully carrying out his commands, which included lots of master requests and bringing him a beer, removing his shoes and socks, and spending the next half hour on the floor sucking and licking every part of his feet and toes. I didn't mind. In fact, I was happy to do it, as well as aroused. At that time in my life, Pete was my mentor, my de facto father, my lover, my master, and most importantly, my best friend. Over the course of that weekend, living together with him and seeing to all his needs, he also became my de facto husband, or probably better stated, I became his de facto wife. Let's just say that I took care of him domestically and sexually for the entire weekend as his naked, collared, 11-year-old slave boy. He didn't have to lift a finger and I loved every minute of it, although my bottom was extremely tender and sore by the end of the weekend because I kept forgetting to call him master, and Pete kept right on reminding me every time including with the belt when he deemed I had forgotten too many times in a day.

Chapter 17

I didn't realize quite how tired I was until Aaron and Pete had both finished with their fun. I was exhausted. The entire weekend had been a whirlwind for me, and I was both physically and emotionally spent. Aaron offered me a shower before we hit the road, but Pete declared there wasn't time so instead I had to make do with some toilet paper to try and clean up Pete's leakage. My butt was throbbing from my beating as I wiped it up and I wasn't looking forward to sitting on it for the drive home, but I was feeling better about things with Pete, and that was all that mattered to me.

When I came out of the downstairs bathroom and into the kitchen, Aaron was ready with the clothes I had brought with me from Michigan.

"I like your haircut, Davey," said Pete as I climbed into my briefs. "Are you going to keep wearing it like that when you get home?"

I was pleased that Pete had noticed my new hair style and reveled in his praise. As far as what the future held, I hadn't thought about it all that much, but I liked the look and thought that I might just keep it. I was going to a new school in a month, and I wanted to get off to a good start. I was hoping that a new style would allow me to remake myself and impress my new teachers and classmates.

"I think so," I replied. "Do you really like it?"

"I do," said Pete. "It looks handsome on you. It makes you look a little older, too."

As much as I was pleased with his compliment, I didn't say anything further as I put my t-shirt back on. I wasn't going anywhere near the subject of how old I appeared–certainly not with Pete. Whether I looked older or younger no longer mattered to me. I wasn't going there. I wouldn't make that mistake ever again.

"Don't forget your pouch," said Aaron with a smile as he held the garment up for a moment and placed it in my bag. "You might want to hide it from your mom though."

"I'll take that," said Pete picking up the pouch and stuffing it in his front pocket. "You can wear it at my house. Probably best if your mother doesn't see it."

I nodded in response, but inwardly, I was thrilled at the mention of his house. It seemed that I was back in the man's good graces, and he was starting to talk about my future with him once again in a casual manner. Only a little over an hour ago, I hadn't been sure that I ever would see the inside of his house again. Now, it seemed that things were going back more to the way they had been between the two of us.

I pulled my old shorts up my legs and crammed my feet into my worn sneakers. I was fully dressed and ready to go. Aaron picked up my bag and packed it with the shorts, shirt, and loafers he had purchased for me from Mr. Stalteri.

"These are yours to keep, Davey," he said. "You look good in them. If your mom asks, just tell her you got to keep them from the Sears shoot."

"I will," I replied with a nod as he handed me my bag. I looked up at him and we made eye contact. He was smiling as he gave me a nod of his own.

"Thanks, Aaron," I added, and not because of Pete. This time, my appreciation was genuine.

"Come here, you," he said as he grinned broadly and held out his arms.

I didn't hesitate, but dropped the bag and almost ran to him, flinging myself into his arms and pressing my face to his chest.

"Thank you," I said as he hugged me tight to his body and gave me a pat on the head.

"Any time, Davey," he said as we separated. "You be a good boy for Pete, okay?"

"I will," I said with a determined nod.

"We'll see you back here soon, I'm sure," Aaron said. "I'm going to make some calls," he added with a wink.

"Thanks," I said yet again. I was starting to feel emotional. I still didn't fully trust Aaron, but he had been my constant companion and guardian for the past two days and saying good-bye to him was more difficult than I had thought it would be. He had done a lot for me, including the most important thing of all, which was helping me to patch things up with Pete. For that, I was grateful.

"Let's go," said Pete in a businesslike voice as he tapped my shoulder. He held his hand out to Aaron. "I'll be in touch," he said as the men shook. "I'll let you know his schedule when I get back."

"Sounds good," Aaron replied. "You guys travel well."

Pete and I left Aaron's house together and piled into the Marquis. Pete was right–my butt hurt from my spanking and sitting on it the entire way back to St. Clair was not going to be comfortable–but I gladly would have let Pete spank me a dozen more times if that was what it took to get back in his favor. I felt like I was there now, and I vowed to myself not to do anything to jeopardize our friendship like that ever again.

As we drove, I debated following Mr. Stone's advice and telling Pete how much I loved him. I did love the man, but our relationship wasn't gushy like that, and I wasn't sure how to go about saying what was on my mind. I knew that the very best way for me to show my love for Pete was to make him feel good with my new deep-throating skill, but I couldn't really do that in the car. Besides, Mr. Stone had planned for me to tell him that at the Cubs game that we were not attending because the remnants of the tickets were sitting in so many pieces in the trash back at the Charcoal Oven. Expressions of love for Pete would have to wait.

"So, you had a good time at the party?" queried Pete as we headed toward the highway entrance.

"Yeah, it was great," I replied with an enthusiastic nod. I wanted Pete to think that I would be comfortable going to other parties if that's what he wanted me to do.

"You liked the pool?"

"It was really cool," I replied. "It goes outside even in winter."

"I hear you got to play some arcade games," said Pete.

Warning klaxons sounded in my brain even as I rolled my eyes in frustration. I didn't dare deny that I had played them, even though I hadn't. If I denied it, I knew that Pete would conclude that I was lying to him, and I would be back in the doghouse right away. He might even punish me for it when we got home, and my butt was far too sore to take that risk.

"Not that many," I said in a voice that sounded defensive even to me.

"Hmmm," said Pete, but he left it at that and didn't follow up.

We drove in silence for a few miles, working our way to the highway on ramp. It was a Sunday, so traffic was light. I think we were sharing the road mostly with Cub fans making their way to Wrigley Field, and I tried not to dwell on that as we made our way out of the city. The destruction of the Cubs tickets had left me with an empty feeling inside and a profound sense of loss that I wasn't sure that I ever would be able to overcome. Indeed, as ridiculous as it seems, I still think about what happened to them sometimes, now well over 40 years later.

"You met some new people at the party?" asked Pete after a pause of several miles. Our conversation wasn't exactly flowing, and it seemed like he was trying to come up with things to say.

"Yeah," I replied, in what had to be the understatement of the year.

"That thing you were wearing–did they give that to you at the party?"

I proceeded to explain to Pete about being outfitted at Mr. Stalteri's store, and how he had made the pouch for me. Pete listened and nodded as I spoke and at least pretended to be interested. I ended up telling him about the other places I visited before the party, as well.

"Is that where you got the new haircut?" he asked when I told him about Ramses.

"Yes, and a mani and a pedi from two of Aaron's friends," I replied, as I then proceeded to tell him all about Fran and Tony. It turned into a causal, rollicking conversation, full of smiles and laughter. For a while, at least, it seemed like old times once again.

I don't remember a lot else about the drive home that day. After a while, our conversation waned, and we drove in silence for some time. Eventually, I fell into an exhausted sleep with my head slumped awkwardly against the passenger-side door and my mouth dangling open. I was out for a while as I caught up on my rest. At some point I know that Pete stopped for gas, but after waking up momentarily to the sound of his car door slamming shut, I went right back to sleep.

