Cosmo

Diary of a Shota Boy

Chapters 12-16

I was lying in bed with Simon-Peter, having just completed another lesson in boysex with him. I was concentrating on the rudiments of cocksucking, at which Simon-Peter seemed infinitely adept. I taught him the best sucking and licking techniques, and the most conducive use of tongues and teeth. Teeth were very important in cocksucking. They could make all the difference. Used wrongly, the sucker could injure the suckee, or at the very least cause discomfort. Used correctly, they could add to the pleasure and enhance the sensation beyond belief. Anyhow, I had brought him off twice, with his little appendage clamped between my lips and tongue, and felt his stubby little dick pulse madly in my mouth, both times making him squirm and squeal with pleasure. It was so erotic when he squealed, almost as though he was vocalizing his disbelief at how good it was. Simon-Peter had the right idea. He loved having his little dick sucked. And I loved sucking it. But more than that, he was getting very proficient at cocksucking himself. When I finally sank my stiffie into his hot, wet little mouth, his little rosebud lips pursed in an expectant and inviting little pout, I knew I wasn't going to last long. His sweet head was wrapped around my hairless dick and I just knew I had to cum inside there. It was so slimy and warm in his mouth, and I could feel the wetness of his lips around the base of my dick and on my hairless little balls. I fucked his pretty face real good, eventually cumming mutedly into his tiny mouth. The first time he did it, I was amazed that I didn't have to instruct him. As I squirted into him, deep into the back of his mouth, he gulped my kidspunk straight down, swallowing the evidence direct from the source. And then, he let my stiffie fall from his lips and drew back, even licking his lips, and looked up at me enquiringly as if to ask "How did I do?" What a dirty little spunkboy he was. So eager, so dedicated, so obliging. Fuck, he was good.

As we came down from our exertions, both our little dicks now deflating in the aftermath of our sex games, we laid there on my bed, cuddling up to each other. His tiny body lay naked next to me, pulsing with little breaths. I was on my side, half thrown across him, with the wetness from the tip of my todger leaving a silvery little trail on his slender thigh, where the residue of my kidspunk had leaked from the tip of my softening dick.

We were both about to fall asleep, when suddenly the whole room was rocked by a loud explosion somewhere in another part of the building. A deafening thud shocked us from our reverie and everything moved, as though the entire building had been picked up and thrown down by some angry, capricious giant, tossing us a couple of feet into the air. We could hear the sound of breaking glass and wood splintering. White dust floated down from the ceiling. We clung to each other like scared rabbits, shocked and confused. There was a lot of screaming emanating from outside. The lights went out and then I don't remember exactly what happened next.

In the aftermath of the explosion, Guus assembled us all hastily downstairs in the Club. I took Simon-Peter's little hand and kept him very close to me. We had just about managed to throw on some clothes and went downstairs in the darkness, groping around blindly as we made our way to the basement. Guus had a contingency plan for this kind of eventuality, and he seemed to go into this strange autopilot mode where he was totally in charge, yet emotionally neutral. It was odd. Guus was usually so highly strung and emotional. Guus comforted us all, and went around the room stroking and patting the other boys, murmuring words of reassurance and handing out drinks and blankets. It was reassuring to see him so firmly in control. He was a good guy to have around in an emergency – always calm, always clear headed and always totally in control. We were all covered in ash and dust. Our faces were caked in white powder like some horribly grotesque facepaint which whitened out our features so that no one was recognizable. Some of the other boys were looking dazed and disorientated. Some were yammering away pointlessly, clearly shaken by the explosion. Yet others seemed strangely calm and unperturbed. They were in shock, of course. All of us were looking a little disheveled, but thankfully no one had any serious injuries. Meanwhile, Guus sent some of his goons to go and investigate the explosion.

It was a car bomb of course. That was how they assassinated people these days. Somehow news had got out that UNVERO personnel were staying at the hotel, and so the new wing of the hotel was targeted. The VLA claimed responsibility for the bombing. They killed several high ranking UNVERO officers. I knew it was very serious when Guus came to me personally and took me aside with a grave expression on his face. He himself looked ashen-faced and glassy, clearly shaken by the news. Simon-Peter's dad had been killed in the bombing. Guus gave me very strict instructions to stay with Simon-Peter and not say anything until it was confirmed. I could see even Guus had trouble keeping his composure. After all, Simon-Peter's dad had been a personal friend of his. Later that day, we heard it on the news. Photos and library video footage of Simon-Peter's dad was being looped continuously on the satellite news broadcasts. I hadn't realized he was such a senior officer – a Major General, no less. I made sure Simon-Peter was kept away from it. We decided it was better for him to hear it from me.

I will never forget Simon Peter's reaction when I told him his father was dead. I took him back to my room, which was thankfully still intact, and we sat down on the edge of my bed. I put an arm around him and gently explained what had happened. It was almost too much for his immature little mind to comprehend. His expression went through several phases, at first incredulity, then shock, followed by a tearful and howling lament. I wrapped my arms around his head and tried to comfort him as best I could. He cried into my chest.

"Shh, don't cry little one," I whispered, trying to calm him.

His initial cries receded into those shuddering little sobs that were so symptomatic of little boys, his diminutive body rocked violently with his grief. Then, when his childish sobs began to peter out, he was quieted for a moment, his tears stemmed, and he was a little more composed. After the initial shock, it did not surprise me that his first thoughts were for himself.

"What's going to happen to me now?" he asked, looking up at me through his tears, grinding his little fists into his eyes in that inimitable way that all little boys have.

"Don't worry," I said, reassuring him, "I'll look after you."

Then he stopped rubbing his eyes, trying desperately to smile.

"Weally? I can stay with you?"

"Of course you can," I replied, "You're my friend."

Then he entered a renewed fit of crying, as though this sudden and dramatic turn of events was too much for him to assimilate. The poor boy could almost not encompass the enormity of it all. He sobbed away for a while longer, and I just held him close, nuzzling his pretty face and soothing him with kisses.

I waited for his grief to ebb away, and when he was calm again, he sat forlornly on the bed looking quite dejected. He was silent for a while, then he brightened, apparently struck by a new thought.

"Cloud?"

"Yes, little one?"

"Can I be a shota boy, like you?"

That made me smile. I was flattered.

"Of course you can," I said, "We can be shota boys together."

It was funny, I thought, that he should be so quick in latching onto the idea. It was also very brave of him. He was of course distraught, but he was practical too. So that was how I volunteered to take responsibility for Simon-Peter. It seemed only right that I should. I owed that to his father at least. After all, Simon-Peter was in my room being sexualized and corrupted by me. But I also realized afterwards, with shockingly profound hindsight, that I had unwittingly saved Simon-Peter's life. It had been a stroke of fortune, for had he not been with me, Simon-Peter would have been killed too.

Later, when the initial reverberations of the bombing had begun to settle, we were brave enough to join Guus and the other boys in the common room. The big plasma TV was tuned to the satellite news broadcasts, and the other boys were variously lounging on the sofas and beanbags with concerned frowns, every now and then exchanging alarmed stares with each other. The rolling news broadcasts were all about the bombing and the pundits were speculating on its consequences and possible repercussions. The consensus was that it marked a resurgence in the struggle for Verolino. All the warring factions that had been kept at bay for so long were now on the verge of a renewed campaign. They had mustered their reserves and were now poised to make one final push to capture Verolino. The UN peacekeeping mission was in the balance. That evening, there was a hastily convened session of the UN Security Council, to debate the implications of the bombing. They took the decision that UN personnel had to be their priority, and that was when they decided that UNVERO would be withdrawn. They could no longer enforce the Security Council Resolution. The safe-haven of Verolino was now untenable. The UN renounced its mandate, and they had taken the decision to pull out. Finally, as we had feared, the UN were going to abandon us. That car bomb proved to be the last straw. The UN mission in Verolino had failed. Thus they were going to leave a vacuum – Verolino would be up for the taking and we knew that when the UN had gone, the rebels would be upon us within hours, no doubt eager to claim the prize, or at least snatch whatever they could of it, just as Ciggy had prophesied.

That night, from the window of my room, I looked out as Simon-Peter slept on my bed. Poor boy. It had been a tumultuous and traumatic day for him. His grief had exhausted him. From outside, the sounds of the hastily assembled troops of UNVERO and their equipment echoed into the night. It was the same familiar sounds of orders being barked out, heavy boots tramping, rifles clattering, huge diesel engines being powered up, lifting gear whirring and chains crunching. UNVERO were leaving, and it seemed that they had to withdraw so fast they were going to leave most of their equipment abandoned in the streets. They were going to leave the UN garrison in Verolino deserted.

