Bill Underhill

Crime and Punishment

Ben Monahan wasn't any better or any worse than any other fourteen-year-old kid you might meet at the average Galleria-clone megamall more than a decade into the New Millennium: insecure, snotty, and defensive when he was by himself; flippant, loud, and offensive when he was in the company of one or more fellow mall rats.

He was skinnier and quite a bit shorter than most of the kids in his old school, but around this new place it looked like he was going to turn out just a couple of points shy of dead average. He'd missed out on pimples somehow, more the result of good luck than anything resembling a healthy diet or proper hygiene, and he had a skateboarder's set of wiry muscles and gnarly scars.

On the fashionable left side, a small stud earring glinted under a mop of straight, dusty brown hair hanging down over the retro wrap-around shave job that left pale scalp showing from the tops of his ears to the base of his skull.

When his mother picked up and moved the two of them to Shamong Valley, Ben wound up entirely out of his element. In suburbia, the limits and penalties were pretty well understood. You back-sassed the mall security guards too much and they ran you out the door; you got too grabby with the girls and they either belted you one in the chops (the tough chicks) or yelled for the cops.

Boosting stuff from the stores could get you nailed beyond belief (especially with the security systems getting more Big-Brotherish than Big Brother), and stealing cars from the parking lots might get the professional car thieves sufficiently pissed off to get most of the bones in your hands broken for you.

School had limits and penalties. The neighborhood cliques had limits and penalties. Even sex (especially sex!) had limits and penalties.

In Moorestown, New Jersey, sex meant girls – and girls only. Oh, you could join in a circle jerk with the other dudes now and then, 'cause a guy could hardly get some of these bitches to put out no matter how hard he tried, and you've got to relieve the pressure somehow.

Faggot stuff, however, real faggot stuff, was out. You might risk getting yourself a nice, private blowjob from that out-of-the-closet kid in the Middle School, but you couldn't let any of your buds see you hanging around with him or even talking to him, and if you ever thought about unzipping his jeans and finding out how his little dick might taste, you never even dared to admit it to yourself, much less to him.

So it was easy to understand why Ben Monahan got a bit confused when he started looking around in Shamong Valley.

You've got to understand a few things about Shamong Valley. It's a little town, maybe thirteen thousand people, and it's not close enough to any really big city to be called 'Part of the Greater Whateverland Area'. There's no favorite Major League Baseball team, and the only reason you see bumper stickers and jackets with the Cleveland Browns' colors around town is because one of the town's ex-high-school heroes had begun playing fullback for the Browns a couple of years ago.

There's no one major industry in the town, and what little tourist flow there is runs gently past the antique stores and a couple of tidy strip malls toward the Shawcross Foundation's wildlife area just to the north. It's the kind of place where even biker gangs mellow out.

First settled a couple of years before Thomas Jefferson finally kicked the Federalists out of Washington City, Shamong Valley was lucky enough to miss out on most every major wave of continent-sweeping stupidity from Pietism to Political Correctness.

Even the Civil War monument had only a dozen names on it. There weren't more than twelve men in the whole town idiotic enough to answer 'Father Abraham's Call', and of the six that survived to return at the end of their enlistments, not one had anything good to say about the Union they'd gone off to save. The stone tablets set up for the citizens unlucky enough to have been drafted into (and killed in) the country's more recent misadventures look like nothing more than big tombstones, and are treated as such. Memorial Day bunting in Shamong Valley is black crepe, not red-white-and-blue.

Not that there's anything morbid about the people. There's a Rotary chapter and a Masonic Temple, both of them getting together with the B.P.O.E. members twice a year – at Springfest and Oktoberfest – to raise money for Walter Breen Memorial Hospital. Even the Fourth-of-July celebrations are better than you'd expect in such a small town.

There are two volunteer fire companies (with almost a quarter of the Southside company membership drawn from the writers-and-artists colony that grew up on what used to be the old Campbell Farm). There are three Boy Scout troops, an Explorers post, and most of the usual and customary houses of worship you'd expect to see in a Midwestern town, including a small mosque built by a flock of Black Muslims who came out to buy farms and start up a commune back in the early Seventies.

Apart from the live-and-let-live peaceability of the people, there's another characteristic of Shamong Valley that sets it apart from the average American small town, and it was something that Ben Monahan had stumbled upon without anything resembling adequate preparation. It happened on the third day after he and his mother had moved into the old Stulpnagel place.

Martin Larabee wasn't supposed to be in the bushes with Salim Gordon early that morning, and they weren't supposed to be buck-naked together on the blanket they'd spread in that space between the bushes, and Martin really wasn't supposed to have Salim's pecker all the way up inside his little tochus, either – but then Ben wasn't supposed to be mooching along past those same bushes at the moment Salim gasped and groaned in his quiet-as-he-could orgasm.

Peering through the leaves, Ben found himself looking wide-eyed at two little boys, one black and big-boned (Salim) the other small and blonde and sunburnt (Martin).

They were each nine years old, though Martin looked younger. Salim – withdrawing his hairless masculine member from Martin's bottom as Ben watched – looked quite a bit older, especially in the masculine member department.

As a matter of fact, you'd have to go all the way up to the seventh grade at Eastside School to find a boy with a bigger pecker than Salim's, and then you'd only find it sprouting from the pelvis of Salim's cousin, Isham.

Martin wasn't supposed to be in the bushes (or anywhere else private) with Salim, and that was because Martin's big brother, Kenny, was going through one of those typical bouts of emotional fibrillation to which every thirteen-year-old boy is subject from time to time.

This time it was manifesting as jealousy of the strangest kind. Kenny had fallen deeply, madly, and passionately in love with his little brother. Somehow, there had been an incredible change in the miserable, snot-nosed, importunate little creep with whom Kenny had occasionally and never very seriously fooled around since Martin was six and Kenny ten-and-a-half.

Suddenly, Martin had become the most perfectly-proportioned, the sweetest-voiced, and the most sexually desirable creature in the whole world.

It wasn't that Martin was an exceptionally good-looking little guy. Active and energetic, he'd long since burnt off the residue of puppy fat that a lot of other nine-year-olds carry, and admittedly his smile was the kind of smile with which advertising types try to sell breakfast cereal. He was as graceful as any other moderately athletic kid might be, having finally made peace with the suddenly longer arms and legs that the eighth-year-of-life growth spurt had sprung on him, and his dark blonde hair was reasonably curly even when it wasn't sweaty and full of leaves and twigs and the bits of bark and stuff that naturally gets into a guy's hair when he's building a fort in the woods.

Martin was just your average boy. People didn't drive past him and smash their cars into utility poles because they couldn't take their eyes off him, and most of the girls in his class still remembered him in the more exceptional moments of his 'gross-em-out' phase the year before, making retching noises at one another whenever his name was mentioned.

It was just that Kenny was having some problems.

When the onset of puberty hits some youngsters, it strikes with the kind of impact that can cause cataclysmic extinctions among species on the Endangered List. In Kenny's case, it was even worse.

Within the space of six weeks, Kenny's voice broke into the higher end of the baritone range, he developed his first crop of pimples, and he went from dry-shot status to the manufacture of seminal fluid with a viscosity resembling that of Elmer's Glue on a winter morning in Anchorage.

Had a sperm count been performed, it would have shown Kenny to be capable of impregnating Mother Theresa. Despite the fact that she was dead.