I finally woke up with about an hour to go in our journey across most of the state of Michigan. I sat up a bit straighter in my seat and looked out the windshield to get my bearings.

"Somebody's been out like a light for most of the drive," said Pete. "Some companion you are."

"Sorry," I replied as I rubbed the last vestiges of sleep from my eyes.

"It's okay," allowed Pete. "I'm not surprised. Did you get any sleep at all at the party?"

"Not much," I admitted. "Do you know how big that house is?"

"I've heard. Pretty impressive, huh?"

"It was amazing. It had so many rooms in it."

"Well, there's a lot of money to be made in show business, Davey," replied Pete. "That's how you get to afford a house like that."

I nodded, but I didn't think I'd ever afford a house like Mr. Stone's, or even Aaron Richter's for that matter. Both properties were so far removed from my own experiences growing up that it was a bit hard to fathom. I didn't think there were homes like that anywhere in St. Clair. If there were, I hadn't seen them.

"Are you ready to start tapping into some of that, Davey?" asked Pete. "You have a real opportunity knocking at your door right now. You know that, right?"

I wasn't sure exactly what to make of Pete's question or how to respond to it. Despite all the discussions I had had, nobody had come right out and told me precisely what the opportunity was. There had been talk among the adults of professional and private photo shoots, movies, and baseball games with lonely businessmen as well as some other hints here and there, but I still didn't know exactly what the plan was for me.

"I'm ready, but I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to do," I replied uncertainly.

Pete glanced over at me and nodded. "I guess that's where Aaron and I come in, Davey," he said. "And to a certain extent your mother. We're going to need to have a conversation with her about all this."

I wasn't looking forward to that. My mother had been depressed since she lost her job. I wasn't sure if that or being forced to give up the house affected her more. Since the move, she had been increasingly quiet and aloof, and I was worried about her drinking. She spent a lot of time sitting at the table in the kitchen with a bottle and a glass in front of her. I didn't want to admit it to myself, but I was starting to feel a bit embarrassed by what she had become, and I worried what other people would think about her when they saw her.

"What are you going to talk about?" I asked in a worried tone.

"Well, I think we need to get her buy in about all this, don't you think?" Pete replied. "If everything goes according to plan, you're going to be spending a lot of time in Chicago. I love St. Clair, but it isn't exactly a hotbed for show business if you know what I mean."

I nodded half-heartedly, but I wasn't sure how any of that was going to work. It was one thing to come to Chicago in the summer, but in less than a month it would be September, and I would be back in school. I was nervous about the start of school because I would be going to the junior high for the first time for 7^th grade. I knew I probably could persuade my mother to let me return to Chicago one more time before summer ended and school started up again, but after that, I didn't really see how it would be possible.

"School starts on September 5^th," I informed Pete. I knew this because I had memorized the date, which was three days after I would be turning 12. I also knew that September 5^th was a Tuesday, the day after Labor Day.

"That's one of the things we're going to have to talk to your mother about," Pete replied. "A lot of kids in the industry miss school during the day and then make up the work with tutors. Aaron can easily set all that up when you're in Chicago."

I was stunned to hear this. Nobody had mentioned it to me before, and I didn't think my mother was going to be very happy when she heard about it. Missing school probably would be a deal-breaker with her. It just wasn't something I did, or that she would allow. Even when I was sick it took a papal dispensation for her to keep me home from school. The odds of her letting me miss school for a photo shoot were just about nil.

"She won't let me," I said, shaking my head. "There's no way."

"I think she might, Davey," replied Pete. "It's not every kid who gets an opportunity like the one you have right now."

"She doesn't like me missing school," I insisted.

"That's what the tutors are for, Davey. I'll talk to her."

"What exactly is the opportunity?" I asked Pete directly. I still didn't know exactly what he and Aaron thought I would be doing, and it was starting to bother me.

"Didn't Aaron talk to you about that with Mr. Stone?" replied Pete with a question of his own.

"I mean, kind of," I replied. I didn't want to admit to Pete that I hadn't really understood a lot of what was said to and about me. The adults sometimes tended to talk among themselves like I wasn't even there.

"So, you tell me," said Pete. "What do you think this is all about?"

"Just … just for me to be a model and other stuff," I replied.

"What other stuff?"

"Sex stuff," I admitted somewhat reluctantly. I hadn't wanted to say it.

"What kind of sex stuff?" Pete persisted. "Like the things we do together?"

"Kind of, only for movies sometimes," I replied. "Or being with other people."

"What kind of movies?"

"X-rated ones?" I asked uncertainly.

"That's right, Davey," acknowledged Pete. "That's where the really good money is. I heard you saw one of those at the party.

I nodded. "But Mr. Tal said it wasn't very good."

"You saw it. What did you think?"

"It was pretty bad."

"You mean the acting?"

"It seemed kind of fake," I said with a shrug.

"Do you think you could do it better?"

I shrugged again. "Probably I can," I said uncertainly.

"You're not sure?"

"I never did it before," I replied defensively.

"What am I, chopped liver?" he said with light smack to my left thigh. "Haven't we been working on your acting for the past several months?"

"Not like that," I said uncertainly.

"No?" said Pete as he glanced at me again from the driver's seat. "How many times did we play pirates and cabin boy, or American spy boy and the KGB? How many times did we act out Uncle-Trowse-and-Sebastian stuff?"

"A lot," I conceded. That was all true. We had acted out a lot of scenes with sex in them.

"So how is this different?"

I shrugged. Sometimes Pete cross-examined me like this, and I wasn't very good at standing up to it, but it just seemed different to me, even if I couldn't articulate the reason.

"It's the same thing, Davey," Pete persisted. "It's just acting, and you can act. You know that. We've been practicing it for months, including the sex part."

"I know," I said morosely. "I just haven't made a movie before."

"Obviously you haven't," replied Pete. "You haven't made one yet. That's the key. There has to be a first time for everything, but you can do this, Davey. I know you can."

I shrugged uncertainly. I wasn't so sure that I could. I wasn't so sure that I wanted to.

"You're not trying to back out now, are you?" asked Pete. "After all this?"

"No," I replied quickly in a defensive-sounding voice. Pete sounded like he was starting to get agitated, and I didn't want to go there at all. Not at all. I didn't need it. I didn't want it. I desperately didn't want it. Not now. Not after everything.

"Pete, I didn't say that," I added nervously, just to be sure.

"Well, I'm not exactly hearing a lot of enthusiasm from you," he replied. His tone sounded ominous to me.

"I am, Pete, honest," I said contritely.

"You're what?" asked Pete.

"Enthusiastic."

"You don't sound enthusiastic to me," said Pete. "You sound scared."

"I'm not scared," I insisted. "Honest." I wanted to tell him about Mr. Tal, and how I hadn't been scared when I was him–or at least not too scared–but I refrained for now. "I just don't think my mom's going to let me miss school."

Silence hung in the air as Pete paused for a few seconds before responding. I glanced over to gauge his demeanor, but he seemed deep in thought.

"Do you have any idea how much money you can make for a single movie like that, Davey?" he finally asked.

I had no idea. I knew that the Sears shoot had paid $500, but I also knew that Sears was the biggest department store in the world and probably could afford to pay that kind of money. I guessed that a movie like the one I had seen probably wouldn't pay that much.

"Probably … maybe … would it be like … is it over … three hundred dollars?" I stammered.

"Way over," said Pete. "Try again."

"Is it over a five hundred dollars?" That would be the same as the Sears shoot, which I hardly could believe.

"More. Try again."

"A thousand dollars?"