Whilst I was observing all this, I was secretly planning my escape. My priority was now to make my way to the airfield to rendezvous with Ciggy, just as I had promised. Only I hadn't envisaged that Simon-Peter would be part of that plan. But I really had no choice other than to take him with me. That night, I had vowed that we would make our escape under cover of darkness. There was only one thing to do now. I would take Simon-Peter and we would hide out near the airfield until tomorrow. By then, UNVERO would be gone and the last transporter would leave at nightfall. We just had to reach the airfield before it fell to the rebels, and hope that there was room on that transporter for both of us.

As Simon-Peter slept, I gathered up my stuff. It was a pity I could not take most of it with me. But I did squeeze as many clothes as I could into a little backpack, and took great care to empty my cash tin from the bookshelf, stuffing the rolls of notes in with my clothes. That was all the dosh I had, and I figured we were going to need it.

Reluctantly, and with a heavy heart, I woke up Simon-Peter. He was dazed and sleepy and slightly incoherent, but I told him we had to go. Luckily, he put himself totally in my care and didn't ask too many questions. That was what I liked about Simon-Peter – he trusted me and was very compliant. He asked to do one thing before we left – and this time it was my turn to trust him. He went back to the wrecked room in which his father was killed, to salvage what he could of his things. I thought that was very brave of him. When he came back, all he had was a handful of clothes crammed into a little school backpack, and he was clutching a stuffed bear. The rather sorry-looking teddy bear had obviously seen better days and was dangling upside down by one of his stubby legs, with a quite inane expression that was permanently set in a type of wry smile.

"What's that?" I asked him.

Simon-Peter held up the bear.

"This is Howard," he said, "My daddy gave him to me."

"Oh," I replied, "We'd better bring Howard with us then."

And so, with Howard the bear in his hand, and his little backpack secured to his diminutive shoulders, Simon-Peter and I silently crept downstairs to the back door and out through the parking lot. My overriding emotion was that our lives were now in transition. Gone was the cosseted world of The Saxon Club, where we were relatively protected and where Guus provided everything for us. We were on our own now. We would have to survive on our own wits from now on. But even as we stepped out into the unknown, I couldn't help feeling a stab of sentimentality at what we were leaving behind. The Saxon Club had been my home for the past two years. It was where all my friends were and had been my life and work, the center of nearly everything I knew. I was sorry to have to leave it all behind, especially slipping out like this without the chance to say goodbye to everybody. But I knew we had to. I knew I was going to miss this place – Guus and Chip and of course Ten. How I would miss Ten! I only hoped that Guus and the other boys would all find their own way out in time.

* * * * * *

As it turned out, our flight was short-lived. We had not gone very far when we ran into the militia. We were out in the deserted streets of Verolino, and already I had let us both down by my own kackminded stupidity. I thought we could rely on my guile and wisdom, but I guess I just wasn't a street kid. I had no street savvy whatsoever. I should have seen their unmistakable colors fluttering away on the whip antenna of their Toyota pickup truck. I should have known what they stood for, what those colors signified. They were the colors of KAPO – the familiar diagonally bisected colors of black and red – an obvious attempt to emulate the traditional colors of the old anarcho-syndicalists. But they didn't fool anybody. KAPO disguised themselves as ultra-left anarchist communists, when in reality they were just a band of lawless privateers. The KAPO militia were merely opportunist bandits hiding under a flag of political doctrine. In truth, they had no doctrine. They were just a bunch of murdering bastards. I remember thinking that my previous encounter with KAPO was not particularly edifying. Then, they had forcibly fucked me and beat me and discarded me at the roadside like so much soiled meat, unconscious and with an enormous gash in my head. Given their reputation for brutality, I didn't hold out any higher expectations this time around. To paraphrase Wilde, once might be seen as a misfortune, but twice was downright careless. Careless and stupid. So here we were, Simon-Peter and I were now prisoners of KAPO, scared and totally at their mercy. We had been captured, and had our hands tied behind our backs, with our mouths gagged and were sitting on the floor in the back of their open pickup truck, being taken at high speed across open country. The truck bounced about on the rugged terrain, jiggling us around in the back, and with our hands bound it was difficult to hold on, so we simply got thrown around.

In the truck with us were two KAPO militiamen. I thought it was very odd that in all the time we were in the back of the truck, nobody spoke. Of course, Simon-Peter and I were gagged, so we couldn't speak, but even the two KAPOs didn't say a word – neither to us nor to each other. It was very unnerving. Sitting next to me was a rather nondescript militiaman dressed in irregular khakis. He had a thick black beard and a type of turban around his head. I think he fancied himself as some kind of pseudo-tribesman. Across his lap was a rather battered looking Kalashnikov. Simon-Peter was opposite me, the gag over his little mouth, looking plaintively at me with real fear in his eyes. I felt so sorry for him. It was my fault we were in this situation. It was difficult to even smile some reassurance at him. Next to him sat a young KAPO boy who looked about the same age as me, and who, for some strange reason, had a handkerchief tied over his nose and mouth, in the customary paramilitary way. He was wearing a dirty gray hoodie with the hood up, so that his head was completely shrouded and only his eyes were visible. But they were beautiful eyes. He had a rather pronounced kink in each eyebrow, which was extremely sexy, and his eyes were almond-shaped and very dark and mysterious. Just from his eyes I knew he was a good looking boy, and those eyes glinted like two little gems of lignite all the time we were in the back of the pickup truck. He watched me intently the whole time, with an almost sycophantic stare. I wondered if he was simply trying to freak me out or whether he just fancied me. He was small in stature, smaller than me, and he was wearing enormous boots that made his feet look almost too big for his body. He held his Kalashnikov next to him, upended on its stock, the barrel pointing skywards. It looked big and unwieldy next to his diminutive frame. The gun looked almost as big as him. I couldn't help wondering if he had ever used it. In fact, as we all got thrown around in the back of the pickup truck, I wondered how such a young boy ever got involved with KAPO and what he was doing consorting with these hardened militiamen. I wondered why he was out here fighting for a political cause, enmeshed in all the politics and guerilla warfare, when he should really have been at home compulsively pulling his pud and playing football with his mates. Okay, I know my lifestyle was somewhat unconventional for a 12 year old boy, but at least I had fun and loved what I was doing. This KAPO boy seemed a little sad. I couldn't imagine that this was what he really wanted. I dunno, but I kinda felt sorry for him.

As the pickup truck sped through the open countryside, it finally joined a dirt road which passed through a wooded area and finally up onto an asphalt road. There was a distinct lack of UN personnel on the road. The absence of UNVERO was tangible. Officially, they had not yet withdrawn, but the freedom and impunity with which these KAPO rebels traversed the countryside indicated that UNVERO were as good as gone. I was relieved when the truck slowed down and pulled off the road towards a fenced compound just on the edge of some woods. It was quite a secluded spot, very quiet, and looked almost deserted. I had no idea where we were, though we were evidently still somewhere in Verolino. The gate opened and the truck drove inside, halting by a pair of single story huts. I guessed they were once farmhouses. The bearded man and the boy jumped out, pointing their rifles at us, and herded us out of the truck and into one of the huts.

Inside the rather bare hut was a large writing desk. The floor was bare wooden boards and the walls were whitewashed. It was very basic. Simon-Peter and I were made to stand facing the unoccupied desk, still bound and gagged. Behind the desk, on the wall, was an enormous oil painting of a bespectacled old man with a large nose and a pointed goatee beard. The painting looked old and dark, and the man in it was standing staring regally to one side, one hand resting on his belt, wearing the familiar uniform with the black and red insignia of KAPO. I recognized him of course. It was Boernfusser, the KAPO leader, affectionately nicknamed Boyfucker. I thought that moniker was rather appropriate. The KAPOs were renowned boyfuckers which, by implication, made Boernfusser the biggest boyfucker of them all.

After a short period of silence, we heard a car pull up and voices approaching from outside the hut. The bearded man and the boy stood either side of us, and pointed their rifles at us, evidently to keep us at bay for the imminent stranger. A Captain appeared, in full KAPO uniform this time, with breeches and high boots, and a proper tunic. His uniform was a pale sickly green color and he had a peaked cap that almost hid his eyes. He took his seat at the desk and placed his cap carefully at the side, revealing a shiny bald head. Then he leaned over, surveying us both with a gleam of satisfaction in his eye, as though we were some prized catch or something. Then he gave a very tangible nod to the young boy. The bearded man kept his rifle pointed at us while the boy released our gags. He untied mine first, then Simon-Peter's. We both breathed a long sigh of relief. I tell you, having your mouth gagged for even a short time is very uncomfortable. The boy let our gags fall to the floor and then stepped back, picking up his rifle once again. I started to get some feeling back in my jaw. I wished he would untie our hands too. The thin twine they had used was cutting into my wrists and having my hands behind my back for so long was cutting off the circulation. After much deliberation, the Captain stroked his chin and spoke in a gravely serious tone. The tension was tangible.