The boy was under the grip of hormone surges powerful enough to register on seismographs in Siberia, and the single object upon which his sexual desires fastened (with the tenacity of a U.S. Congressman lunging for a barrelful of pork) slept down the hall, second door on the left, every single night.

For Martin, it was slice of heaven wrapped up in a pita pocket of purgatory.

Martin would go to sleep in his own bed every night after a day of strenuous nine-year-old-boy activities only to be awakened by his big brother, stallion-rampant in the glow of the nightlight, utterly impervious to Martin's muttered: "Jeez, Kenny, couldn't you just jerk off sometimes?"

Pulled to his feet, stripped of his tee-shirt and pajama pants, Martin would then be guided down the hall to Kenny's room and the badly-battered lit d'amour contained therein.

The trip never failed to blow away the cobwebs of sleep, of course. Moving slowly to keep from making any noise, Kenny's hand on the back of Martin's neck, tingling all over with delightful nervous anxiety about the possibility of getting caught naked together in the hall…

Well, Martin was usually stiffer than a tentpeg before they'd gotten past the framed photograph of Aunt Natalia just outside his bedroom door.

Their parents, fortunately, seemed to sleep as if concussed, apparently hearing neither the creak of the floorboards nor the subdued gasps and giggles as Kenny and Martin carefully groped each other along the way.

Nor did they ever seem to hear Martin's high-pitched yelps of joy, Kenny's lower-toned cries of release, or the sound of Kenny's bedframe surrendering more and more of its structural integrity to repetitive stress trauma every night.

They may have appreciated the fact that Kenny was taking care of all his own laundry (especially the bed linens), but that was – to all appearances – the only change of which they were aware.

While Kenny was attempting to subdue erections that sprang into being whenever he thought about the naked body of his little brother (and he thought of his little brother's naked body over the course of many often inopportune moments every day), Martin was trying to cope with a situation most nine-year-old boys don't even have the experience to fantasize about.

Getting laid regularly has its beneficial effects, and Martin couldn't deny that sex with Kenny was everything he'd ever thought that sex should be. Kenny had become so attentive and affectionate both in and out of bed that Martin couldn't believe their parents hadn't noticed.

Delighting in the character of his big brother's infatuation but increasingly dismayed at its intensity, Martin sought the council – in total confidence – of his best friend.

Salim and Martin had been in the same classrooms together since Kindergarten, and they had shared class projects, customized model car building, and experiments in household chemistry to the dismay of their parents for many years.

"So what do you guys do with each other?" asked Salim.

"Jeez, everything." Martin blushed a little as he played with Salim's overlarge dark-brown boner. "He fools around with my dick and I fool around with his, and then he sucks me until I go crazy. Then he rubs his dick on my stomach or between my legs until he spurts his stuff, and the we start all over again. Maybe sometimes we do it three times a night."

Salim thought for a long moment as he contemplated the pulsatile perfection of his friend's little pecker. "Do you get to suck him?" he asked. "And has he tried to put his dick up your you-know-what?"

"N-no." Martin blushed even deeper. "To both. I tried to suck him back a bunch of times, but he didn't want me to. He keeps saying that I'm too young and sweet and pure to take his dirty dick in my mouth or up my you-know-what."

"He's silly," pronounced Salim. "I'm a whole month younger than you are, and I've been sucking Isham's dick since I was in First Grade. He's been putting it in my bottom since Christmas."

Martin's eyes rounded as he learned this. "Really? Since Christmas?"

"Yeah." Salim nodded, smiling a little. "I didn't have enough money to get him a really nice present, so I gave him me instead."

"Cool!" Martin thought for a long moment. "Did it hurt?"

"Yeah, a little. Isham's really big, you know? Have you ever seen his dick?"

Martin shrugged. "Yeah, but never when it was hard." He felt Salim's sex thicken between his fingers and squeezed it gently. "Not like this," he said, grinning.

"Ooh! Be careful! I could shoot…!"

The smaller boy gave a laugh. "You can't shoot yet! Except blanks…"

"Yeah? Well you're always gonna be shooting blanks!"

"Will not!"

"Will, too! Hey, if you squeeze me like that again, I'm gonna – ooh! Don't do that! Oh! Oh, yeah! Do that!"

Target practice that day was successful for both Salim and Martin, 'blanks' notwithstanding, but the discussion left Martin uncomfortably aware that something was missing from his relationship with Kenny.

Trying again that night to show Kenny how much he appreciated getting sucked off, Martin tried to guide his big brother's erection toward his own mouth only to be embarrassingly rebuffed by the older boy.

"Well, then," he proposed, "stick it up inside me." He flexed knees and hips to show Kenny precisely where his little asterisk marked the spot. "Lots of other guys do it. Salim told me how Isham does it to him, and it hardly even hurts him any more."

Kenny blushed the color of a dairy barn on fire (which wasn't a bad metaphor, considering how much cream was trembling on the brink of boiling-over within him).

"I-I couldn't do it." On the verge of tears, he looked down at his little brother. "You're so perfect, so little… I couldn't make you suffer that way."

He hunkered down, his eyes intense upon those of the younger boy. "Salim is a bad influence on you," he said, his penis sliding in parallel with Martin's little pecker. "I don't want you hanging around with him any more. Let him give up his butt to that cousin of his. He's not you! He's not my beautiful little brother! He's not – oh! Oh! Oh, Jeez!"

Fortunately, when you've got the recharge capacity of a thirteen-year-old boy, you can afford the hair-trigger release of a thirteen-year-old boy, too.

Reasoning that his big brother had none of the parent-level authority necessary to lawfully forbid him to see Salim again, but not wishing to battle with Kenny when it was so obvious that his big brother had become an emotional basket case, Martin exercised a generous dollop of that deviousness which has been the principal survival tool of little brothers since the days of Jacob and Esau.

Instead of going to Salim's house (where a telephone call to Salim's parents could and would provide Kenny with a wholly truthful account of Martin's visits), and unable to meet in the Larabee residence, Martin and Salim simply set up a number of rendezvous sites in which they were pretty sure that Kenny wouldn't catch them.

One of them happened to be that cluster of bushes on that particular morning, and that particular rendezvous had been the one upon which Martin had finally persuaded Salim to do a little booty-busting on his best friend.

"Come on," Martin had pleaded. "Your dick is almost as big as Kenny's! If you can do it to me, I'll know that Kenny can do it without hurting me. What could happen?"

Salim had hesitated for one last moment, and then he nodded. "Okay," he'd said. They were side-by-side on the blanket together, and he lifted up his middle. "Suck me to make it slippery, the way Isham makes me suck his."

Martin complied with confidence; it hadn't taken him any time at all to persuade Salim to let him do stuff like this. All he'd had to do was offer his friend reciprocal dick-sucking privileges, and – voila! – instant mutual "Jeez-be-careful-with-your-teeth!" sessions on an everyday basis.

Belly-down on the blanket, then, his legs spread, his fanny raised up, his eye on the ball, and concentrating on his follow-through, Martin received into his puckered postern the full length of his best friend's sturdy little sex.

It hurt a bit, but not terribly, and after he began to get used to it ("This is how Isham does it! Lift up a little more, 'cause I'm gonna shoot inside you!") it was actually kind of nice.

This was where Ben came in, watching in terror and delight.