"At least a thousand, and maybe more," confirmed Pete. "Of course, that's not all your share, since there has to be some for Aaron and me to cover our expenses and make a little bit as your agents." He paused again before continuing. "Sounds like a pretty good deal, though, doesn't it?"

I had nothing to compare it to other than the proceeds from the Sears shoot, but $1,000 [€900] sounded like an astronomical amount of money to me. It had an extra zero. The idea of making that kind of money on a single sex movie was nothing short of astonishing, even if I had to get beaten as part of the script. There was no denying that it was a lot of money, but I was old enough to know that when things sounded too good to be true, they often were.

"Is that really true?" I asked skeptically.

"Scout's honor," replied Pete. "Would you be able to help your mother out with that?"

"Yes," I replied with a nod, but my mind already was elsewhere. I was deep in thought. I was imagining myself approaching my mother at the kitchen table and handing her a wad of bills totaling $1,000. That's for you, Mom, I would say to her. You can pay the rent with some of it and the rest we can save to buy the house back. It was a very powerful thought. Very powerful, indeed.

"We could give some of it to your mother to help with expenses, some to you for spending money, and the rest we can save toward your college education and whole bunch of other things, Davey," said Pete. "Maybe get you a new bike, and a whole new wardrobe for school. Are you starting to see what kind of an opportunity this is for you?"

I did see. I could see very clearly now. I nodded.

"Thanks to Aaron, you have an opportunity to make some real money doing what you're already good at," said Pete. "Aaron's very connected in show biz, Davey. He has friends in high places, capiche?"

I nodded again, but I already knew that. I had seen it first-hand. Aaron Richter knew a lot of people.

"When we get to your apartment, I want to talk to your mother about this," continued Pete. "There's no time like the present, especially coming on the heels of that Sears shoot. Will she be home when we get there?"

"She'll be there," I replied unhappily. I knew she would be, as she never went out anymore. I just hoped she wouldn't be dressed in her bathrobe and drunk when we arrived.

I heard a click and looked over as Pete unbuckled his seatbelt, lifted himself up, and reached in his back pocket to pull out his wallet. He dropped it in my lap.

"Open that up," he instructed.

I picked up his wallet and unfolded the three segments.

"In the middle, on the right there, pull out the first five bills you find," said Pete.

There were several bills in the center section of the wallet, but the ones closest to the exterior looked crisp and new. I counted over and pulled them out, then fanned through them. I was holding five one-hundred-dollar bills in my hands.

"Those are for you," said Pete as he plucked the wallet out of my lap, stuffed it back in his pocket, and refastened his seatbelt. "Aaron and I have decided that we're not going to take a cut from the Sears shoot, not even for expenses. That's all yours to keep. You earned it, Davey."

"You should take some," I replied earnestly. Pete had driven me all the way to Chicago and spent a lot of money on gas, food, and hotel rooms doing it. I wanted him to take the money. I wanted to cover his expenses.

"Not this time," said Pete. "That was your first shoot. You keep it. You can pay me next time, and Aaron too. We can wait."

My head was spinning, and I wasn't sure what to think. For starters, I couldn't believe that I was holding five hundred dollars in my hands, much less that it was mine to spend. If there were four games of Space Invaders in every dollar, just one of the new, crisp bills I was holding would pay for … 400 games! Not that I intended to spend anywhere near that much just to play an arcade game, but still. It was amazing to think about.

"You can do what you want with it, Davey," added Pete, "but I recommend that you keep one of those Benjamins for yourself and give the rest of them to your mother. You do want to help her, right?"

I nodded. I did want to help my mom. I wanted things to go back to the way they were and see her happy again. I thought she would be happiest of all if she had her old job back and was able to live in our old house again. She had been happy then. I knew that I couldn't do anything about her old job, but I was starting to wonder if I could earn enough money to buy our house back. If I could make the kind of money Pete was talking about, maybe I just could. Maybe then things could go back to the way they were before.

"What if she asks me how I made the money?" I inquired of Pete. "Not for this, but for the other money I make?" I could hardly tell her that I was making X-rated movies if that's what I ended up doing

"Don't worry about that," he replied. "Aaron and I will take care of it. There will be statements that account for some of the income, and I think your mother will understand that sometimes you get paid in cash under the table. Lots of people do."

He must have seen the skepticism on my face because he didn't let me reply before he spoke again.

"It'll be fine, Davey," he added. "I don't think she's going to question it."

It was a long, long drive and the last part of it seemed to take forever, especially on my sore butt. It was nearly 6:00 p.m. when Pete pulled the Marquis into the driveway of the side-by-side duplex that I shared with my mother. I had been awake for most of the last hour or so, just chatting away, but as we got closer to home, I started to feel more nervous and unsettled. My mother never questioned the time I spent with Pete, but the many naughty things that I had done this weekend made me feel nervous. I had done things I wasn't proud of, and I had done them behind her back. I knew that I was going to have to lie to her about most of them, and I wasn't looking forward to that. I hadn't yet mapped out the lies in my head, which meant that I was going to have to ad lib them.

We stepped out of the car simultaneously and I opened the back door to get my bag. We walked around to the back and entered my apartment through the rear entrance.

"Hi, mom!" I called out from the little mudroom that led upstairs into the kitchen. My voice sounded a lot more enthusiastic than I felt. "I'm back!"

Pete and I climbed the three risers and stepped into the kitchen. My mother was there, seated at the small table. As I had feared, she still was in her bathrobe. I had forgotten that today was a Sunday and that there was almost no chance that she would bother to get dressed. I didn't see a bottle, but a small glass of a clear liquid sat on the kitchen table in front of her. I knew from recent experience that it wasn't water.

My mother rose to her feet as we entered and re-cinched the bathrobe sash around her waist. She looked wan and a bit disheveled as she looked at us in surprise.

"I didn't know what time to expect you back," she said as I dropped my bag and went to her, giving her a hug. "It's nice to see you, Mr. Volcker," she said over my shoulder as we embraced. "I'm sorry I'm not dressed, but I wasn't expecting company. I hope Davey wasn't any trouble."

"It's fine, Sharon, and he was no trouble at all," he replied with a little chuckle. "Don't forget to call me Pete," he added in a playful voice.

My mother broke our hug and took my head in both hands. "I missed you," she said in a soft voice and with a look that reminded me of the way things used to be.

"I missed you, too," I replied earnestly with a bit of a nod, but the truth was something different. I had barely thought of my mother the entire time I was gone, and when I did, it was only to worry how I could keep things from her when I got home. She had changed a great deal since she lost her job, and I had changed a great deal since I had met Pete. Things were different now, and while part of me longed for things to return to the way they had been, the other part of me knew that that was only a pipe dream. Nothing I did was going to get my mother's job back, and I wasn't even sure that she would take it if it were offered.

"Davey did great, Sharon," said Pete. "I'm very proud of him. I hope you don't mind me barging in on you like this, but I just had to tell you what a great and talented kid you have there."

My mother let go of my face as and as I turned back toward Pete, I rolled my eyes at him. I thought he was pouring it on rather thick with the "great and talented kid" line, but he was a good actor and if anyone could successfully pull off flattering my mother, I would put my money on him.

"How did things go in Chicago, then?" asked my mother as she motioned to the kitchen table, offering Pete a seat.