"Do you have anything to tell me?" he asked, cryptically.

Simon-Peter and I looked at each other, almost amused by the question.

"No," I said emphatically, with a tone of contempt. It was a stupid question.

"Who are you working for?"

I didn't quite know how to answer that. It was so way off the mark that I couldn't think where to begin.

"Do we look like we're working for anybody?" I replied, with a faint note of ridicule.

He didn't like that. Immediately he gauged my feistiness and looked annoyed.

"Don't get fresh with me!" he shot back, "You were wandering the streets in the middle of the night. Where were you going?"

"Nowhere."

"So you're out in the middle of the night and you expect me to believe that you were just out for a casual stroll?"

"We're lost," I told him, "We're shota boys. Our club was bombed."

The Captain leaned forward across the desk, resting on his elbows. His shiny bald head reflected the harsh light from the one bare bulb that illuminated the room. I detected a spark of fascination in his eyes.

"Shota boys?" he queried, "Really?"

I thought that would grab his attention.

"Yes," I said, "Well, I am. He's just a novice," I explained, jerking a nod at Simon-Peter.

"Young boys have so many uses these days," he mused, almost pleased by that revelation.

And as he said that, he beamed a crooked little smile at the young militia boy who had his rifle pointed at Simon-Peter.

"Don't I know it," I replied, laconically.

"You're not working for the VLA?"

"No," I snapped back, "Sorry to disappoint you."

Another flash of annoyance. Good. I was getting to him. He decided to ignore it and continued with his questioning.

He got up and circled the desk, coming to sit on the edge of it, just in front of us, and he folded his arms, determined to take his time. He was a big man, very tall, well built and portly, and his uniform was very tight on him. Looking at him at close quarters, his complexion appeared rather wearied, with fine lines on his face, and loose, heavy jowls. He was a surly, mean-looking bastard.

"Shota boys eh?" he said, with a note of cynicism.

He looked at Simon-Peter, sitting there with the barrel of the young boy's rifle only inches away from him. Simon-Peter had a look of self-pity in his eyes, like he knew he shouldn't really be here.

"A little young, don't you think?" the Captain said.

I assumed that remark was aimed at me.

"Like I said, he's only a novice," I reiterated.

He got up from sitting on the edge of the desk and leaned towards Simon-Peter, studying his little face very closely.

"Almost too young," the Captain continued, as though thinking aloud.

"Leave him alone!" I said angrily, anxious to divert his interest in Simon-Peter.

There was a flash of malevolence in his eyes as the Captain turned his attention briefly to me, but he decided to ignore my outburst and went back to studying Simon-Peter. He put a big hand under Simon-Peter's chin, clutching his little jaw tightly, and violently jerked his head back so that he was facing up at him.

"Oh no, far too pretty to be left alone," he said, continuing to voice his thoughts, "this little cunt is ripe for splitting wide open."

Then he turned slowly to me.

"I think your little apprentice is ready for a riding lesson."

Simon-Peter looked alarmed. I dared not think about what this man wanted to do. You see, Simon-Peter had never been fucked. He had certainly fucked me, and we had done everything else – but I had never fucked his little butt. It was the next thing on my syllabus. I had reserved the ultimate privilege of taking his little cherry all to myself. I had been saving the best till last. I wanted him to feel the inordinate ecstasy of getting his little cunt rooted hard and deep by a stiff cock – even if it was only my little boycock. But even my little fuckstick was better than some fully grown guy with a monster cock brutally stabbing his little sphincter wide open with his big adult dick, like they did with me. The first time I took anything up my boycunt it had hurt like hell. But then, I never had an experienced teacher. All I had was big mancocks to bust my little ass cherry the first time, and they were hardly what you would call refined in their technique. Those KAPO bastards knew I was a virgin – probably turned them on all the more to know that nothing had been up my boycunt before. They shoved their enormous dicks into me without a care for my wellbeing, and when I screamed and pleaded, they just ignored me. They busted my ass anyway, and I cried all the way through. But they didn't care. On the contrary, my tears seemed to spur them on to fuck me even harder. I bled for days afterwards. That didn't stop them from beating me unconscious afterwards and dumping me at the roadside. That was how I got the gash in my head. No, my first time at the hands of the KAPO militia was not nice. I was determined that it wasn't going to be like that for Simon-Peter. I couldn't let anybody do that him. I just couldn't. I stepped forward in protest and appealed to the Captain, despite the rifles pointed at me.

"Take me," I pleaded, placing myself at his mercy, "He's innocent, just a kid. Take me instead."

I almost threw myself at the Captain, but he stepped back, horrified and annoyed, and the bearded guy stepped forward and forced me to the floor with his rifle butt. I cowered at the Captain's feet under a rain of blows. I squirmed helplessly, my hands still tied so that I couldn't even shield my face from the barrage. Fuck, that hurt! The bearded man was merciless and brutal. And as I squirmed on the floor, I saw Simon-Peter shrink back in horror, turning his little face away as the man repeatedly raised his rifle butt to beat me.

It was strange that even when I was on the floor, assailed by this rain of blows, in the grip of searing pain, I noticed that the young boy was holding back. He didn't join in the beating. I detected a distinct reticence from him, and that was the first sign I had that maybe I had been right about him. Maybe his heart wasn't into all this after all, and deep down he didn't really believe in all this KAPO malarkey.

"Take me instead," I begged, squirming at the captain's feet, still bearing the blows, "I'll do whatever you want. I'll be your cumdump, your bitch boy, your cockslut."

In my desperation, I was reeling off anything I could think of, all the dirty talk that I knew men liked.

"Get off me whoreboy!" the Captain screamed, and kicked me away with his heel.

I rolled backwards, tumbling from the force of his kick, and ended up in a heap in the corner, hitting my elbow and the back of my head against the wall. I froze up in pain, my elbow hurting savagely. The bearded man stood back with his rifle butt still raised, ready to beat me some more. The young boy was standing back a little dispassionately. The Captain was surveying me with a look of disgust.

"What's so special about YOU?" he demanded.

It was a bit of a shot in the dark on my part, as there was no way this man knew anything of my reputation or why my butt was so much in demand. My reputation was legendary amongst UNVERO. It was well known by all the agencies in Verolino, including the Red Cross. It was even known to the black marketers, the drug pushers, privateers and mercenaries. Everyone was into boy ass these days, and mine was so revered it seemed natural for me to offer it as a bargaining tool.

Still in a heap in the corner, I looked up at him, fearful, but still desperately hoping to change his mind, to inspire his interest in me and divert it away from Simon-Peter.

"I'll take your cock real deep. You can ride me hard, you can…"

"Enough!" he screamed, holding up a hand to halt my effusive appeal.

He stood there looking down at me with a scowl, almost peeved at my defiance, and yet seemingly contemplating my proposal.

"You're pretty full of yourself aren't you, whoreboy?"

I stared right back at him defiantly. I was still on the floor, my hands still bound, but I was determined not to be subjugated. I was too angry to let him get the better of me.

"Yeh I am," I replied, vehemently, "and sometimes I'm full of other people too."

He didn't like my smartmouthing. But the impudence of my remark certainly wasn't lost on him. He regarded me with a look of cold cynicism and almost broke into a smile.

"I like your spirit whoreboy."

He seemed to be contemplating my proposal.

"I'm hot and dirty," I went on, "I do everything. They say I'm the best."

"Okay," he said at last, with a quieter tone, "I'll take you. I'll spare your little friend. But your fucking better be as good as your bullshit."

"Thank you," I said, relieved, "I'll make it real good for you."

He turned his attention back to Simon-Peter and reached over to grab a big fistful of his hair. Simon-Peter grimaced in pain and fear. The Captain pulled the back of his head down by his hair, forcing Simon-Peter to look up at him.

"You wanna watch?" he asked, with a malicious grin, "Wanna see what you're missing?"

Simon-Peter was too scared to speak. The Captain let him go.

"Go and sit over there," he said, gesturing to the desk, "And keep quiet while your whoreboy buddy gets his cunt broken by a real man's cock."

Simon-Peter did as he was told. He scurried over and sat in the chair behind the desk, his eyes wide with fear and his hands still bound.

Then the Captain came over and grabbed a fistful of my hair, pulling me up onto my knees. It hurt. He thrust his crotch into my face, pulling my head right onto his groin, and held me there. I could feel that his cock was already stiff in his dress pants.

"See, I'm already hard for you whoreboy," he murmured.

He ground his thick hard-on into my face, even through the fabric of his pants, and I could smell the distinctive odor of unwashed cock. Behind me I could sense the other two had lowered their rifles and were lounging nonchalantly against the bare walls, preparing to enjoy the spectacle.

The Captain pulled me up by my hair, grabbing thick handfuls of it. Fuck that hurt! When I was on my feet he pulled my head back and looked closely into my face. The intensity of the bare light bulb almost hurt my eyes. Then he let me go, almost throwing me back, so that I stumbled a little. That seemed to amuse him. He stepped back to admire me.