"Mmm…" Martin rubbed his nose along the rough surface of a blanket better suited to scratching itches than to service as a lovers' launch pad. "That was pretty nice. No, keep it in me! I want to get used to the feeling some more."

"Sorry!" Salim lifted himself up on hands and elbows, his long little impregnator sliding slowly all the way out of Martin's bottom. "I've gotta get home for breakfast. Mom's making rice and eggs and tomatoes." He sat up and began searching for his underwear. "You want to come have some?"

"No-o-o, I don't think so." Martin nuzzled the blanket again and gave his friend a half-shuteyed smile. "You've already got a nice suntan; I think I'll just lay here for a while and try to catch up. Besides, if Kenny calls…"

"Yeah. Mom and dad would turn us in to him in a minute." He pulled on his tube socks and sneakers before giving up on his jockey shorts ("Do you remember if I was wearing any?") and getting his shorts on.

"Well," said Salim, "I've gotta go. See you tomorrow? Maybe in the storage room over at the historical exhibit place?"

"Yeah, sure. Same time?"

They agreed, and Salim left the cluster of bushes by way of an interstice that looked too narrow for a rabbit to get through.

Unfortunately, Salim's point of exit was about a hundred and fifty degrees around the circle of thicket from the place were Ben Monahan's sneakers were sinking into the soft earth. This left Ben undiscovered, watching Martin drop into a light drowse in the morning sunlight, the very picture of sated prepubescent sexuality.

When he was certain that the other boy was long gone, Ben made his move. Parting the branches carefully, he worked his way into the hollow thicket with the quiet efficiency of a tax collector confiscating a bank balance. Standing at the edge of the rumpled blanket, breathing as if he'd just finished first in the hundred-meter [300 ft] dash, he kicked off his sneakers and stripped out of his clothes.

He knelt on the blanket and put his hand on Martin's sun-warmed shoulder.

"Hunh?" Martin opened his eyes, his head rising slightly as he blinked. "Salim? I thought you… Hey! Who? Wha--!"

The stranger had a fierce, desperate look in his eyes as he flipped Martin over and pinned him on his back, but it wasn't the kind of desperation that says: "Do what I want or I'm gonna kill you!"

It was instead the kind of desperation that implies: "If you don't do what I want, I'm gonna die!"

Well, Martin had seen a lot of that kind of desperation in Kenny's eyes over the past couple of months, and he could see on the stranger's left shoulder the same thirty-millimeter-wide [1.2 inch] bulls-eye GITSCH vaccination scar that Martin wore on his own right arm.

That meant that both of them were safe from the stuff Martin had been taught about in Health class, but it didn't mean that this guy wasn't going to hurt him. He gasped as the stranger shifted to straddle him, and he was genuinely afraid.

The guy was older than Kenny, and bigger. He wasn't rough, but he held Martin down with unopposable strength. Martin wriggled and fussed a little as the stranger hunkered down lower, working his big dick up and down against Martin's pecker and pea-pod scrotum, but he couldn't hide his excitement.

After all, how many sexually knowledgeable nine-year-olds don't harbor a rape fantasy or two?

"What are you doing?" Martin grunted, bucking his hips up a little for punctuation.

"I–" The stranger gazed down intently at the younger boy's face. "I'm gonna do you," he said, "just like you let that black kid do you."

Martin's eyes went wide. "You're crazy! You can't get away with this! Let go of my ankles! You can't put it in dry like that! Ow! Ooh! When my brother hears about this – Yeow!"

Fourteen-year-old boys (especially fourteen-year-old boys who've spent a quarter-hour watching a pair of good-looking younger kids screwing) have hair-trigger release problems no less acute than those of thirteen-year-old boys, and Ben wasn't halfway into Martin's squirming little body when he began to lose control.

Stunned by the intensity of his orgasm, Ben failed to notice Martin's awed expression and the youngster's respectful and accommodative silence as the stranger's short, fierce reciprocations spattered thin adolescent semen up inside Martin's bottom.

Then the stranger was sitting back on his heels, gazing down in astonishment at the sperm-frothed head of still-hard cock that'd popped out of Martin's bottom, the younger boy rising up on his elbows with the wrath of the gods written into the set of his brows.

"You crud!" he growled, sniffing back tears. "You raped me!"

Ben went pale, he mouth dropping open. "I, I only–"

"Bull-dukey!" Martin tried to kick the bigger boy, but his bare heel just glanced off Ben's thigh. "You just came in here and stuck your dick up my behind, and I don't even know your name! Jeez, if that's not rape, what the heck is?"

"I, I – oh, my God!" Ben scrambled for his clothes, yanking on his pants, grabbing his shirt and sneakers, losing a sock. "I didn't mean to – I mean, I didn't want to–" He was crying now, and Martin could only gaze up at him in astonishment.

"Oh, Jeez, I'm so sorry!" He looked at Martin for a long moment and then vanished through the bushes, leaving his other sock hanging on a branch as if to mark his passage.

Martin listened to the sound of barefoot running adolescent fade into the distance, and then he reached up to pluck the sock off the bush.

"Weird!" he breathed. Then he felt the slipperiness between his bottom cheeks. He looked down at the sock, shrugged, and used the top of it to wipe away the stranger's sperm.

How was he going to handle this, anyway?

Martin couldn't go to his brother with this; Kenny would've killed the guy – genuinely, truly, and completely! Instead, he went looking for Salim and found him hacking around with a couple of classmates, Chas Preston and Monica Bertino. These were the people to whom he unburdened himself.

"I mean, it wasn't like he really hurt me," Martin explained, "but he shoved his dick up my butt without even saying 'Please!'"

"So?" It was Chas, slender, freckled, and elegant even in dirty dungaree cut-offs and a battered John Deere "gimme" cap.

"So I didn't want him to!" Martin said, rounding angrily on the slightly younger boy.

"Didn't'cha like it?"

Martin paused and thought for a moment. Then he nodded.

"Kinda, I guess…"

Salim grinned. "Did he have a nice dick?"

Martin nodded again. "Yeah, I guess. I couldn't see it all that much."

"Did he make you suck it?"

The youngster made a face. "No. He wouldn't even let me do that. I told you, he just shoved it in me."

"Gross!" Monica said. She wore her straight black hair cut shorter than most of the guys did, which meant that she could get away with wearing nothing but short-shorts and a pair of sneakers on a hot day. Most people thought she was a boy, and she pretty much behaved like one.

"So what are we going to do?" Salim asked. "Do we tell the cops?"

Martin shook his head emphatically. "Not ever. They'd have a trial, and I'd have to testify, and Kenny would still try to kill the guy. Then they'd have to try Kenny for murder. There's gotta be a better way we can get even."

"Well," Chas drawled, "there's always the old 'eye-for-an-eye' strategy."

"Oh, yeah," Martin said sarcastically. "I just drag him into the bushes and stick my dick up his butt." He snorted in disgust.

"No, no, no!" Chas sat up, pushing up the brim of his ball cap. "This guy's dick was lots bigger than yours, and he stuck it up you, right? Well, we've just got to find somebody whose dick is as much bigger than his as his is bigger than yours, and…"

"Oh, yeah!" Monica breathed. "He gets done just the way he did you. That's a great idea."

"I don't know…," Martin said. He looked at Salim. "Do you think that Isham might be willing to do him for us?"

"Not Isham," put in Chas. "We need somebody a bit bigger."