What followed was a nearly two-hour conversation that was interrupted only by the time Pete spent ordering a pizza and paying the delivery kid once it arrived. I participated in the first part of the conversation before Pete sent me away. I didn't like the idea of them talking without me but the new obedient me was not going to risk upsetting Pete, so I went into my room to read. I returned to eat when he called me but didn't say much during the meal. Pete and my mother seemed to be getting along fabulously, so I just sat on my still sore butt and let the two adults do their thing. After eating, Pete banished me from the kitchen once again, this time with the vocal support of my mother, so I watched a few minutes of TV in the living room before retreating to my bedroom, my belly full of Paisano's pizza. Once there, I carefully extracted from my pocket the five crisp, one-hundred-dollar bills that Pete had given me and placed them in my sock drawer.

I was lying on my bed lost in a Sgt. Fury and his Howling Commandos comic book I had gotten last Christmas when Pete suddenly appeared in the doorway to my bedroom.

"Come on back into the kitchen for a second," he said as he glanced around my room. "Your mother and I want to talk to you about a few things."

I scrambled off the bed and followed Pete back down the hall. I wasn't entirely sure what the adults wanted to talk to me about, but I had a suspicion that Pete had worked out some of the details of my upcoming work assignments with my mother. The man could be very charming and persuasive when he wanted to be, and he had been talking to my mother for a long time.

"Have a seat, Davey," said Pete as he motioned me back to the same chair I had been sitting in before. I carefully sat down.

"Your mother and I have been doing some talking," he confirmed. "I told her about the remarkable opportunity you have ahead of you in the industry, and we've made a few decisions–subject to your input, of course."

"I'm very proud of you, sweetheart," my mother chimed in. I wished she wouldn't call me that in front of Pete, but it was water over the dam at that point.

"Your mother has agreed to allow you to make some trips to Chicago during the school year and to let you keep up with your schoolwork using a tutor, but there are some conditions," said Pete.

I was very surprised to hear that, and I turned to my mother to see what the conditions would be.

"Mr. Volcker has explained what might be required sometimes for you to be successful as an actor and a model, Davey," she said. "On a test basis, I'm willing to allow you to go, but you have to hold up your end of the bargain."

"I will mom," I said quickly. I was surprised that Pete had been able to persuade my mother to say anything other than no, but as I said, the man could be very charming and persuasive when he wanted to be.

"Well, why don't you wait until you hear the conditions before you agree to them," cautioned my mother.

"This is important, Davey," admonished Pete. "I've given your mother my word that I'll do my best to live up to these conditions, but they all start with you."

"Okay, I'll listen," I replied with a nod as I realized suddenly that we were having a Very Serious Conversation.

"The first condition is that you are doing this for fun and not as a job," said my mother as she looked me in the eyes. "I realize that there is a potential for you to earn a lot of money and that's all well and good, but the moment it becomes a burden for anyone involved is when we're going to put an end to it."

"I really want to, mom," I said with a sideways glance at Pete. "I know I can act, and I know I can be a good model, too."

"And I know you can too, sweetheart, but if it ever becomes too much or a burden on you, I want you to tell me," said my mother. "There is absolutely no reason for you to have a job at your age unless you enjoy what you're doing."

"I promise," I said solemnly with another sideways glance at Pete. This was going much better than I had expected.

"The second thing is your grades," continued my mother. "The moment your grades start to suffer is the moment I put an end to all of this. I'm not expecting you to become a straight-A student overnight, but you're going to be at the junior high school now, and I expect you to bring home good grades every marking period with no excuses."

"I will, Mom," I said with a confirming nod of my head.

"That means your grade point average stays above 3.0 the whole year, Davey," said my mother. "That's a B average and something that you are more than capable of."

"You're going to have a tutor to work with you when you're in the city," added Pete. "Or more than one, depending on how it works out. The law requires you to get a certain number of hours of instruction every day whether you're in class or not, and I promised your mother that I would make sure that happens."

"I can do that," I confirmed. "Promise."

"Third thing: Fifty percent of your earnings goes into a college fund for your future," said my mother. "That's the main reason I'm letting you do this, Davey. With what I'm making now, I'm not going to be able to help much at all with that, but Pete thinks you can make enough at least to help pay for college."

"I'm sure he can if he works hard and does the things he needs to do," said Pete. I thought I detected just the slightest tone of warning in his words, but I didn't react to it at all.

"I will," I declared. "I promise, mom. Fifty percent."

"Wait!" I added quickly as I jumped up from the kitchen table and raced down the hall into my bedroom. I grabbed the five one-hundred-dollar bills from my sock drawer and came running back into the kitchen with them in hand. I fanned them out on the table. I thought they looked very impressive.

"Mom, I made this from being in the Sears catalogue, and Pete said I could have it," I explained. I paused for a second because I was a little out of breath from my run. "We can use half of it for college," I announced.

My mother stared at the bills for a moment without speaking. Even for an adult, $500 [€450] was a lot of money in 1978. I'm not entirely sure what my mother was making at her new job, but I don't think she would bring home even $10,000 [€9000] over the course of the year. Those new bills lying on the kitchen table probably represented over half of her monthly income, and that was before taxes.

"That's very nice, Davey," said my mother. "That's a lot of money, and yes, I think we should use some of it for your college fund."

"I was waiting to tell you, mom," I told her. "I was going to give you most of it so we can buy the house back."

"Oh, Davey," my mother said with a forced smile and a pat on my arm. "That's not something you need to worry about. We're happy here."

"I want to, mom," I replied. I could feel myself starting to get emotional. "I can help."

In the end, my mother agreed to take one of the $100 bills, but not before she reiterated several times that it was not my responsibility to be a breadwinner for our little family. Despite her present circumstances, my mother had raised me from birth without assistance from anyone else except for maybe her mother, who died when I was eight. I didn't have a father, and back in the 1970s, it was rare to see a mother working and raising kids on her own. It was a point of pride for her that she always had been able to provide for me, and she did not want me to feel like I needed to work to help make ends meet.

Even though I already knew that he agreed with me, Pete wisely remained out of that part of the conversation. Like a good actor who knew when to pour it on and when to play a subdued role, Pete was persuasive when he needed to be but took a back seat when the circumstances called for it. This was one of the times that called for it, and Pete played it perfectly.

I didn't know it at the time, but the two hours Pete spent talking to my mother that Sunday evening set in motion a series of events that would profoundly change my life. The last year already had been one of enormous changes for me. Between meeting Pete and acting in Parasols, my mother losing her job and being forced to move from the house I had grown up in, and the trips to Chicago and starting my professional career, the last few months had been nothing short of a whirlwind for me. Yet, despite everything that had happened to date, the pace of change in my life was about to ramp up, and not just because of Chicago and the professional plans that Pete and Aaron had for me. In addition to all that, I was less than a month from turning 12. I also was less than a month from going to a new school for the first time since I had started my education as a kindergartener.

Yet, despite all the changes looming in my future, I still had almost a full month to go on my summer break, and I was determined to take advantage of that. Things seemed back to normal with Pete, which allowed me to shed the anxiety of the past few days and get back to being a kid. I slept like a log that Sunday night, and the very next day I was back at Pete's house, but not before I took the remaining $100 bill from my sock drawer and took it straight over to Tucker's Pharmacy to play a few games of Space Invaders.

It didn't go well. When I presented the bill to the man whom I presumed to be the owner, Mr. Tucker, he looked at me like I had just beamed down from the Starship Enterprise in a space suit.

"We don't make change for bills that large, young man," he said. "Where did you get that?"

I had to stammer something to him about getting the bill for my birthday even though it was still a month off. I didn't want to tell him the truth, because even though the money I had right now was from the Sears shoot, in my mind, that $100 bill was inextricably connected to naked sex parties, thank-you blowjobs, X-rated movies, and the like. I no sooner would tell Mr. Tucker about those things than I would take off my clothes and dance naked around his store, but maybe he would have liked it if I had done so. After almost a year with Pete and having attended Mr. Stone's party, I had a newfound appreciation of the interest men had in naked young boys.