"Strip him!" he ordered.

The bearded guy pitched into me with great relish. He loosened my pants and roughly yanked them down to my ankles, then he violently stripped open my shirt by pulling it apart, sending all the buttons popping all over the place. He couldn't take it off, because my hands were still bound, but he carefully peeled it back over my shoulders exposing my chest and tummy. The young boy just watched. His eyes seemed to light up at the sight of my body, like he wished he could have some of it himself. I noticed that he had now lowered his hood and the handkerchief that had previously covered his face was now resting around his neck. I was right about him. He was extremely beautiful. He had thick, black wavy hair and very noble, handsome features, accentuated by those distinctive kinked eyebrows. I couldn't help thinking at this moment that I wished it was him that was about to sex me up. I fancied him a lot more than his brutish Captain.

The bearded guy left me standing in the middle of the room with my pants around my ankles and my stiffie was already sticking out. I couldn't help it. Even the prospect of a forced fuck was enough to get Little Cloud aroused. It was probably going to be more pain than pleasure, but that didn't matter. If there was sex in the offing, Little Cloud was infallible, always at the ready, faithfully standing to attention.

The Captain pushed me over to the desk. I half stumbled and half hopped, my pants still around my ankles, and almost fell over the desk. My face hit the desktop with a thud. My nose stung from the impact, making my eyes water. I shuddered at the feel of the cold surface of the desk against my bare chest and tummy, and the sharp edge dug into my hips. My bare butt was naked and exposed. With my hands still bound behind my back, it was very uncomfortable. I was aware of Simon-Peter sitting very close. I was so sorry that he was going to have to see this.

Behind me, the Captain took off his tunic, so that he was in his shirtsleeves. I clearly remember the jingling of his belt buckle as he undid his dress pants and drew them down to his knees. I twisted my head around just enough to see what he was doing. He stood behind me, massaging his big cock with long, firm strokes. His breathing sounded labored and loud. I didn't know if that was from excitement or just because he was a heavy smoker. Next, I could feel his heavy body as he settled himself above me. He laid on me, his full weight bearing down on me, pinning me hard onto the desk. I could feel his trembling breath on my cheek which smelled strongly of cigarettes. I could feel the hot, solid mass of his heavy adult dick stabbing into my ass crack. He was trying to find my hole, and not doing a very good job of it. I puffed with the effort of bearing his weight and my shoulders and elbows were twisted painfully, pressed behind my back. He stabbed his hard dick into my opening. It didn't go in. His dick was too big. Even though my little star was by now dilated in anticipation, which was a little trick I had learned to help ease the larger dicks into my accommodating little hole. But I was no match for this brute. This guy was big – too big even for my veteran little snatch.

As I lay face down on the desk, in a lot of pain and with my heart thumping in fear, I tried to distract myself. I tried to become detached from what was going on. The Captain stabbed a few times with his dick and I winced beneath him, but it didn't deter him. He kept trying until his dick found purchase and he had forced the head a little way in. I could feel my hole being stretched. It felt like it was being forced wider than ever before, and it was hurting even more urgently. I gasped for breath under his weight. I braced myself as his dick invaded my body. It was inconceivable that it was actually going to go in, but it did. It was hurting more and more as his big dick dug deep into my abdomen.

"That's it," he breathed into my ear, "You like that don't you whoreboy?"

I closed my eyes and concentrated on making my hole relax because that was the only way it didn't hurt so much.

"See how you like this," he went on.

He raised his pelvis off me as far as he could without letting the head of his dick slip out of my hole completely. He held his cock right there, poised at the entrance, held in place by the funnel of my little cunt, and he waited. He took a deep breath, then he put his big hand over my face, covering my nose and mouth, gripping me so hard that I couldn't breathe. Before I had time to protest, he brought his pelvis down with all his might and stabbed his cock into me real hard, spearing all the way up into my hole in one swift thrust. I screamed into his hand, but no sound came out. My hole was hurting savagely and it felt like my whole body had been impaled, like he had ripped my little cunt open. I struggled to get out from under him, but he was too heavy and too strong. His big dick was firmly engulfed inside me and it was embedded deep and thick in my little snatch.

He started thrusting in and out. After the initial penetration, the stinging didn't get any worse. So I didn't struggle anymore. It was easier to lie still and let him use me. I just waited for it to be over.

"Oh yeah!" the Captain moaned, as he worked his thick dick in and out, letting out a loud grunt every time he thrust into me.

He took his hand away from my mouth. I cowered beneath him, totally at his mercy. I had tears in my eyes from the pain.

"Worthless shota boy scum," he muttered, as he continued to fuck me hard, "Dirty little scumbag."

I closed my eyes and waited for it to end. He impaled me on his big fat rod and fucked away carelessly. I braced myself to his impetuous thrusting. I bore the pain and his weight and just wanted him to finish. It really didn't feel the same as when the other men fucked me. The other men fucked me because they liked me. They paid me for the privilege of using my little cunt. But with this KAPO Captain it was just a utilitarian fuck. It was cold and passionless. There was no joy. No appreciation. Certainly no gratitude. He was rough and inconsiderate and all he was interested in was using my body for his own pleasure.

For a while there was silence, other than the muted puffs of his exertions, and he concentrated on making himself cum. The only thing that sustained me during his assault was thinking about Ciggy. As my butt was being plowed by this sadistic KAPO Captain, I thought that if I could get through this, when this horrible episode was all over, we could get to the airfield and tomorrow we would be on that transporter with Ciggy. I thought about Ciggy and how much I had missed him. I wanted so much to see his handsome face again. It was going to be so good to run into his protective embrace and feel the unbridled joy of him holding me in his strong arms once again.

Eventually I heard the Captain build up to his cum. He thrust into me faster and faster and started grunting heavily. His pelvis was slapping hard against my butt cheeks. He gasped loudly. Then he released his copious spunk into me with a series of very pronounced pulses. His dick spasmed powerfully a few times and my hole filled with thick liquid. There was a lot of it. It squelched inside me. Its warmth and wetness had an anesthetic effect, radiating into the walls of my little chute and soothing the savage sting of his attack.

When it was over, the Captain pulled out. Even his withdrawal was painful. I moaned loudly as his big, thick dick slipped out. He got off me, pausing to wipe the tip of his slimy dick on my butt cheeks. He pulled his dress pants back up and I heard him don his tunic once again. Then he came back over to me, still sprawled over the desk and grabbed my hair. He pulled my head up sharply from the desk, forced it right back, painfully jarring my neck.

"You know what whoreboy? You're not as good as you think you are."

Now that he had used me and subjugated me, he couldn't even be complimentary. His unkind remark was the epitome of adding insult to injury. And with that, he pushed my head back down onto the desk. My head hit the hard wood with a pronounced thud, making me yelp from the pain. I knew that the force of the impact had cut the corner of my eye.

"They don't know anything," he said to the other two, finally convinced that we were not working for the enemy, "Do what you like with them and then let them go."

Then the Captain left. The door closed and he was gone. The room was silent, except for his words reverberating in our ears. "Do what you like with them," he had said. Now, without their commanding officer to ameliorate their treatment of us, we were totally at the mercy of the two KAPOs who had captured us.

I laid on the desk, cowed and defeated, and feeling sorry for myself. I focused on Simon-Peter and saw that even he had tears in his eyes. He had witnessed the whole thing at close proximity.

The bearded man came to lift me off the desk, but all he succeeded in doing was rolling me onto the floor. I fell off the desk and collapsed in a heap on the floor, my legs too weak to support me. Still cowering on the floor, with my hands still bound and my pants still tangled around my ankles, I felt very vulnerable. The cut above my eye was stinging, and there was spunk leaking out of my punished little hole. The bearded guy laughed. I think he was genuinely amused. His perversity and dispassion was frightening. I wondered if his laughter was because my little hairless dick was still sticking up stiffly in my crotch, or whether it was because he had simply concocted some twisted idea in his mind about what he was going to do to me.

The bearded guy stepped forward so that he was standing over me, and reached down, gently rolling my ripped shirt back over my shoulders. He did it with such care and tenderness that I thought maybe he had started to feel some compassion. He was uncharacteristically gentle, and he seemed to be admiring my body. My chest and tummy were exposed, where my shirt had fallen back over my shoulders, and I hoped he was admiring my body and that he liked what he saw. But he wasn't. Instead, he did something that I really didn't expect. He stood back, towering over me, and fiddled with the front of his khaki pants. He took out his dick. It was semi-erect, and a good size. Then he took up position above me, his dick still in his hand, and he narrowed his eyes.

"I've always wanted to do this," he said, and there was a cruel twist of delight in his tone as he said it.