"Bigger?" Salim looked insulted. "There isn't a single guy in school with a dick bigger than Isham's!"

"Who says we have to stick with the guys in our school?"

Martin had to shrug. "Who else do we know?"

"Henry the Horse."

Chas said it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, that for a moment the other kids merely looked at him in puzzlement.

"But Henry's gonna be a senior next year," Salim protested. "He's got a scholarship to college and a driver's license, and he's got a summer job doing computer work after school over at Sirius Cybernetics. He's not going to help us out. We're just kids!"

"Yeah," Chas said, "but if he does…"

He grinned the kind of grin that Peter Pan might've grinned had he been able to swap a handful of pixie dust for a few dozen kilograms of C-4 and a fifty-five-gallon drum of jellied gasoline.

Henry Hathaway was a rangy, unprepossessing seventeen-year-old student at Shamong Valley Senior High. Diffident and quiet, his looks were nothing to write home about – unless you were fortunate enough to see him in the buff.

Henry had had an oversized dick even as a baby. It remained larger than average throughout his childhood, making him something of a celebrity at grade school circle-jerk sessions.

It wasn't until he hit puberty, however, that it began to grow into the kind of thing of which legends are made.

By the time Henry had finished junior high, his dick was without doubt the largest, thickest, longest male appendage in the town of Shamong Valley. During his sophomore and junior years in high school, it grew more gradually but no less inexorably.

By the time he was promoted to his senior year, Henry's place in the record books was firmly established. No one believed that it was physically possible for a human penis to get any bigger. Even the once-proud owners of videos made by the late John Holmes suffered a diminished sense of pleasure in their regard of the erstwhile hero's amorous adventures; they knew that Henry's was bigger.

By no means an aggressive young man, Henry proved to be insurmountably shy with regard to the opposite sex. Oh, he liked them well enough, and he had the requisite collection of gatefold-bearing glossy magazines stuffed under the bed. He was just too timid to try anything with a girl – and the girls had all heard about the size of Henry's procreative machinery.

(Let's face it: a young lady still dreaming about her first sip of champagne isn't likely to look favorably upon the idea of tucking away a Nebuchadnezzar of Dom Perignon at one sitting.)

Henry thus remained throughout his teenage years an utter virgin with regard to the split-tailed portion of the population, his massive dong never once so much as frightening a member of the distaff side.

But where Henry's retiring ways prevented him from connecting with the girls and young women of the Shamong Valley, they did nothing to protect him from the much more aggressive attentions of the community's little boys.

From well before the onset of puberty, Henry was the cynosure of just about every healthy little male eye in town. He'd ceased to attend communal self-abuse sessions shortly after his pubescent penis had begun to burgeon, but there wasn't a Boy Scout meeting or a boiler room jerk-off session in which some respectful mention of Henry's dick wasn't made. Many a youngster speculated about what it might look like – or taste like, or spurt like – if properly stimulated.

The speculations were tested on a summer afternoon some five months after Henry's thirteenth birthday. A bold black-haired eleven-year-old named Roger Kaplan employed talk of baseball cards and comic books to get Henry up into the hayloft of Charlie Green's barn. Shameless and without remorse, Roger seduced poor Henry.

Dressed in nothing more than a pair of skimpy shorts that'd been too small for him even the year before, Roger cuddled up against the older boy as they lay on a blanket spread over the floor of the loft. He moved with sweaty lasciviousness upon Henry's lap as he pointed out batting averages on the backs of his baseball cards, and he made successful use of the old 'I've-got-a-cramp-in-my-thigh' trick to get Henry's trembling hands working right up against his little crotch.

In short, Roger got Henry hard. Then he got him naked. Finally, he got him off, watching in awe as the teenager's semen spurted straight up into the air.

Roger's friends were skeptical of his descriptions of Henry unclothed, erect, and ejaculatory. One of them actually scoffed, saying he'd believe it when he saw it.

Indignantly, Roger challenged his friends to observe from hiding when next he enticed Henry up into the hayloft.

That occasion came only a day later, when Henry sought out Roger in the playground. Roger was wearing the same pair of shorts – which he quite rightfully considered lucky – and nothing more except his sneakers.

Such a sight as Roger presented that morning has been known to cause stolidly heterosexual Rotarians to forget both their marriage vows and the laws proscribing sexual activities with a minor child. While every bit the tough, masculine young male animal he was, Mrs. Kaplan's little boy carried himself in a manner which proclaimed to all who saw him that he was as hungry as he was appetizing.

As a healthy young adolescent, Henry was even more grievously flustered than the above-mentioned Rotarian might have been in the presence of such an all-but-naked little avatar of unnatural lust, and it was inevitable that the dazed teenager should have been easily and without resistance guided from their playground rendezvous to the appointed place of execution.

Their straight-line course to Charlie Green's barn left no doubt whatsoever about the purpose of their trip as half-a-dozen ten- and eleven-year-old boys watched silently and respectfully from the vantage points of the jungle gym and the structural steel flying saucer in the playground.

Roger led the way into the barn and up into the loft, leaving Henry to stare up the ladder at the long, smooth legs and the almost-but-not-quite-exposed little-boy buttocks of his supposedly innocent and legally-incapable-of-consent young partner in biblical abominations. Despite his dizziness, he made it up into the haymow, and there were no pretenses made this time about baseball cards or Captain Whizz-Bang comics.

Masturbated and fellated – the latter accomplished to less than Roger's complete satisfaction, as it was clear he'd need to dislocate his jaw to fit more than just the head of it inside his mouth – Henry was re-introduced to the pleasures of sucking prepubescent cock and the performance of oral-anal stimulation upon an appreciatively responsive young partner.

Overcome with tender feelings engendered by Henry's gentle and clumsy efforts at anilingus, Roger then did something that made him forever a part of Shamong Valley history. When asked later what'd possessed him to attempt the deed, he'd simply shrugged and shaken his head. Sometimes guts will take a boy where his brains would've never allowed him to go.

Henry still had his tee-shirt on. Roger was totally naked. He shoved Henry over onto his back, straddling the older boy's waist and reaching around to bring the head of Henry's penis up against his anus.

Roger had lost his posterior virginity to a visiting older cousin at eight years of age, and he'd been thoroughly enjoying passive anal intercourse ever since. To celebrate his eleventh birthday, he'd even taken on a trio of young Marines in one of the baggage rooms at the bus station.

"But that was just one at a time," Roger explained later. "When I settled down on Henry's dick, I felt like all three of those Marines were trying to go in me at once!"

It was a tribute to Roger's skill and the elasticity of his anus that he was able to get the whole head of Henry's penis inside his body before the older boy lost his battle with postponement, flooding the youngster's rectum with the rich marrow of teenage lust and anointing him as the founding member of the Fencepost Club.

(So called, of course, because "When Henry fucks you, it feels like somebody's shoving a fencepost up your ass!")

Other boys joined the Fencepost Club as the months and years passed, and Henry rarely went more than a day or two without finding sexual satisfaction in the company of one (or more) of his devoted young fans. Carnally satiated, he was able to conduct himself as the perfect gentleman in the presence of the ladies, and gradually developed into a highly-esteemed date prospect.

("He never gets grabby," one girl advised, "and he kisses like a dream!")