I left the pharmacy with a profound sense of disappointment. What good was having a $100 bill if you couldn't spend it? Not far down the street was Homestead Savings Bank. I didn't have a bank account, but I knew that banks had a lot of money. Surely Homestead Savings Bank would be able to change a $100 bill into smaller bills and quarters, right?

Nope. It turns out that banks don't make change. Or at least, this bank wouldn't make change for me. The teller looked at me like I was so much detritus on the bottom of his shoe and informed me that he could not change it into smaller denominations unless I had an account at the bank, which I clearly didn't. He smiled at me smugly as I went on my way.

My next stop was Books by Carter. I knew that if I bought something I'd have to get change, and that would give me the small bills I would need to get some quarters. I might even be able to get some quarters as change, which would solve two problems at once. I picked out a random book that I thought Pete might like, brought it up to the cash register, and handed it to the cashier. She took it, looked at it, and handed it right back to me with an apologetic expression.

"I'm sorry, we can't take anything over a fifty," she explained. "It's the owner's policy. I guess he got burned with a counterfeit bill once, I don't know."

I looked dejected. Here I was with more money than God and all I wanted to do with it was play a single damn game of Space Invaders. I would have settled for just one game at this point. It occurred to me then that instead of bringing the $100 bill, I should have scrounged around for a quarter at home and just played with that.

"Awww, sweetie, I'm sorry," the cashier added when she saw my look of disappointment. She looked to her left, then leaned toward me over the counter. "You can just take the book," she whispered. "It's on the house. It's okay. Just take it."

"That's okay," I said dejectedly as I left the book on the counter and gave her a little smile. At least she was being nice to me, which is more than I could say for old Mr. Tucker or the bank teller.

"You are the just cutest little boy," she suddenly gushed. "Can you come back and see me again when you get a little older?" she said with a little wink and a big grin.

I blushed pink and probably red. I didn't know the first thing about girls, and this one was in her late teens at least. I was embarrassed beyond belief. My thoughts turned immediately to escape, but I knew I had to answer her inquiry.

"Um, maybe- I mean, if I remember," I stammered the first words that came into my head.

"Oh!" she said as she clutched at her heart as if she'd been shot there. "Rejected! Story of my life." She leaned toward me once again with a semi-serious expression. "I'll be right here waiting, you little cutie. Don't forget. I'm Susie. What's your name?"

I couldn't tell if she was joking. I was sure she was, but not entirely. My cheeks felt hot as I blushed uncontrollably. The tips of my ears felt like they were tingling. I wanted to leave the store like nobody's business.

"D- Davey," I stuttered. "David Pierce."

"Well, Mr. David Pierce cutie patootie, you come see me in about 10 years, okay? I'll be right here waiting for you. I won't even move–I'll just be sitting right here, okay? Remember … Susie. Can you remember that?"

"Yes," I replied with a solemn nod. Girls made me nervous. I wanted to leave.

As soon as I answered Susie sat up straighter on her stool and stared off into the distance like a general surveying a battlefield. "Yes," she repeated with a smile and a nod of her own, emulating my formal tone, before slouching once again and laughing aloud.

"You're too cute, David Pierce," she said with a wink. "See ya!" she added as she reached over and gave my nose a little tweak.

Clutching my $100 bill, I almost ran from the store. Despite my recent escapades, I wasn't all that many years–or maybe it was just months–removed from the age when all girls had cooties and all boys stayed wide and clear of them. Throughout my single-digit ages, I had been rigidly compliant with that rule. The only girls I usually talked to were my mother and my teachers at school. I'd never had a girl as a friend, much less as a girlfriend. I got nervous when I had to hold hands and square dance with them in gym class. I'd never even so much as kissed a girl other than my mother and grandmother. After spending much of the last year fooling around with Pete–and now with Aaron, Mr. Stalteri, Mr. Stone, Mr. Tal, and Mr. Emerson added to the mix–I didn't think my prospects of overcoming my anxiety about girls looked very good at all.

Although I knew it probably wouldn't work, I made one last stop at Angelisa's Chocolate Confections and tried to buy a little tort-like cake that I thought Pete might like. The woman manning the counter was nowhere near as nice as Susie when she handed the $100 bill back to me.

"We don't take bills that size," she said simply. "Tell your mother nothing over a twenty next time," she added with a contemptuous air.

I gave up. It already was almost 11:00 a.m. so I made my way over to Pete's house. The screen door closed as I mounted the front steps, but the inner door was open as it usually was in the summer unless we were using the living room for sex. Usually, I just opened the screen door, walked in, and announced myself, but I still was a little concerned about what had happened and scared of crossing any lines with Pete, so I paused to knock on the jamb.

"Hey, it's me," I said as I grasped the black-metal handle to the screen door and prepared to push the button that would give me access to the house that I almost considered my own and the man who was my best friend in the world.

I saw Pete emerge from the hallway that led to the kitchen and stride into the living room. He was smiling, and right away, I knew that all was well with my world.

"Come on in," he said with an accompanying gesture. "You don't have to knock."

I flung the door open and entered, paused for just a second, and then ran to him embracing him in the widest, biggest hug I knew how to give.

"Woah, woah, down boy!" said Pete as he met my embrace and cradled me, one hand on the back of my head.

I pressed my cheek to his chest and just hugged him. I hadn't been able to do that yesterday, as Aaron had been with us at first and then my mother after that. This was our first alone time since the incident, and I hugged him for all I was worth.

After several seconds, Pete reached down with his right forearm under my butt cheeks and hefted me into the air. I still didn't weigh all that much, and he held me like a toddler as he bopped me on the nose.

"Missed me, did you?" he asked with a smile. It was a genuine, kind smile that told me he had missed me too.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged him again, cheek to cheek this time. That was my answer, but it didn't seem adequate.

"I missed you the whole time," I whispered to his cheek as he cradled me in his arms.

"I missed you, too, Davey," he said as he gently rubbed and patted my back.

The moment was perfect. It was everything I had hoped it would be after several days of anxiety. I felt safe and loved in his arms, and I wanted to stay there. I didn't even want him to put me down.

I gave him a little kiss on the cheek, and then another. I felt as his left arm caressed up my back, across my neck, and to the back of my head. Grasping my head gently in the palm of his hand, Pete turned me so that I was facing him, then brought his mouth to mine.

We kissed then, and oh, did we kiss. I didn't hold back, and neither did Pete. We kissed wetly and passionately, like we hadn't seen each other in ages. I people-personed him like there was no tomorrow, my tongue jousting and playing with his as our lips and mouths writhed and moved opposite each other.

Our kiss was deep and wet. I tasted Pete's saliva in my mouth and wanted more of it. I devoured his mouth, seeking his tongue, his spit, anything I could lick or gather. Our mouths smacked, crackled, and popped together–reminding me incongruously of a certain breakfast cereal–as we kissed like the lovers that I guess we were at that point. We were at least lovers. It seemed like we were something even more than that, but I wasn't sure. What I did know then was that I was deeply in love with that man. Deeply, deeply in love.

At some point, without me even knowing it, Pete maneuvered us to the front door and closed it. I wasn't even aware we had moved until I heard it close. I was lost in the moment and my eyes had been closed as we kissed. I felt weirdly emotional, but it was hard to know whether I wanted to laugh, cry, or both at the same time. I felt supremely happy. Safe, happy, and loved.

Pete was the one to break our kiss. If he hadn't, I happily would have continued to kiss him until our lips fell off and landed on the living room floor. I continued to hold him with my arms wrapped around his neck as he looked at me and smiled. His mustache was glistening from all the saliva we had shared.