He stepped closer to me and leaned over me still with his big dick in his hand, and I was still on the floor looking up at him, not knowing what he was going to do. I thought maybe he just wanted to spunk on me. I knew that men often liked to do that, jack off all over me, and I quite liked that. But that wasn't what this guy did. He stood there silently for a few seconds, as though he was really concentrating, and then emitted a single squirt of pee all over my chest.

I gasped with shock and turned my face away, twisting my body awkwardly against the leg of the desk. I tried to get up, but he grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled me back down onto the floor. He jerked my head back so that I collapsed back against the desk, and he looked at me with a stern expression that said "don't try that again". So I curled up at his feet, with my knees drawn up, with his pee still running down my chest, and he closed in once again and let the rest out all over me. It was a heady, robust stream of pee he let out, which mostly coated my back and legs. It was warm from his body, and lightly colored, with a very heady odor. I was incredulous. I just stayed there, turning my face away and curled up, frozen in fear and surprise, not quite able to believe what he was doing.

His pee seemed to go on for a very long time. He purposefully directed the powerful stream all over my body, splashing the side of me that was turned towards him, my back and legs and down into my crotch, until he was completely empty, and he even gave his dick a cursory shake as he finished off. When he was done, he stood back with a satisfied smirk and seemed to be admiring my body, all wet and shiny with the yellowy droplets of his pee. He had splashed it all over me, and it had dripped down my legs and under my butt, and it was all over my shirt, which was still hanging off my shoulders. In effect, I was dripping wet all over, and he just took in the sight of me, cowed by his act of subjugation. He regarded me with a look of cruel satisfaction and hitched up his khaki pants, finally tucking his big dick away. I thought that was the end of it. At least I hoped it was. And then he did something which shocked me even more. He pulled my head by my hair so that I was turned towards him, forcing me to look at him, and he gave me a twisted smirk of fulfillment, even curling his lip to show his contempt for me. Then he let my hair go, pushing my head once more against the desk. As he did so, he mustered a big, throaty mouthful of saliva, and he spat vehemently into my face.

I crouched there, naked and wet with his pee, with his warm gob of slimy, frothy saliva slowly dripping down my lips and chin.

"Worthless shota boy scum!" he cursed, echoing the insults of his commander.

And with that, he turned brusquely and left, stopping to collect his Kalashnikov from where he had propped it up against the wall.

I was almost too afraid to look up as he departed. I just stayed where I was, huddled on the floor, shocked and traumatized. I burst into a renewed fit of tears, scared and humiliated, and overwhelmed by the mess that I was in. I just cowered there defeatedly, afraid to move, wet with the bodily liquids I was covered in, the cum drying on my butt, pee all over me and spit on my face, mingling with my own blood and tears.

It was the young boy who came over to me when the others had gone. At least he had an air of gentleness and empathy about him. He hadn't participated in the beating and had mostly stood back and watched what had just happened. With a very tentative, nervous demeanor, he crouched down to see to me, and benevolently used the edge of his sleeve to wipe my face. The sleeve of his hoodie was all he had to hand, and he willingly smeared his cuffs with my tears, wiping away the spit of his colleague, and the blood that was congealing on my eyebrow. Then he untied me, releasing my hands from behind my back. I rubbed my arms and shoulders. The relief was tangible as I felt the tingling of the circulation in my arms being restored. Meanwhile, the boy went over to Simon-Peter, who watched him approach with real fear in his eyes, and he untied Simon-Peter too.

I didn't know it then, but that young KAPO boy was going to turn out to be a valuable ally. And, as our predicament deteriorated, he was destined to play a pivotal role in our flight from Verolino.

Chapter 13
On The Run

I slept like a dead man. I was so exhausted that I lapsed into a long and contented sleep which was so deep, it was more like unconsciousness. I think I woke up in exactly the same position as when I went to sleep. Or it may have had something to do with the softness of the hay that I was resting in. I had expected hay to be scratchy and prickly to sleep on, but it wasn't. It was quite soft and warm and made excellent bedding. We had made ourselves comfortable in a little alcove, surrounded on three sides by stacks of hay bales. It was actually quite cozy in our little corner of the barn, and the hay was good insulation against the chilly weather outside. I was aware, as I stirred and looked around me, that my arms and shoulders were sore from having my hands bound yesterday and the cut above my eye was still tender. There was a clot of congealed blood that had formed a crusty black scab on my eyebrow.

I looked across and saw Simon-Peter still asleep in the opposite corner of the little alcove, with loose strands of hay all over his clothes. He looked like he had been rolling around in it. Perhaps he had tossed around in his sleep. I was relieved that next to him were our backpacks, and of course Howard the bear. I was surprised that the KAPOs had given us back everything when they released us. They had searched us, but evidently did not find anything worth taking. They didn't find my buckwads. The rolls of greenbacks were well hidden. My stash was in a place where I knew nobody would really think of looking. For the time being the Cloud Nine Benevolent Fund was safe.

After the Captain had finished questioning us, and purloined the use of my butt, they let us go. But we were tired and it was late and I knew we wouldn't make much progress in the dark. It was the young KAPO boy who had offered us the use of the barn. He told us we would be safe there till the morning. He knew the farmer and he said he often helped out on the farm before the war broke out. He used to work there tending to the livestock. Now of course, most of the livestock was long gone and the farm produced only a fraction of what it used to. The war had seen to that. Most of its output was requisitioned by the KAPO militia, this being KAPO territory. And the boy himself had been obliged to join the militia, like a lot of the young boys in this region.

It was that same KAPO boy who brought us some food in the morning, all wrapped in a little bundle with some cheesecloth. He woke me up when he scuttled into the barn, and laid the little bundle of goodies on the hay. There were apples and hard boiled eggs and even fresh milk in a little jar. It was all he could find, he said. I didn't question it. I just sat up, smiled gratefully, and tucked into the little feast he had supplied.

As I was eating, carefully putting some aside for Simon-Peter, the KAPO boy sat cross-legged in the hay opposite me, with the food between us. He had his hood up and his Kalashnikov slung over one shoulder. He was wearing loose, baggy jeans that looked too big for him, just like his boots. He didn't say much, but I knew he liked me because he had that same sycophantic look about him. He watched me very closely, but not because he was grudging or suspicious. I got the impression he just liked me. I could feel his dark, pretty eyes roving all over my features, looking at me closely with an expression that looked like he wanted to kiss me. There was this air of longing about him. I had noticed it when we were in the back of the pickup truck yesterday, and I had felt sorry for him even then.

Without saying anything, he glanced tentatively at Simon-Peter and saw he was asleep. Then he turned to me and I knew he had something on his mind.

"What's your name?" he asked, genuinely interested.

"Cloud," I said, munching on an apple.

"What, like in the sky?" he asked, pointing out of the open front of the barn where the blueness of the morning sky was just visible.

I nodded.

"That's a nice name," he said, "very noble."

I gave a nervous little laugh.

"Hehe, I don't think so," I said, shrugging off his remark.

He was looking at me so sycophantically, I could almost predict that he was gonna make a move on me. I knew that look only too well.

"What's YOUR name?" I asked, feeling I should reciprocate.

"My name is Aynan," he said, "In my language that means 'friend'."

"Well, you certainly lived up to your name," I said.

"It's the least I can do after yesterday," he said, really quite solicitously, "I'm sorry my Captain raped you."

I was puzzled by his choice of words. As a shota boy, we never used the word rape. We had our own, more appropriate terminology.

"He didn't rape me," I said, "He forcefucked me."

"Same thing," he said, dismissing my differentiation.

"No," I rebuffed, "A shota boy is never raped. We know our purpose. Our purpose is to service men's cocks."

Aynan almost laughed, seemingly unconvinced by that philosophy, and regarded me with a scornful look.

"Even when you don't want to?"

"When one consorts with lions," I recited, "One is sooner or later to get bitten."

It was a quote I read somewhere, and it was supposed to illustrate that a forcefuck was an occupational hazard to a shota boy. Every shota had been forcefucked at one point or other, each of us to varying degrees. We all had our forcefuck horror stories.

"Whatever you want to call it," he said, "It wasn't very nice."

I smiled kindly at him, really quite touched by his empathy.

He got up and went over the other side of the barn, walking around a big stack of bales so that he was almost out of sight. I peered over and he seemed to be preoccupied by whatever was on his mind. He was kicking up little clumps of hay, apparently deep in contemplation, his Kalashnikov still slung over his shoulder and his hood up to keep out the chill of the Verolino morning. Deep inside the barn we were protected from the elements, though it was still chilly in there.

He called me over to where he was standing, way over the other side of the cavernous barn. It was out of sight to Simon-Peter, who was still soundly asleep.

"Cloud?"

I finished my apple and got up and went over to him. His warm breath billowed into the frosty air as he exhaled. He seemed to be breathing a little fast.