Among the youngsters with whom Henry did 'get grabby', rules were established for the governance of the Fencepost Club, with the election of officers and a requirement for membership recertification annually (though most renewed their credentials with Henry at least once a month).

Those adults who got wind of the club's existence were deflected with an explanation that the name derived from the 'fencepost error', a common mistake in computer programming, and the organization was largely dismissed as just another bunch of juvenile hackers.

Fanning out, the kids quickly found Martin's rapist. He was seated beneath a tulip tree in the park, sockless and forlorn, staring blankly at the ground between his sneakers.

"Boy," Salim whispered to Martin. "He looks a lot more wrecked than you did when you told us about it." He looked suspiciously at his friend. "Just who raped who?"

"I don't care." The set of Martin's chin was firm. "Remember, he was watching when you did it to me. If I'd been the first guy to leave, he could've raped you just as easily."

They walked up to the stranger.

"Hey!" Martin barked. "Hey, you!"

The teenager looked up, gaped, and went pale.

"Yeah," said Salim. "It's us."

Two more unlikely-looking vigilantes never stared down a malefactor. Salim stood almost half a head taller, but both were clothed in nothing much more than scraps of battered blue denim – the super-short cut-offs that constituted the summer uniform of most of the kids running around Shamong Valley.

"You raped me!" Martin put his hands on his hips. "Now it's payback time."

Ben looked nervously from side to side, afraid that someone was near enough to have heard.

"W-what are you going to do?"

Martin grimaced. The guy looked a lot younger, wearing baggy shorts and a too-big Eagles tee-shirt. The haircut that had made him seem fierce and exotic back in the thicket only emphasized how lost and lonely he was out here in the middle of a strange new town.

"You've gotta come with us," Salim said, putting as much menace into his voice as a bigger-than-average nine-year-old could manage.

Still sitting there, Ben glanced from one nearly-naked little boy to the other. "Where? Are you gonna take me to the police?"

Martin made a razzberry noise. "Heck, no! We're gonna rape you right back!"

Salim nodded concurrence and grabbed one of Ben's hands. "Come on, get up – or do you want us to tell the police?"

Confused but a little less afraid, the teenager got to his feet. Martin took his other hand and grinned at Salim.

This was gonna be neat!

Chas and Monica had laid out a couple of blankets in the back part of the hayloft of Charlie Green's barn, and when Salim and Martin had brought Ben up the ladder they were ready for him.

"His name is Ben," announced Salim.

"Wh-who are they?" Ben asked, pointing to the other kids.

"Friends," Martin said. "They're here to watch and help out." He looked Ben straight in the eye. "Now, get your clothes off."

"What are you going to do to me?"

"An eye for an eye," said Chas. He didn't bother unfastening his cut-offs; with an economical wriggle, he skinned out of blue denim and the firehouse-red scrap of cotton underneath to stand with nothing on his body from his sneakers all the way up to his just-a-bit-too-big green ball cap.

Ben's eyes went wide as he saw Monica strip. "You're a girl!"

"So?" Salim glowered at the older boy. "She's as good as any other guy in our class."

"Better than some, actually," Chas observed. "You should see her play second base."

Monica blushed all over with pleasure. "Thanks, Chas." She looked up. "But you're better in the outfield than I am."

"Well, I can jump higher." He reached up, standing on tiptoe, to tap a rope that dangled down from the rafters. His semi-stiff little pecker jiggled as he came down on his heels. "I've got better vertical range, that's all."

"Come on," Martin said impatiently. He shoved Ben a little. "Strip. I want you totally naked."

"B-but…!"

"Oh, come on!" Martin looked at Salim, his face locked into an expression of disgust. Together, the boys grabbed Ben's tee-shirt and yanked it upward, peeling it off inside-out. His shorts and underwear went next, and then they tripped him down onto the edge of the blanket-covered area to yank off his sneakers.

Chas had thoughtfully brought up a bucket of water and some soap, and while Salim and Martin got their clothes off, he and Monica shoved the helpless teenager flat on his back. A more-or-less clean handkerchief was made to serve as a washcloth.

"Now," said Chas, soaping up the cloth, "we attend to some basic matters of sanitation."

"Yeah," put in Monica, smiling down at their victim. "You just had your thing up inside Martin's you-know-what, so we gotta wash you." She dabbled her fingers in the bucket. "I ran three pots of water through the coffee maker downstairs. It's cooled off a little, so…"

Ben gasped as Monica grabbed the root of his not-quite-completely erect cock and pointed it toward the roofbeams. Chas slapped the improvised washcloth into her other hand.

"There, there," Monica crooned, "Mama wash." Small, strong fingers worked the soapy cloth up and down, twisting around and around and…

"Ooh!" Monica looked down at him, grinning. "I'd better be careful. You look like you could have an accident!"

"Oh, Jeez!"

Chas looked on speculatively. "When somebody does that to me, I orgasm sometimes."

Monica sniffed. "Well, I don't want him doing that." She dipped the handkerchief in the bucket and wrung it out a little before using it to rinse away the soap. "We're supposed to get him cleaned up, not make things even more messy."

She had to go back to the bucket a number of times before she was satisfied that all the soap had been gotten off. Ben's sparse pubic thatch was matted and glistening, and the edge of the blanket underneath him was soaked.

"There," she said. She plunked the handkerchief back into the bucket and put her wet hand on Ben's belly. "Let's just see what it tastes like."

Bending over, Monica took the head of Ben's dick into her mouth and suckled appreciatively. She'd been playing sex-games with her friends since Kindergarten, but this was the first almost-grown-up penis she'd ever had a chance to do this to.

"Okay!" she said after half a minute or so. "Soap's all gone." She licked her lips as she smiled down at the red-faced teenager. "You don't really taste much different than Chas does. You're a whole lot bigger, though."

"Hey!" Salim shook a forefinger at the sanitation detail. "This is supposed to be a punishment, not a reward."

Monica stuck out her tongue in reply.

"There's no reason we shouldn't enjoy ourselves," Chas said. He smiled as he reached down and took Ben's shaft out of Monica's hand. "He's almost as big around as my Uncle Jason." A gentle squeeze, a total-body shudder of pleasure on the part of his victim, and Chas laughed.

"He even jumps the way Uncle Jason does when I do that."

"Come on," Martin commanded, imperious in his nakedness. "Get him over here, in the middle."

Ben co-operated confusedly as the kids shoved him into place and pinned him flat on his back again. Martin sat on his chest and Monica knelt spraddle-legged above to cushion his head on her belly. The other boys held his arms outstretched, sticking their stiff little peckers into his hands.

"Before you get raped," said Martin, "you've gotta suck me off."

"And me!" said Salim at his right.

"And me!" Chas shoved his pointy little sex hard against the palm of Ben's left hand.

"Me, too," said Monica softly, caressing his cheeks. She smiled down at him. "I've got a real little one. I bet you didn't know that, did you?"

"Move away, Monnie," Martin ordered. He grabbed Ben's shorts and tee-shirt and wadded them under the older boy's head while Monica shifted herself out of the way. Martin's little dick bumped the underside of Ben's chin as he leaned over, and the teenager was utterly unsurprised when his erstwhile victim presented his pulsant two-and-a-half-inch [6½ cm] stinger before Ben's slightly-parted lips.

"Okay. You ever sucked dick before?"