"I think we need to take this upstairs," he said in a soft voice. "What do you think?"

I nodded in agreement at his words even as I felt an odd tingle of energy course through my veins. It almost made me shiver. It felt electric. I realized then that I had a boner. Just from kissing, I had boned up and had a stiffy to show for it. I flexed my groin muscles a few times, making it rise and fall in my briefs and shorts. It was rock-hard. I was more excited for sex than I ever had been.

Pete carried me upstairs even though he had a balky back and I probably should have climbed the steps on my own. I don't think he wanted to ruin the moment, and I didn't want him to, either. I knew we were going to have sex, and I for some reason was supremely eager for it. I had had more sex over the weekend than I had ever had in my life, but I was positively excited to have it with Pete. The electric feeling that had jolted through me was there still.

I also was beyond excited to show Pete my new skill. I felt like I sometimes used to feel when I gave my mother an especially nice, personalized gift for Christmas or her birthday–usually something that I had made in school that I just knew she would love. I felt the same kind of giddy excitement at giving Pete his gift. I just knew that he would love it. He would know right away that I had done it for him. I wanted it to be extra special for him.

We arrived at the bedroom and with a last, chaste kiss to my lips, Pete sat down on the bed and eased me to the floor, leaving me standing between his knees with his hands on my hips.

"Why don't we get you naked," he said with a grin as he grasped the hem of my shirt and pulled it over my head. I grinned right back at him as my hair got all disheveled and my bare chest came into view. His hand went to my left pectoral muscle and began to caress me there. Both my nipples immediately erected from his touch.

"You have to get naked, too," I said excitedly as I stepped back, kicked my sneakers off, and plucked my tube socks from my feet one by one.

"Oh, I do, do I?" said Pete with a raised eyebrow. "Since when does the slave give orders to his master?"

I grinned at him as I jammed my shorts and briefs down my legs as a single package, momentarily forcing my boner down at the wrong angle, only to have it spring up with an inaudible, reverberating "boing-g-g-g" as it soon as it was set free. I stepped out of the shorts and undies and left them in a puddle on the floor. I now was completely naked.

Pete reached for my hard penis and gave it a squeeze and a couple of little strokes.

"Somebody's a very eager and frisky boy today, isn't he?" he teased.

I grinned again. "Pete, you gotta get naked. Then you gotta lie on the bed like when you go to sleep."

Pete smiled as he continued to fiddle with my erection. "And what if I refuse?"

"Pete!" I exclaimed as I reached for his shirt and tried to tug it from his beltline. "Come on!"

"You get me naked then," he said as he stood from the bed. He helped me a little bit by kicking off his shoes. "I'm all yours."

I didn't need another invitation. Without further ado, I knelt before my friend, opened his belt, and with a determined grimace, pulled the end of it with enough force that I could extract the prong from the hole. Pete was a large man, especially for the late 1970s, and his belt was tight on his frame.

Once I had it free, I snaked the belt from the loops and placed it in my undies on the floor. As I did so it occurred to me that that very belt had been used to inflict a lot of pain on my body. I still had the marks and the residual pain it had given me from yesterday's whipping in Aaron's basement. No matter. That wasn't a concern of mine right now. My singular focus was on getting Pete naked and erect just as fast as I could so that I could give him his first deep-throat blowjob.

I worked his pants apart and unzipped them, then carefully pulled them down his hairy legs. His boxers were right there, and I was pleased to see that he was tenting them. He was already semi- or even fully erect, which meant he was excited for what we were going to do. I hoped to make him even more excited soon. In fact, I was almost giddy at the prospect.

I wanted him completely naked, so when I reached for his socks, he braced himself with a hand on my head as I plucked them from his feet one at a time. He pushed my head down with much more pressure than he needed to keep his balance, causing me to laugh as I almost went to the floor.

"Pete!" I exclaimed in mock outrage.

"What?" he replied with mock innocence.

I scrambled to my feet and reached up to unbutton his shirt, starting at the top and working my way down one button at a time. Our erect penises waited patiently as I worked, mine like a steel flagpole, and his more like a stooped old lady, but it was clear that both of us were aroused. I still felt that odd electric tingle across my body. I'd never felt it before, certainly not with this intensity.

When I finally had his shirt unbuttoned, I eased it off his shoulders and started to tug it free.

"Wait, one at a time," cautioned Pete as he unbuttoned his cuffs for me and assisted me by extracting his arms one by one. The shirt ended up on the end of the bed with his pants. Pete finally was naked. He grasped my left shoulder in his hand and pressed down.

"Kneel down and suck me, slave," he instructed.

I resisted. "No, Pete, you gotta get on the bed," I said as I took his other arm and began to direct him to turn around. "I want to show you something."

"You want to show me something?" he asked skeptically. "Something other than obedience, I take it?"

"No, Pete, I'm going to suck you, I promise," I explained with desperation. I had this all mapped out in my mind, and I needed it to go a certain way. "I promise. Just, um, you gotta get on the bed first."

"What has gotten into you, little slave?" said Pete with a raised eyebrow. "You want to do a little warmup before you suck? Fine. But you will suck, capiche?"

"Capiche, capiche," I said, nodding and agreeing as I steered him toward the bed. Pete dutifully climbed up, but when he went to lie down, he did it on his stomach and spread his legs. That was the position he used when I rimmed him, and evidently that was what he meant by a warmup.

"No, Pete, you gotta roll over," I said as I pushed at his hairy side a little bit. There was no way that I could roll him over on my own, but I made my intent known.

"There had better be a good explanation for all this," warned Pete as he rolled over and repositioned himself on the bed. "Someone has become quite bossy all of a sudden and sounds like he might need a reminder of how things work around here."

"You'll see," I said with a reassuring nod as I climbed on the bed and knee walked my way to Pete's right thigh. "Can you spread your legs like before?" I asked him.

"Grrrrrr," Pete growled as he reluctantly spread his legs and made room for me between them.

Although Pete was such a good actor that I couldn't be entirely sure, I thought that his ire mostly was an act. Of course, he expected me to obey him and wouldn't hesitate to punish me if I stepped out of line, but I think he could tell that something was up. I wasn't doing a very good job of hiding it or surprising him. I felt just like that kid who gives his mother a special gift and then is almost jumping with excitement just to see her reaction as she opens it. I was about to give a very special gift to Pete–one that he had mentioned several times before but never pushed, but that now thanks to Mr. Emerson I knew how to do.

With my own excitement building, my body tingling crazily, and my penis jutting from my groin like a railroad spike, I climbed between Pete's hairy legs and knelt to give him what I hoped would be the single best blowjob of his entire life. I was confident, but nervous. Mr. Emerson had taught me well, but there was always the chance that something would go wrong and ruin the occasion. The biggest risk was, of course, my gag reflex. As eager as I was, I knew that I needed to concentrate on what I was doing lest I go too fast and end up making a mess. There were no towels down to catch my vomit if I messed up. This wasn't a dress rehearsal, but the real thing.

I wanted this to be a good one. I wanted it to be special. Pete deserved it. I loved the man. I wanted to give him more pleasure than he had ever felt in his entire life, and I felt like I could to it. I was excited to do it. I was so excited that I was tingling with anticipation.

I wanted to jam his cock in my mouth and start, but I forced myself to calm down and take a different approach. Grasping his penis in my right hand, I leaned my head down and kissed the side of his shaft, then ran my tongue along it, then licked his hairy balls a few times. I forced myself to slow down. I slowly stroked his shaft as I licked at his testicles, and I could feel his member stiffening in my grasp.