"What is it?" I asked him.

He stood looking at me, his dark pupils glinting out from under his hood which was pulled way down over his eyes.

"Are you really a shota boy?" he asked, sheepishly.

"Yes," I nodded.

He looked at me closely, his eyes roving all over my face and then down my chest, and all the way down to my feet, as though he was sizing me up and trying to encompass what my young body had experienced.

"Is it true that you're the best?"

My pleas to his brutal Captain yesterday had obviously stuck in his mind.

"So they tell me," I replied.

He moved across very suddenly and put a hand on my shoulder, showing me that he wanted something. I turned and looked right back at him. He kept his hand there, as though to hold me in place.

"I really like you Cloud," he said.

"That much is clear," I replied, making it known that I had already noted his interest in me.

"Can I?" he asked, holding out his arms, inviting me to move closer.

I nodded, acquiescing to his request, and stepped towards him. He leaned in and embraced me gently, wrapping his arms around me. He squeezed me tightly, and I heard him sigh with pleasure as he pressed up against me. His hoodie felt ticklish against my cheek. I could feel him push his crotch forward and his little dick was big and hard in his jeans. He started running his hands over my back. Then he let out a long sigh, as though savoring the exquisite pleasure of getting the feel of a shota boy's body so close to him. I could feel his warm breath against my cheek as he nuzzled his face into my hair.

"You smell so good," he said, almost in a whisper, and I could almost feel him inhaling my scent.

The longing was apparent in his voice, as though just being in such close proximity to me was an exquisite pleasure for him. He was excited, but he was gentle. I knew he wanted to do stuff to me, but I didn't mind. Underneath that hoodie and the other paramilitary gear, the loose, baggy jeans, the broad belt and the big heavy boots, beneath all that anonymous paraphernalia, was a young boy who had a life and a personality and his own individual needs and wants. Right now I could feel his need right through the thick fabric of his jeans. He was almost trembling with need. As a young boy, who often felt the inherent need in the hardness of my own little dick, I could only imagine how constricted he must have been feeling not having a little playmate of his own to blow his kiddie fuckwad into, or even so much as a hairless little fuckbuddy to cuddle up with at night. I dunno, but again I found myself feeling sorry for him.

"Please let me do this," he said softly, suddenly letting me go.

I stepped back and waited to see what he was going to do.

He unshouldered his Kalashnikov and laid it down in the hay. Then he removed his hoodie, unzipping it, and peeling it off his arms. He rolled it up into a bundle and placed it next to his rifle. Underneath he wore a rather grubby looking t-shirt, but his slim, slightly muscled physique showed through the thin fabric. He had a very well defined chest, his pectorals and nipples showing prominently through his shirt, and his slim torso tapered down to a trim tummy and narrow waist. His body was perfect, and now, with his hoodie off, I could see his face properly. I loved his thick, black wavy hair, his dark, mysterious eyes and those distinctive kinked eyebrows. He really was incredibly beautiful.

He got down onto his knees and reached for my belt. His breaths were now quite quick and shallow. I could see he was trying to undo the front of my pants. His excitement made him a little shaky and uncoordinated, so I helped him. I loosened my belt and then he was able to undo my flies and open the front of my faded pants, exposing my boxer briefs. He pulled out the hem of my shirt and lifted up the front, revealing my tummy. He stopped and just looked at it for a moment. My tender young skin was now exposed to the atmosphere and I could feel the burning heat of my clothed body now cooling in the stagnant air of the barn. Aynan was still on his knees in front of me, staring at my tummy, his face only inches away. My stiffie was straining with hardness in my boxers. The truth is, Little Cloud was awkwardly trapped in the elastic fabric of my boxer briefs and I needed Aynan to take him out. I welcomed his move to draw down the waistband of my boxers and I sighed with pleasure as he dug his little hand into my underwear. It was exquisite feeling his warm hand down there as he took my stiffie out, holding it by the base. He looked at it closely, levering it this way and that as though he was trying to memorize its proportions. I must admit I liked people looking at it. It was a nice dick. I was particularly proud of Little Cloud. He was a good size, long and straight, with a beautiful compact head, a tight foreskin that didn't overhang, and always stiffened up at a nice angle, pointing upwards, standing out eager and proud. Most of all, Little Cloud spunked real good, and tightened up in such profound ecstasy. Yup. That little soldier gave me so much pleasure.

Aynan did no more than just look at my dick. He admired it for a while, holding it in his fingertips, but made no attempt to jack it, or squeeze it or even roll the skin back. He just tucked it back into my boxer briefs. I was a little disappointed because I thought he wanted to suck it. But he didn't. All he did was scoot forward on his knees and lean in, and he kissed my little innie belly button, ever so gently, ever so lightly, and I could see him close his eyes in stolen pleasure as he savored the moment. Then he pressed his face right into my tummy, and I could feel his nose jabbing into the tight skin. The tip of his nose was cold from the morning air, but his lips were warm and wet, and he kissed and licked my tummy. It tickled, but it was also infinitely arousing. I held onto his head, digging my little fingers into his thick black wavy hair, and he seemed to be nibbling at my tummy, sucking on my skin, almost reveling in the feel of my soft young flesh against his face. He was loving it.

When he was done, he drew back, leaving his wetness on my tummy. He looked up at me, overawed by having elicited this stolen pleasure from me, brief though it was. It was funny, I thought, that yesterday, when we were prisoners of KAPO, I was supposed to be at his mercy, but at this moment it seemed the other way around. He was totally in my power and he was looking up at me subserviently.

"Thank you," he said, still breathless with awe, "I've always wanted to do that."

He got up and dusted the hay off his knees, and I think he was about to pick up his rifle and hoodie. But I stopped him. He may not have wanted to play with my little cock, but I certainly wanted to play with his. I stepped forward, my pants still open and my shirt still hanging out, and I put my hand gently on his crotch. I felt for his dick. It was still hard, a big elongated lump of potent boy meat trapped awkwardly against his abdomen. To my delight, he didn't stop me. I squeezed, my little fingers barely able to grasp the turgid organ through the folds in his pants, and he exhaled sharply, closing his eyes in sheer pleasure. I loved it when I had that effect on other boys.

I don't think he expected what I did next. I wanted to see that little cock. I wanted to touch it. I wanted to wrap my fingers around it and feel its heat. I wanted to suck it. I wanted to make it squirt. I wanted to usher it into a state of paradise so it would give up its load for me. I wanted to taste it and ingest his seed. He was an anonymous, nondescript little boy soldier, who probably didn't want to be here. His desire to kiss my tummy and bury his face into my soft flesh convinced me that he had an inherent appreciation for a pretty shota boy like me. He had only looked at my stiffie, and made no attempt to suck me off, and because he had not taken advantage, and had respected me, I wanted to do this for him. So I undid his belt and opened his pants and I pulled out the stiff little rod from his underwear. As I lowered the front of his underwear, his erect little cock fell out. It was a beautiful cock – long, straight, perfectly cut, with a proud slightly pointed head that was almost like an arrow-tip – perfect for punching into tight little holes. He even had a few tight little curls of thin black hair at the base of his dick. He was much more well developed than me. I hoped that meant he spunked a lot more too. I got on my knees and kissed his little dick. Then I encased it in the wet warmth of my lips, and buried it into the depths of my expert little mouth, so that my head was impaled on that iron-hard appendage. He gasped quite loudly above me, but I couldn't tell if that was from shock or pleasure. Whatever it was, I could feel his knees trembling from the sheer electricity of the feelings I was giving him. That's right, let Cloud Nine take you to the heights of shota boy heaven – just float around up there with me for a bit, with your little preteen cock driving in and out of my magical little lips. Go on, shoot your kiddie fuckwad into my head as hard as you can, and let me taste the fruit of your pubescent little balls.

It didn't take long. That's what I loved about all boys – they could spunk anywhere. Didn't matter where they were or what the circumstances, all they had to do was make wood and jerk their cock – or have it sucked by an expert little mouth like this – and it was possible to induce a self-contained orgasm. No sooner had they squirted out their load, within seconds they could go back to whatever they were doing. It was just so perfect. So compulsive. So convenient.