Ben shook his head a little, and Martin smiled in satisfaction. "All right! I get to be your first." With a wriggle of his hips, the youngster efficiently tucked his hairless prod into the older boy's mouth.

"Watch your teeth," he said. "Get it wet with your saliva – yeah, use your tongue! – and start sucking, but do it gently… Ooh, that's nice! More with your tongue, underneath – oh yeah!"

Martin shivered with delight, both hands on Ben's head as he moved his pelvis in gentle reciprocation. He decided that he liked the feel of the skull fuzz beneath his fingertips, and thought about getting his own hair cut that way. It must be really cool in hot weather…

Then suddenly Ben gasped, his whole body stiffening beneath Martin's. The puzzled little boy looked to one side and then the other, seeing nothing but Salim's serious expression (and Chas' soft smile of delight) as they moved themselves up and down, each enjoying one of Ben's sweaty, accommodating hands.

When he looked over his shoulder, though…

"Monica!"

She was unable to reply, of course, her mouth once again full of Ben Monahan. Her head bobbed slowly up and down, and she groaned her own pleasure as she felt the hapless teenager respond like a remote-controlled toy car with a set of fresh batteries. This was so cool!

She lifted her head. "I bet he'll suck you better if I show him some tricks while he's working on you."

Martin's brow wrinkled in puzzlement. "Do you really think so?"

"Sure!" She stretched the loose skin all the way back as she bent down to suckle upon the head of Ben's cock, and when she tonguetip-teased the now-tightened little web of skin just underneath, Martin felt the prisoner's body surge upwards, almost completely off the blanket.

"Wow!" He looked down, half-afraid that Ben might bite him. "Do that again."

Another spasm of pleasure, accompanied by a groan of despair, and it struck Martin's imagination that this was turning a genuine, honest-to-Hannibal-Lecter torture session.

"No more of that! Monnie, be careful, okay?" Cradling the older boy's head in his hands, he looked down into Ben's eyes, reading the shame and the lust in them. "You know how to do it, right?"

Ben gave a little nod.

"Good!" Martin leaned forward and began to work his penis in and out of Ben's mouth. "D-do it, now – yeah, like that! Oh, yeah! Suck me! Suck it good! Oh-h-h, so gr-r-eat! It's, it's, it's… Oh, Jeez!"

Further comment was limited to rhythmic moans of delight as Martin pumped his pubic eminence with increasing frequency and vigor against Ben Monahan's upper lip, his little pecker pulsing away between the older boy's tongue and the roof of Ben's mouth in wave after wave of spermless prepubescent orgasm.

Falling back, weak and pleasantly exhausted, Martin let Salim roll him off Ben's body. The black boy took his friend's place with alacrity – and with five full inches [12½ cm] of stiff brown sex as thick as a big man's thumb.

"I'm not gonna go easy on you, understand?"

Ben nodded. His right hand – now free – found the warm roundness of Salim's little rear and caressed it lovingly as the boy brought his dick up to the teenager's mouth.

"Yeah, good! I'm gonna hump you! Get ready! Ooh! Ah! Oh, boy!"

Salim's efforts were short-lived but enthusiastic; watching Martin – while working his pecker against and within Ben's accommodating hand – had trimmed his fuse pretty tightly, and you couldn't really accuse him of prematurity.

"My turn!" squeaked Monica, raising her head. "My turn next!"

Groaning, Salim climbed out of the saddle, his saliva-wet little dick still quivering with excitement. Ever the gentleman, Chas surrendered Ben's left hand so that Monica could be properly supported as she climbed on top of their prisoner.

"See here?" She spread milk-pale labia with her fingertips to reveal the clitoral glans peeping out from beneath a tiny fold of skin, a glistening pink button no bigger than a kernel of shoepeg corn.

"This is my dick." She moved forward the necessary distance to give Ben a taste. "You can't really suck it much, but – oh, yeah! Use your tongue, like that!" She arched her neck back, her eyes closed in perfect bliss.

Ben jumped a little when Chas climbed over his leg to seize the teenager's shaft and guide the head of it into his mouth. The elegant little third grader had turned his green ballcap front-to-back and began to demonstrate the technique he had once used to sustain his Uncle Jason on the verge of eruption for the duration of a whole old Star Trek episode, teaser to trailer.

Whimpering in delight, Monica ground her middle against Ben's face, the muscles of her bottom rippling and clenching under his fingertips. She held his head with both hands as she worked herself against him, her expression gone serious as death.

On the other side of the blanket-covered area, Martin lay back in Salim's arms, watching.

"Jeez!" he breathed.

"Yeah!" said Salim. Chas' pale white bottom arched upward between their prisoner's legs, his well-tanned back so thickly covered with freckles that he looked like a Newcomer from that old TV show Alien Nation. He worked with shuteyed concentration upon the big teenage penis, nibbling one side of the shaft and then the other, as if he were eating corn-on-the-cob.

Monica, meanwhile, was entering the final stage of her build-to-orgasm, grunting softly but with increasing desperation as she fought to hold off her climax – but failed. Squealing with anguish, she gave up her control and slammed her virgin vulva against Ben's mouth again and again, the pleasure almost too great for her to bear…

And then it left her, sweaty and exhausted, sagging forward, Ben's hands sliding up along her ribs to steady her, bringing her back down to sit on his chest.

She kissed him on his forehead and smiled down at him. "You do that so nice," she said. "It's a shame you've got to get raped today."

"Not before he sucks me off," put in Chas. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and crawled upward, planting a kiss in the small of Monica's back before giving her a gentle shove to let her know that she was in the way.

"Come on, Monnie!"

She grinned at him and slipped to one side. "Be careful, Chas! I think I wore all the rough stuff off his tongue!"

Smaller even than Monica, Chas was the youngest of the gang. He was also the most enterprising and articulate of the bunch, and by far the most intellectually mature. Hazel-eyed and sunburnt, he was delicate in appearance and dainty in his demeanor, and he moved up the length of Ben's body in the reptilian slither of a sexual predator who has found the perfect victim.

His ballcap still bass-ackwards, he lay atop the teenager and smiled down into Ben's eyes.

"Hi," he said, breathing into Ben's nostrils.

"H-hi." Ben reached up to hold the boy's shoulders, steadying him.

"You're mine, now. Until Henry comes." He grinned. "And you have to do everything I want, understand?"

Ben nodded.

"Okay." Chas bent lower, his eyes locked on the teenager. "For starters," he said, "you've got to kiss me. On the lips…"

Martin groaned as he watched Chas press his mouth down upon that of the big teenager. "E-ew, gross!"

"Yuck!" said Salim in agreement. Chas had been a real 'kissing bug' ever since they had all been little, which was part of the reason why Monica liked to hang around with him so much. She liked to kiss, too.

"Mmmm…" Chas broke contact. "Nice!" He humped his pointy little pecker against Ben's smooth belly. "Now you've got to use your tongue, like this…"

He struck again, and Ben's eyes widened in astonishment. His hands slid down to grab his molester's little bottom cheeks, whimpering as Chas locked his ankles tightly to trap Ben's prong between a pair of wiry-muscled legs.

"Hello?" A bespectacled, curly-haired head poked up from the ladder that led down to the main floor of the barn below. "Is there anybody up here? Oh, there you are."

He smiled and climbed up the rest of the way, dressed in a sports shirt and baggy slacks. "Hi, Chas."