Pete remained silent as I worked. He reached down once to pat and stroke my head, but otherwise, he just lay there and let me do my thing. When his balls were nice and wet, I took my mouth and dragged it up the underside of his shaft, licking as I went, trying to lubricate it as much as I could. I did this a few times, tasting the fleshy, manly, just-out-of-his-underwear musk of my best friend. I knew that taste well. It was very familiar to me, and I would also say comforting. I liked the way Pete's cock smelled and tasted. I still remember the taste of it all these many years later.

I did the same thing on the sides of Pete's cock, dragging my parted lips over the surface and wetting his smooth, veiny skin as I went. I wanted Pete's cock just as wet as possible for what I was going to do. I was eager to get started but I knew that taking this time would enhance my chances of success. We were in no hurry. It wasn't even lunchtime, and I had the whole day to spend with Pete. Unless he had something to do and kicked me out, I was planning to spend the entire day at his house. With the tingly way I felt right now, I thought I could spend all of it naked and having sex.

After a few minutes of work, I had Pete's shaft and even his balls wet and ready for the main event. My time wasn't wasted because Pete was just about fully erect, which for him was not a marble stiffness, but just a full, thick, standing cock. I knew all the levels of his arousal, and right now, he was aroused and ready. So was I. It was time.

I took his cockhead in my mouth and closed my lips around it, teasing it with my tongue. I began a light bobbing, still clutching his shaft at the base just above his balls. I rarely removed my right hand from his shaft when I sucked Pete. Not only was it easier to steer his penis into my mouth when I gripped it in my fist, but I never bobbed my mouth so low that it got in the way. As I was about to demonstrate, that no longer was the case. I would need to move my hand out of the way to do what I needed and wanted to do.

For now, I continued to fist the man's cock as I bobbed a bit lower. So far, it was just a traditional Davey-sucking-Pete blowjob. I had given my friend scores of them–well over one hundred, anyway–and I wanted him to think that this was just more of the same, but it wasn't. It wouldn't be. I was ready. I reminded myself how to do it, how to open my throat, and how to do everything in the right sequence just the way Mr. Emerson had taught me. After another couple of bobs, I thought I was ready. My throat felt fine. Pete's cock felt perfect in my mouth.

Causally, I withdrew my right hand and simultaneously lowered my head and mouth all the way down Pete's shaft. His cockhead nestled perfectly in the opening to my throat for a split second before I simply swallowed it, opening my throat, and sliding his shaft all the way down. It went down easily, with no fuss whatsoever. The next thing I knew, my nose was nestled in Pete's thick pubes, which already were damp with my saliva.

I held him there for a split second, fully inserted, before giving him a series of tiny, quarter inch [6mm] bobs that were intended to show him just how deep in my mouth and throat his cock was lodged. I couldn't help but look up at him for his reaction.

"Oh, Davey, that's so nice," said Pete as he placed his hands on the sides of my face and gazed right back at me. "Such a good slave. Keep doing that," he ordered as he removed his hands and settled back with a sigh.

I kept doing it. Indeed, that day I gave Pete Volcker the best deep-throat blowjob I could give. Possibly, given my age at the time and the corresponding tightness of my young throat, coupled with my eagerness to please Pete and to show off my new skill, it was the best blowjob I ever gave him. It may well have been. I can't think of another where I put in more effort. Certainly, it was a memorable blowjob for me, and I'm sure it was a very good one for Pete.

I poured every ounce of effort and love I had into that blowjob, trying to make Pete's cock feel so good. It was an apology, a thank-you, and an I-love-you blowjob all wrapped into one. I was 11 years old, and there was an innocence and purity to my efforts and intentions that day that I couldn't ever possibly replicate or recapture. My love for Pete was a guiding star for me. I think I would have given my life for the man. What I did, instead, was give him my mouth, throat, and tongue in the very best combinations I could until he grasped my head in both hands, leaned forward, and blew what had to be an enormous load directly into my tummy.

The remaining days of August seemed to pass by very quickly as I hurtled toward my birthday, the end of summer, and the start of school. I was very anxious about attending my new school. I wouldn't know any of the teachers at the junior high, much less where any of my classes were. I wouldn't know three quarters of the other kids either, and I was worried that they all would know each other already and that I wouldn't be able to make any new friends. These and other worries consumed me as the end of summer drew near. I grew anxious every time I thought about school, which I did with increasing frequency as August rolled along.

I know it sounds incredibly stupid and I'm almost too embarrassed to write it, but the thing I probably was most worried about was riding the bus to school. I had been a walker throughout elementary school. My old house was right around the corner from the school, and the only time I took a bus was for field trips. School buses were only for kids who lived too far away. I didn't know the first thing about bus routes or bus stops, or which bus to get on. They all looked the same to me–big and yellow–and who knew where they were going? I didn't even know where the bus to my new school would pick me up. Where was my stop? And did the bus stop automatically, or did I have to wave at it? If the latter, how did I know which bus to wave at? Which one was mine? Not knowing how to answer those questions troubled me to the point where I absolutely was dreading the first day of school.

It was at times like these that I wished I had an older sibling. As an only child, I had to figure these things out on my own. It didn't help that I didn't have a lot of friends. The truth was, I didn't have any friends my own age. My friends were grown adults, all males, and usually I had sex with them. I was okay with that part, especially since my best friend in the world was one of them, but it didn't help me to navigate the kid stuff. I couldn't ask them for help on subjects that concerned me. They didn't know which bus to ride, either.

I knew I would have to figure out the bus thing on my own, and it worried me. My greatest fear was that I would get on the wrong bus and end up at some other junior high school in St. Clair or even halfway across the state of Michigan. The bus would drop me off at a school where I wouldn't know anyone at all, and I would be mortified trying to explain how I was too stupid to know how to get on the right bus to go to the right school. Add to that the probability that they would think from my appearance that was I was going into 4^th grade at the local elementary school, and you can start to see how much these things concerned me. In my mind, I not only would get on the wrong bus, but it would happen to be the one embarking kids from another school on a field trip to Washington, D.C. or something like that. Yes, I know it was an irrational fear, but it was very real to me.

I visited Pete every day during August, and when I say every day, I don't mean most days, or all but a few of them. I mean that I spent part of every single day at Pete's house, sometimes for hours and hours at a stretch. My dress code while visiting him became extremely casual, which meant that I spent much of August naked although he did make me wear Mr. Stalteri's thong at times. We had sex every day, often twice, and sometimes as many as three times. He still tended to peter out (sorry) after the third time, but I was pretty sure that I could get him to ejaculate a fourth time in one day if I worked at it and stayed around late enough to pull it off.

Everything between us was good. I gave him nothing but deep-throat blowjobs now, which I know he appreciated it. He fucked me most days, sometimes twice, and occasionally not at all. For us, buttfucking generally was a once-per-day occurrence. Sometimes I was in bondage when he fucked me, and sometimes not. It depended on his mood. Sometimes I was "slave," and other times I was "boy." He hardly ever called me Davey unless we were with someone else, or we were having a serious conversation. I didn't mind what he called me if he remained my friend.

He still liked to be rimmed, and I also did that just about every day. If he was feeling mellow and spent from cumming, I might do it a second time later in the afternoon before I went home. Sometimes being rimmed spurred him to another erection and a further orgasm, but that was rare. Most of the time he just closed his eyes and relaxed while I worked his anus with my tongue. Once or twice I was almost certain that he fell asleep. Occasionally, he straddled my face and I rimmed him that way. He said it helped me to get my tongue deeper in his ass, and I suppose that was true. I still wasn't a fan of rimming, but he really liked it, so I didn't make a fuss. He never reciprocated, and I never asked him to. Like some other aspects of our relationship, that act went only one way.