I knew when he was about to spunk. His rising orgasm made him breathe heavier and faster, gathering momentum like an approaching train, and he started thrusting his dick into my mouth, by now totally in the grip of the impending pleasure that was about to overwhelm him. Then he stopped just before the paradise stroke and let me finish him off. I grabbed his denim clad butt with both hands and pulled his little cock into the back of my throat as far as it would go, giving a real hard suck on his entire organ. He shook violently and let out a strangulated gurgle, and there was a short delay where he froze, just as his dick pulsed in my mouth. I wrapped my tongue around it and tasted his kidsperm as it was ejected from his cockhead. It was a lot more than I thought. A lot more than I expected for such a young boy. His little balls had certainly been busy. I remember thinking that I wished I could squirt that much. How come he was the same age as me, and yet he was able to produce so much cum? He spunked so much I struggled to swallow it all. I gulped it down in big mouthfuls. His fluid was scalding hot. It tasted salty and pungent, and felt thick and substantial on my tongue. It was delicious. I suckled on his little cock until it stopped pulsing and he had stopped thrusting into my head, and I licked his cockhead clean before I let it go. He squirmed from the sensitivity of my tongue on the tender head of his still engorged cock. Reluctantly, when his cum was over, I let his little dick fall from my mouth and pulled back. I looked up at him, still on my knees. He had that familiar look of dazed incredulity on his face, like he couldn't believe how good that was. He smiled at me gratefully. I smiled back conceitedly, reassured that I hadn't lost my touch, and got up. He looked deep into my eyes as I rose to my feet again, and I could see that familiar look of respect and admiration. It was the same look worn by most of my first time tricks, the look they had after the first time I blew their minds, the first time my magical little bouche blew their cocks and the first time they had blown their load into me. That look always gave me a feeling of intense satisfaction.

"Thank you," he said breathlessly, "that was the best ever."

When we had both recuperated from our little cockgames, we readjusted our clothing and sat in the hay to recover. Aynan was looking a bit flushed. I thought the reddish glow in his cheeks was quite fetching. As Simon-Peter still slept, we chatted amiably and I told Aynan of our plans.

"How far away is the airfield?" I asked Aynan.

"Twenty, maybe twenty five miles [30-40 km]," he suggested, vaguely.

"We need to get there by nightfall," I said.

"It's a long walk, but you can make it," he said, with a spark of optimism, "If you start now."

Later, when Simon-Peter woke up, I gave him what was left of the food.

After breakfast, we prepared to leave. When we left, Aynan gave us some things for our journey. Cigarettes were always good currency, and Aynan stuffed a handful of them into my breast pocket. It was Aynan who took us to the road that would lead us to the airfield. I like to think that he did it as a gesture of appreciation, and to reciprocate for his quick, if fleeting, trip to boysex paradise. He even pointed out what route we should take and explained exactly how to approach the airfield perimeter.

On the way to the airfield, we encountered a long convoy of trucks. We heard them coming long before we saw them. Far behind us, a distant roar of engines was closing in, and a long plume of dust was rising somewhere towards the horizon where the road disappeared over a ridge in the middle distance. Simon-Peter looked at me, alarmed. I took his hand and we jumped into the hedgerows at the roadside, deciding to hide out until the convoy had passed. The convoy approached with frightening speed, a long column of trucks, speeding past us with lots of noise and dust. We could even feel the heat haze off their engines as they passed, each one puffing clouds of diesel fumes, roaring at full speed, heavily laden with troops and equipment. They were VLA trucks – distinctive with the VLA insignia, the familiar silhouette of a two-headed bear, skulking across the blue and white base colors of the flag, seemingly looking forward and behind at the same time. Truck after truck was crammed to the gunwales with food, fuel, arms and ammunition, and those that were not overflowing with supplies were carrying VLA troops – distinctive in their regulation field gray uniforms and all waxen-faced, solemn and anxious, no doubt gearing up for the struggle which lay ahead. No wonder the UN were pulling out. All sides were squaring up for this conflict. They were spoiling for a fight so much that you could almost taste it. But this was not about mere real estate. Of course Verolino was symbolic to them both, but there were also long running animosities between KAPO and the VLA, some of which went back centuries, to say nothing of their diametrically opposed religions and political doctrines. Now, they were resolved to settle their differences once and for all.

I held Simon-Peter's head down as we peeped out of the gaps in the foliage, and we waited for the column to pass. It seemed to take an eternity to end. From start to finish, that column took about fifteen minutes to pass, during which time hundreds of trucks must have sped past. The sheer volume of resources they had committed to this struggle was frightening. But they certainly outclassed KAPO both in terms of numbers and the superiority of their equipment. The VLA were organized, ruthlessly efficient and deadly, and the KAPOs were relatively ill-equipped and ramshackle. It was going to be a titanic battle. I felt a stab of pity for Aynan. I only hoped he was going to be okay.

We walked for miles. We spent almost the whole day walking it seemed, taking little rest and soldiering on in our trek to the airfield. It was our only hope of salvation, and it was only with that thought in mind that I ignored my aching feet and the tiredness in my back and legs. My muscles protested, and yet we kept right on walking. On the way, I held Simon-Peter's little hand. His little legs walked almost in a canter to keep up with me, and I was tugging on his hand, encouraging him to keep going. It was strange. As we walked, I remember looking down at him, and he would look up and force a little smile, just to reassure me that he was okay. I smiled back in acknowledgement. My responsibility towards this boy almost felt like he was a little brother to me. I wondered if that was what Ciggy had felt towards his little brother – what was his name? Oh yes, Allie. The little brother that had tragically drowned. Inevitably my thoughts turned to Ciggy, and I reminded myself of the whole point of this journey – to rendezvous with Ciggy who was going to get us out of this hell hole. He was going to get us on that transporter and within a few hours we would be flying, courtesy of the RAF, to the NATO airbase in Turkey, just as we had planned. Tell the truth, that was the only thing that kept me going. When I started to feel the exhaustion, I just thought of Ciggy, and that spurred me on to keep right on walking. When Simon-Peter was too tired, I carried him. He hopped up onto my back, and collapsed on me, his sweet head lolling about limply with his chin resting on my shoulder, still clutching Howard the bear in his little fist. I carried his weary little frame as far as I could while he recuperated from the demands of this unwelcome odyssey.

As the afternoon wore on, we began to hear shelling in the distance. At first it was a faint rumble, almost like distant thunder, too far away to be of any concern. But that shelling became louder and more frequent, until we could almost feel the shudder of the explosions as they pounded the earth just a few miles away. On the horizon, ribbons of black smoke rose diagonally into the sky. It was very worrying. UNVERO had not yet withdrawn. Officially they did not relinquish control of Verolino until tomorrow morning. But the warring factions were champing at the bit, already emboldened by the UNs impending withdrawal and had clearly decided not to wait. They ignored the UN and their artillery were already engaging each other in battle. I realized, with frightening clarity, that we were heading right into the shelling. It was probably in or around the airfield, right where we were supposed to be going.

We walked on regardless. We had no choice. Our only hope of salvation was to get on that transporter, even if it meant we had to negotiate the shelling. It wasn't even clear who was shelling who. All I knew was that every thirty seconds, a shell would explode with ear-shattering intensity. And the closer we got, the louder and more tangible the explosions. In fact, it all became so relentless, and the frequency of the shelling so intense, that there were more explosions than silence. The warring factions did not wait for the UN to withdraw. They advanced anyway. Then, to compound the already grave situation, with no coalition aircraft to enforce the no-fly zone, the skies were now open season. That afternoon, not even twenty four hours after the UN withdrawal was announced, the unmistakable roar of supersonic bombers filled the sky. The distinctive whistling engine note told me they were Russian-built MiG29s. They were mean-looking aircraft, with eagle-like nose fairings, swept-back wings and twin tail fins. Tremendously versatile and deadly, designed for air supremacy. They were nationalist aircraft, with VLA markings, sent to cleanse Verolino of civilians and any remaining military – leaving it ready for the ground units to move in and claim it. Pretty soon it was like we were walking through a pyrotechnic display – with the sky being lit up by flashes and flames, whistles and roars, just like fireworks. It really was like all hell had broken loose. It was exactly what I imagined hell looked like. Verolino had been turned into a boiling cauldron of fire and explosions, a veritable maelstrom of flames and destruction. Our only option was to head for the airfield in the hope that the UN still had control of it and we could get away, still mindful of what Ciggy had said – that the last transporter would take off before nightfall.

Well, we headed for the airfield. By then the daylight was already starting to fade. We made it to the perimeter of the airfield, approaching from the higher ground to the west, just as Aynan had advised. I immediately understood why. From up there, we could see the checkpoint at the airfield entrance, and had a clear view of everything that was going on down below. The ground sloped gently down towards the road where UNVERO personnel had positioned their distinctive white vehicles, blocking the main gate to the airfield. The reason was pretty clear. As we approached, rising up just behind the ridge at the top of the slope, we heard the distinct roar of an angry crowd. As we looked down, we were confronted by the sight of a big, noisy mob of civilians. They were milling around outside the gate in confusion and desperation, pleading to be allowed in. But UNVERO were not letting anybody in. They had the gates closed and their six-wheeled APCs parked in front of the gates. UNVERO troops stood on top of them with their SA80 assault rifles pointed at the crowd. Below them, the crowd were screaming, shouting and pleading. Children were crying, frightened and confused. Mothers were holding up their babies to be saved. It was like the end of the world. We could see through the double rows of mesh fencing that surrounded the airfield perimeter, and on the runway stood a solitary C130 transporter, with RAF markings, its rear cargo ramp down, all four propellers spinning, with armed UNVERO troops on the runway surrounding the rear of the aircraft. Outside the gates there was no orderly queue, only a great mass of humanity all clamoring for a space on that aircraft. The troops had their guns aimed at the crowd, ready to fire should they be overrun. They were tetchy and nervous, shouting hurried commands and warnings to one another. They had accents much like Simon-Peter. I assumed they must be British, part of the last of the UNVERO forces to withdraw – a rearguard that had remained on the ground to protect the airfield and facilitate the evacuation. Only they weren't doing a very good job.