The boy twisted himself halfway around, grinning up at the tall, rangy young man. "Hi, Henry! This is Ben–" he looked down at the prisoner "–Monahan?"

The teenager nodded.

"Ben Monahan," Chas continued. "He's here to join the Fencepost Club."

Henry reached over to offer his hand. "Pleased to meet you. New in town?"

With Chas still atop him, Ben shook hands. "Y-yeah."

"Hope you like it here. You seem to have hit it off with the little guys." He kicked off his shoes and began unbuttoning his shirt, chuckling a little. "Chas," he said, "you've got to stop leaving messages on my voicemail about 'fixing a fencepost at Charlie Green's barn.' Mr. Scarborough thinks I'm doing carpentry on the side."

The kids laughed.

Then Henry dropped his pants and pulled down his briefs. He was muscled the way an ice hockey player might be muscled, with strong calves and thighs. The breadth of his chest wasn't much to speak of, nor did his arms look particularly powerful, but it was all perfect in its relationship to the cock rising up in response to the scene before which he had unveiled it.

"Come on, Chas, slide off." Henry stepped onto the blankets. "Let me see what we've got here."

Hands on hips, Henry Hathaway looked down on Ben Monahan. "Hm. Fourteen or fifteen?"

"F-f…"

"He's fourteen, Henry." Monica beamed at him. "And he sucked me off really nice just a couple of minutes ago."

"Oh? You like girls?"

"No," Martin interjected. "He likes boys. Right, Ben?"

"Uh, g-girls are okay…" Ben glanced at Monica.

She smiled and nodded. "But you like boys better, right? I mean, you liked Martin so much that you–"

"Yeah, I like boys!" Ben looked up at Henry the Horse and swallowed hard. "I like boys a lot."

Henry puzzled at the situation a little, but nothing looked too out-of-joint. None of the younger kids were old enough to join the Fencepost Club, but all four of them had been to meetings, watching older boys renew their memberships. He was especially looking forward to the day that Chas turned ten and met the terms of eligibility Henry had established almost four years earlier.

This new guy, however, was obviously Fencepost Club material. Sleek without being overmuscled, Ben looked like a runner or a bicyclist, his five-inch-[12½ cm] long dick sticking up against a sparse thatch of silky pubic hair – and that was the only hair on his body. Henry knelt down on the blanket beside the boy and caressed Ben's chest, feeling the nipples go taut beneath his palm.

There was a look of astonishment in Ben's eyes, and Henry was vain enough to take some pride in the way the sight of his endowment had that effect on most of the boys he was going to fuck. He felt his cock stiffen harder, and smiled when Ben gasped in amazement as it bounced a little in the warm summer air.

"Who wants to get me ready for Ben?"

"Me!" yelled Chas, and Monica rang out with: "Me, too!"

Henry chuckled and sat back on his heels, spreading his knees a bit. "You first, Chas. You know what I like."

Chas knelt in front of Henry, making sure that Ben could see how truly enormous Henry's cock really was. It was almost completely erect, the head of it the size of a toddler's fist, pulsant with power. With both hands on the middle of the long, thick shaft, Chas mouthed the dusky dome of flesh with hungry deliberation, tilting and turning his head from side to side to spread his saliva evenly from crown to tip, top and bottom.

Then Chas carefully took into his mouth as much of it as he could, his lips stretching wide around the rolled ridge of the corona, his tonguetip exploring the vertical slit through which Henry's sperm had flowed into dozens of little-boy bottoms over the years. His head moved slowly and slightly, round and round, and he moaned his pleasure at the taste of it.

"Monica?" Henry beckoned. "Would you do the shaft, please?"

Her eyes on Chas, her brows knit in critical assessment of the job he was doing, Monica nodded. She knelt beside Henry and bent forward, her head fitting easily into the considerable space between Chas' shuteyed face and Henry's belly.

Monica had been present at a couple of previous Fencepost Club sessions, and each time she'd watched a pair of older guys get Henry ready to Fencepost a boy. She knew what to do, but she was still amazed at how long and thick the trunk of Henry's penis was.

"Wow!" she breathed, licking her lips. "I hope I've got enough saliva for this!"

Then she pressed her open mouth against the flattened top and rounded right side of the huge staff, tasting loose skin over hard flesh and working her tongue upon it. Up and down she went, moving her mouth over it from base to neck, bumping her nose against Chas' cheek, then disengaging to scurry around Henry and repeat the job on the opposite side, leaving the whole of the big shaft glistening with her moisture.

"There!" she said, wiping her mouth with one hand. "All ready!"

"Right," said Henry. "Chas? Chas, it's time." Gently, he took the little boy's head in his hands and pulled himself out of the nine-year-old's hungry young mouth.

"That was very nice, Chas. Someday…"

Chas smiled. "Someday soon?"

Henry bent down and kissed Chas on the nose. "Someday very soon, I hope." He looked up at Martin. "Could you get me that little container in the pocket of my slacks, please?"

"Sure, Henry." Martin rummaged around a little and came up with a small plastic medicine bottle. He handed it to Henry, grinning down at Ben with a 'you're-gonna-get-it-now!' look in his eyes.

The young teen lay there on the blankets as if all the strength had gone out of his body, his eyes darting from Henry's face to the huge, salivawet mass of hard cock jutting out from the base of the older boy's belly. Without thinking, he drew his knees up and spread his legs apart as Henry moved into the space between them.

"You're a pretty good-looking kid," said Henry affably, crouching over top of him. "How come I haven't seen you around here before?"

"M-my mom and me just moved here," Ben said. He shuddered as Henry's cool, wet cock came down against his own. Henry's hands slid under Ben's back and each took one of the boy's shoulders into its grasp. The head of Henry's cock pushed into Ben's belly halfway between his navel and his breastbone, and Ben suddenly felt so young and so helpless that he wanted to cry.

Henry's face was six inches [15 cm] above his own. "Are you gonna, uh, k-kiss me?" he asked.

Henry thought for a moment, then nodded. He bent lower and put his mouth to Ben's, working his tongue past the younger boy's teeth to invade and explore.

Ben's hands went up to hold Henry's shoulders, his knees and hips flexing further so that he could cradle Henry's body on top of his own. The younger kids watched in silent astonishment as the older boys made love, Chas nodding his approval and Martin taking mental notes of techniques he wanted to incorporate in his next couple of nights with Kenny.

Fenceposting sessions were usually raucous, ribald events, with all and sundry poking fun at the nervous youngster fated to suffer impalement, but Henry was basically a tenderhearted soul, and without anyone but the little guys looking on he knew that he could comfort Ben as much as the scared youngster needed.

At length, Henry broke the kiss and rose up a little, reaching for the medicine bottle and popping the lid off with his thumb. He dug out a fingerfull of goop – his own special mixture of antiseptic ointment and benzocaine – and worked it around and around against the pink and puckered opening between Ben's bottom cheeks.

"Hm! Nice and tight. Mind if I open you up a little?"

Pale with fear, Ben shook his head, and then he winced as Henry's finger slipped up inside him, massaging him gently but with confident strength for a few moments before Henry withdrew to seek the container of lubricant again and return with both index and middle fingers coated with ointment.

"T-two?"

"Of course," Henry said.

"Oh, Jeez!" Ben squealed, jumping as the paired fingers popped into his anus and Henry began working them all the way up inside his bottom, twisting and scissoring them within, stretching him wider and wider while giving the local anesthetic in the ointment time to do it's job.