I remained on my best behavior with Pete, not wanting any repeat of what had happened in Chicago. I never said anything about it to him again, but I think he could tell that I was a changed boy and had fully submitted to his authority. He made all the decisions for both of us now, and I simply did what he told me to do when he told me to it. When it came to sex, he called all the shots in terms of what, when, where, and how long. We did lots of roleplaying: pirate captain and cabin boy, master and slave, captured spy boy, teacher and naughty schoolboy, and boy sent to juvenile prison amongst them. The sex and the playacting were rougher than before, and Pete was more critical of my acting. He made me work on acting scared and subservient and would make things worse for me until I performed to his satisfaction.

He also still punished me when I stepped out of line, but these days it never was for disobedience or backtalk. My mistakes mostly were of the stupid-kid variety–leaving the seat up in the bathroom (I admittedly was very bad with that and probably was punished for that more than for anything else), not hanging up my towel after a shower, forgetting to turn out the light when I left a room (he hated that and would tell me about OPEC as he spanked me), or leaving a mess in the kitchen. He punished me whenever I messed up, usually spanking me with his hand but occasionally using his belt for something bad like a pee puddle on the bathroom floor. I didn't question it. He was strict, but I had taken to heart Aaron's advice that I had to accept Pete on his terms or risk losing him. Despite the pain and my constant fear of abandonment, I was just happy to have our relationship back on any basis.

For the most part, the remainder of August, 1978 passed by without fanfare. Two events occurred that are worth mentioning, plus a third that never happened. The event that never happened was a return trip to Chicago scheduled for the last week of August. I was supposed to spend Friday the 25^th through to Sunday the 27^th at the summer home of one of Mr. Bruckner's friends on a lake somewhere in Illinois. Pete originally told me about the trip a couple of weeks before it was supposed to happen and said he had talked to Aaron about me also doing a photoshoot while I was there. There was some talk of me staying into the Monday to squeeze in the photoshoot, but then the weekend visit ended up getting canceled at the beginning of the week and I didn't go at all. At the time I felt relieved, but I didn't let on to Pete or Aaron and acted disappointed, maintaining my new people-person persona.

I had spoken to Aaron about it by telephone and he had told me that it would be like the night I had spent with Mr. Emerson at the party. Mr. Bruckner's friend was lonely, old, and wealthy, and he wanted a boy companion for the weekend and was willing to pay for one. Listening to Aaron's description of the man made me think of Mr. Stone, although I had no way of knowing what the man looked like, what he was like, or even how old he was. I was nervous about going, but the trip was canceled before I could get too worked up about it. I never did learn the reason for the cancellation.

The trip that did happen in August ironically involved my mother, who typically never went anywhere. Toward the middle of the month, she received a telephone call from an old friend from high school who had moved from St. Clair and now lived near Columbus, Ohio. Her friend's name was Barbara, and I suppose that if my mother had a best friend, Barbara was the one. They talked from time to time, and I think I had even met the woman once or twice, but for the most part, given the distance between them, my mother's friendship with Barbara was conducted by telephone. This time Barbara needed help with something, and my mother managed to get a couple of days off from work and pair them up with a weekend. She also asked Pete to watch me for the four days and three nights that she would be gone, which I was delighted he agreed to do. The only question was whether my mother's mustard-colored 1969 Ford Capri would be able to make the drive.

For my part, I hoped very much that the Capri was up to the task. Not only did I think that it would be a good thing for my mother to get out of the apartment and spend some time with Barbara, but selfishly I was almost giddy with the prospect of having a three-night sleepover with Pete. We already spent plenty of time together, but I never got to sleep over at his house, and the one time I had–the night of the Parasols cast party–had been a very memorable experience for me. I liked being in bed with Pete. We always were naked, and he was big, hairy, and warm. I liked to snuggle up against him after sex. I liked feeling his naked body next to mine. It had been nice when we had slept together in the hotel rooms, but I liked it even more in Pete's bedroom at home. It seemed more domestic and permanent. If it had been possible to do so, I would have slept with Pete every night, and woken him up with a deep-throat blowjob every morning.

After a trip to the garage the Capri was pronounced up to the task, and my mom went on the trip. I packed my things and she dropped me off at Pete's house on her way out of town. I felt tingly with excitement as I watched her pull away. I think she was looking forward to the trip, and I was looking forward to spending the better part of four consecutive days with Pete. It would be our longest continuous time together since we had met.

Pete had a surprise waiting for me as soon as my mother's car left his driveway. I wasn't surprised when he ordered me to strip as that wasn't uncommon at all, but then he approached me with a leather collar in hand that he proceeded to affix around my neck. Not only did he buckle it in place, but he produced a tiny brass padlock that he used to lock the collar around my neck. I had never seen such a tiny little lock. It even had a tiny brass key.

"Now you are officially my slave until your mother returns," pronounced Pete. "That collar stays on the entire time, even when you shower. You will refer to me the whole time as 'master,' as in 'Yes, master,' 'no, master,' or 'Would you like me to bring you a beer, master.' Capiche, slave?"

I felt almost giddy with excitement as Pete explained the rules to me. My penis was well on its way to being fully erect at the prospect of being a real slave for an entire long weekend.

"Yes, master," I replied dutifully.

"Very good, slave," replied Pete. "From now on, everything you say to me, no matter what, will have the word 'master' in it somewhere just like you did there. If you forget, you'll be punished. In addition, you will ask your master for permission to do everything for the entire weekend. 'Master, may I please go to the bathroom.' 'Master, may I please take the garbage to the garage.' 'Master, may I please eat my lunch.' If you fail to ask my permission, you will be punished. Capiche, slave?"

"Yes, master," I replied. "I capiche."

"I capiche master," corrected Pete as he took my arm and pulled me into the living room. Before I knew what was happening, he had pulled me over his lap and secured my wrists in his left hand. He proceeded to deliver three smacks to my upturned bottom. These were the really hard kind–the ones that I knew had to hurt his hand, because they sure as hell hurt my butt.

"If mistakes like that continue to happen, I'll bring out the belt," warned Pete. "Capiche?"

"Yes, master," I replied from my mostly upside-down position over his lap.

"And for the record, 'I capiche' is sassy, so you get a double for that," declared Pete as he gave me three additional hard smacks to go with the first set. These stung even more, and I gasped aloud, then bit my lower lip as tears misted my eyes. I could tell right then that Pete was serious about enslaving me for the weekend, but that awareness also made me very excited. My penis already was nail-hard when he tipped me off his lap to the floor.

"Now, I think you should practice with 'Would you like me to bring you a beer, master?' And when you're finished asking and fetching, I want a little slave boy on his hands and knees making love to my feet the very best way he knows how. Capiche?"

"Yes, master," I replied before fully carrying out his commands, which included lots of master requests and bringing him a beer, removing his shoes and socks, and spending the next half hour on the floor sucking and licking every part of his feet and toes. I didn't mind. In fact, I was happy to do it, as well as aroused. At that time in my life, Pete was my mentor, my de facto father, my lover, my master, and most importantly, my best friend. Over the course of that weekend, living together with him and seeing to all his needs, he also became my de facto husband, or probably better stated, I became his de facto wife. Let's just say that I took care of him domestically and sexually for the entire weekend as his naked, collared, 11-year-old slave boy. He didn't have to lift a finger and I loved every minute of it, although my bottom was extremely tender and sore by the end of the weekend because I kept forgetting to call him master, and Pete kept right on reminding me every time including with the belt when he deemed I had forgotten too many times in a day.

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