Henry had established not only a minimum age restriction on membership in the Fencepost Club, but also a requirement that no candidate come to initiation as a stranger to the practice of passive pedication.

This notwithstanding, there had been a number of youngsters who had lied about their experience on the receiving end of what the police like to call 'the full act of sodomy', and Henry had found himself confronted with many a nervous virgin ready to be Fenceposted but unwilling to admit that he had never taken another guy's dong up his you-know-what before.

After all, to be Fenceposted was to undergo a ritual test of courage before your peers; to regularly give up the booty to other guys was something else entirely. Even in Shamong Valley there was a small minority of boys who considered the practice unmanly – despite that fact that a substantial number of that minority had not only undergone initiation into the Club but went on to maintain their membership with a conscientiousness the Knights of Columbus couldn't match.

This being the case, Henry was always ready to adjust the routine of the Fenceposting ceremony to better suit the unaccustomed initiate. The antiseptic ointment was a concession to the possibility of injury; the addition of the benzocaine was inspired by an episode in a battered old novel Henry had discovered among the books in Harvey's Emporium.

The digital dilation was both pleasurable as foreplay and useful as preparation. Sometimes he accompanied it with a touch of fellatio, but he realized from the look on Ben's face that the young'uns had teased the boy to the point at which the imposition of further stimulation would be counterproductive.

Keeping his left hand firmly planted on Ben's belly, Henry spread his fingers gently and rhythmically, twisting his wrist back and forth, until he judged the boy to be sufficiently open (and adequately medicated) to receive him.

"All right," he said, withdrawing his fingers from Ben's bottom. Monica (ever fastidious) handed him the wrung-out handkerchief with which she had earlier washed the prisoner's penis, and Henry wiped the residue of the special lubricant from his hand.

Ben looked up at Henry, sweaty and pale. The saliva with which Chas and Monica had so lovingly anointed Henry's cock had long since dried, and Henry felt it appropriate to have it re-moistened before initiating the youngster. He glanced at the little ones, knowing that they'd be glad to repeat their earlier service, but he felt it was only appropriate to let Ben have the honor.

Kneeling to straddle the teenager's chest, he took Ben's head in his hands and brought it up a little. He smiled when Ben's fingers found the flanks of the big shaft and drew it down to his mouth.

"Ah, that's nice! Careful with your teeth, Ben! Just because it's big, don't think it isn't sensitive. Get it all nice and wet for me…"

He was barely able to unplug, surprised at his own response. Normally the very picture of restraint, Henry felt something hammer in his chest as he looked down at this slender, scared little freshman.

Shaking his head as if to clear it, he shifted back into place between Ben's legs, shoving the boy's knees up and splaying them apart. Now he was in control of himself again, ready – he thought – to do what he'd been doing regularly for the past three years: fucking a willing young boy.

He settled the head of his long, thick ram against Ben's almost-numb little pucker and let the pressure build, the boy's eyes going wide with fear as he felt the blunt mass catch underneath the muscle that ran transversely across his perineum between his anus and the base of his own stiff and quivering young cock.

"It's, it's going in me!" he gasped, his arms limp on either side of his body. "It's – ah! Ah! It's in! Oh, Jeez, it's in!"

Henry felt small hands slide into the space between Ben's body and his own to find the shaft of his penis. On the left he saw Martin's dark blonde hair and serious expression; on the right there was Monica, equally intent. They steadied him instinctively, helping him to feed his cock down into Ben's bottom, somehow sanctifying this connection with the sweet sexiness of their presence.

Despite the local anesthetic, Ben couldn't help writhing in pain, twisting slowly and deliberately in Henry's hands. Tears streamed down his cheeks and with each gentle thrust of the giant cock he felt it going deeper and deeper into his body.

Martin was crying, too, for some reason, looking down at Ben's face as he felt Henry's huge sex advance. He glanced at the place where the thick shaft was spreading Ben open and his face went pale.

"I didn't want it to hurt him so much!" He turned to look into Ben's eyes. "I didn't mean for it to be like this! I'll make him stop it! I'll make him take it out! Henry! Please–!"

"No!" groaned Ben. "Let him finish it! Let him!"

"But he's hurting you so much!" Martin felt his fingers bump up against Ben's bottom, and he pulled them away as if burnt. "You didn't hurt me that much." He grabbed Ben's hand and raised it to his lips, kissing the back of it. "You don't have to get hurt like this! I won't tell anybody! I promise!"

Ben's head arched slowly back against the blankets. Henry looked down in confusion, reading the shame and distress in the eyes of Monica and Salim. Chas' expression was one of dreamy contentment, his stiff little pecker quivering with every beat of his heart as he watched.

"Was this some kind of set-up?" He squeezed Ben's shoulders gently. "Did these little monsters trick you into this?"

"Yes!" Ben sobbed. "But don't stop! Please don't stop!" His eyes caught Henry's. "If you stop, I'm gonna die! Finish me! Please!"

Henry ducked his head to check Ben's cock, just in time to see a drop of viscid clear fluid drop into a puddle of preorgasmic secretions just below Ben's belly-button.

"Okay, little guy." He looked down into Ben's eyes. "I'm going to fuck you all the way. Martin, give him some help."

The boy nodded, sliding his strong little hand between Henry's belly and Ben's to seize the sex with which he'd been raped only a few hours before, feeling Ben shudder alarmingly as soon as he closed his fingers around it.

"Oh, jeez!" Martin moaned, looking up at Henry. "He's almost about to pop!"

"Well," said Henry through grit teeth, "so am I, kid! Get ready!"

He backed off a little and then drove himself downward slowly and inexorably until the full length – and diameter – of his cock was contained within the slender young body beneath him, striking bottom just as Ben gave up the struggle for containment.

Ben screamed once and then surrendered completely to the most intense orgasm he'd ever experienced in his life, flooding Martin's hand and the space between his own belly and Henry's with the same kind of rich, aromatic liquor of lust that Henry was spilling with every short, sharp, ecstatic thrust deep within Ben's uptilted young ass.

"Jeez, I'm sorry, little guy." Henry cradled Ben against him, heedless of the semen cooling and going liquid on their bodies. His detumescent dick was soft and slippery in Ben's gently-squeezing hand.

"It wasn't your fault." The younger boy looked over at Martin. "And it wasn't yours, either. I guess I got what I deserved."

"I'm still sorry," Martin said. "And just to prove it, I'm gonna let you fuck me whenever you want from now own."

Salim opened his mouth as if to say something, but thought better of it. Monica nodded approvingly, and Chas reached over to tickle her. Giggling, she shoved him over onto his back and dropped down onto his legs to take Chas' still-unsucked little penis into her mouth.

Martin grinned at the supremely satisfied expression on Chas' face and then turned back to Ben.

"All you have to do is make sure that my big brother doesn't find out about it." He looked down at his stiff little pecker, twanged it gently, and then smiled.

"And you'd just better remember to ask first, okay?"

Ben Monahan had learned his lesson about limits and penalties, Shamong Valley-style. He nodded his head against Henry's shoulder and drifted off to sleep in the warm, dusty summer air, the biggest cock in the Valley gone cool and soft in his hand.

The last sounds he remembered were Chas Preston's squeals of pleasure as Monica finished teasing her playmate all the way to orgasm.

The End