It looked hopeless, but we had to try and get on that aircraft, if not just for Simon-Peter's sake. We did go down and fight our way through the crowd, joining the surging throng of civilians, all equally as frantic to get to the aircraft. We fought our way right into the mass of people. I elbowed my way through, pulling Simon-Peter along with me, and lugging our backpacks through the writhing mob. We pushed forward and managed to get to the gate, till we were right up against the mesh fencing. But there was no way in. Simon-Peter put his little nose up against the fence and peered through. There was an UNVERO sergeant on the other side, in full combat gear, complete with body armor, his SA80 pointed through the gate just above our heads. We called out to him, but he ignored our pleas. He avoided making eye contact, nervously panning the muzzle of his assault rifle at the crowd. I pushed Simon-Peter right up against the fence and pinned him there, so I wouldn't lose him in all the shoving, then I took Howard the bear from his hand. Trying to keep the rest of the crowd behind me, I fumbled about with the stitching in Howard's back, parting the seam from where I had crudely removed some of his stuffing, and dug my fingers in. I pulled out a thick roll of greenbacks and stuffed them through the mesh of the fence, hoping that the sergeant would take the bait. He looked. Even amidst the craziness and confusion, he could see the juicy wad of greenbacks I was offering him. He called to his colleague.

"Hey, this boy's a Brit."

His colleague, equally as jumpy, looked at Simon-Peter, and they seemed to nod in agreement with each other. Between them they decided to open the gate by just a few inches. The sergeant pulled the roll of greenbacks through the fence and stuffed it into his body armor, then he grasped Simon-Peter's arm and hauled him through the gap. I managed to slip through behind him. It worked! We were in!

Without looking behind, I took Simon-Peter's hand and focused on the distance we had to cover to reach the aircraft. It seemed a hell of a long way away once we were actually on the runway. We hurried towards the deafening noise of the waiting giant. There was a great sense of energy about that Hercules as it stood there, not moving, for now its tremendous power unsummoned. I was literally pulling Simon-Peter forward as we ran headlong towards it.

Suddenly, there was a shout and a roar of dismay rippled through the crowd behind us. Shots rang out, but were drowned out by the shouts of the unruly horde and a loud cheer went up as they all tried to force their way through the gap in the gate. The UNVERO troops were overrun, routed by the sheer weight of numbers, and suddenly the crowd were all swarming into the airfield. The UNVERO troops ran in all directions, loathe to fire at civilians. But they were still way behind us and as we headed towards the loading ramp of the plane, there were two crewmen in their flight overalls standing at the top of the ramp, just inside the fuselage, holding out their arms to help us aboard. They were beckoning us toward them, hurrying us along. They were about to leave! We were running as fast as we could, but suddenly Simon-Peter stopped and I tugged heavily on his arm. I stopped to see what had happened. He had turned and was trying to go back.

"Howard! I dropped Howard!" he cried out.

He wrested his arm free, severing our handhold, and turned to run back to get Howard. Meanwhile the rest of the crowd were gaining on us, wildly screaming and running towards us at frightening pace. Simon-Peter didn't seem to notice them. He ran towards them oblivious, focused only on finding Howard. I had to run after him. Inevitably he was knocked down by the panicking mob that soon enveloped both of us, running towards the plane, and I watched as he fell backwards, hitting his head on the concrete. I threw myself over him, afraid he might be trampled and held him down protectively as the screaming horde passed over us. I realized by then that it was too late. I looked up as we both lay on the cold, hard concrete, and I knew that there was no way we could make it onto the aircraft. Even the mob that were now between us and the plane weren't going to make it. They stopped and stood still suddenly, watching in despair, screaming obscenities at the RAF. The rear cargo ramp was raised shut and the aircraft started to roll. The engines powered up and the plane seemed to spin on its axis. It was leaving! The troops on the runway turned their guns on the crowd, as though fearing they might run after the aircraft. Simon-Peter and I didn't even attempt to get up. We watched helplessly as the weighty machine trundled heavily along the length of the runway, gathering speed as the engines throttled up to full power. Finally its nose lifted, the mighty aircraft lumbered into the air, catapulted upwards, its turboprop engines screaming under the strain. I will never forget the sense of helplessness and despair as we watched that Hercules climb steeply into the darkening Verolino sky. Ciggy was aboard that aircraft. He had probably waited for me. I only hoped that he understood that something prevented me from getting to him. I hoped that he wasn't thinking that I had changed my mind, or that our tryst wasn't important to me, or that I had broken my promise to him. Whatever he was thinking right now, I just hoped he knew that I hadn't forgotten about him. And so, as that aircraft gained height and banked steeply, turning its nose towards Incirlik, anxiety turned into despair, and we watched our only hope of salvation slowly disappearing into the darkness. The plane got smaller and smaller until it was just an indistinguishable dot in the distance. Ciggy was gone, and I was probably never going to see him again.

Heartbroken, disappointed and desperate, I looked down at Simon-Peter as we laid there, still stretched out on the runway, and saw how much his hopeful face was relying on me. But it was all pointless. Our efforts had been in vain. We were now marooned in this nightmare from which there was no escape. To the east, the KAPOs were closing in. To the north, the VLA were bombing and strafing everything in sight. Finally resigned to our fate, we picked ourselves up and I stood facing Simon-Peter. He understood exactly what had happened, but at least he had found Howard, and he was clutching the bear tightly to his breast. Thankfully we were both unhurt. We turned and headed back towards the unmanned gate, which was now wide open. The APCs were still parked there, apparently abandoned. I took Simon-Peter's little hand and reluctantly led him away. We walked away from the dispersing and disappointed crowd, gradually leaving the noise and commotion behind us, and headed back towards the town. That night, we wandered the war-torn streets of Verolino, lost and bedraggled, with no clear idea of where we were even going. We were already exhausted from our all day trek. We were hungry and we were cold. We trudged the bombed-out streets looking for somewhere to rest for the night. And as we tramped amongst the desolation, picking our way through the rubble, I was grateful for the cover of darkness, so that Simon-Peter wouldn't have to see the enormous tears that were gathering in my eyes.

Chapter 14
The Feral Boys

Simon-Peter and I were dejectedly sifting through the ruins, searching for any place that looked like it might have a surviving cellar or outbuilding where we might find shelter and something to eat. But, where houses once stood, there were now endless piles of bricks and rubble. The houses that weren't completely demolished were all bombed-out, with the scorching still visible around the holes where the windows once were, the tell-tale signs of the inferno that must have ensued. Nothing was left intact. Everything was smashed beyond recognition. Walking through all this devastation was quite eerie, but we tramped on through the rubble regardless, with me still holding on to Simon-Peter's little hand.

It was Simon-Peter who spoke, after a long silence, looking up at me meekly.

"Cloud?"

"Yes little one?"

"Did I do sumthin wong?"

I stared at him, puzzled.

"What do you mean?"

"Are you angwy with me?"

I smiled and leaned towards him, stroking his cheek tenderly as we walked.

"No," I said, in a kindly tone, "I'm not angry with you. I could never be angry with you."

He seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at that, apparently reassured. But it was clear that he felt responsible for us failing to get on that transporter.

"It's my fault we're lost, isn't it?"

"Don't worry about it," I assured him, "We'll figure something out."

He looked at me for a few moments, trying to assess whether I was genuine, then he went right back to staring at the ground.

It was true. I felt no resentment or anger towards Simon-Peter. He was just a little boy and still quite naïve in many ways. He didn't deserve all this. He had been unable to leave Howard the bear behind, in the same way as I was unable to leave Simon-Peter behind. In some strange way, Simon-Peter was my Howard the bear, like a responsibility that each of us had.

Presently, we came across a bombed-out house that was now open to the elements, the walls just about still standing, but the roof completely gone. The center of the plot was piled high with hunks of broken plaster, scorched wooden beams and smashed roof tiles. But there was a little wooden hatch in the ground and a clear space in the rubble that had obviously been well used. It looked promising. It looked like the remains of an entrance to what might have been the cellar. It was certainly worth investigating. But when we approached, we were suddenly stopped dead in our tracks by a high-pitched shout.

"Stop!"

I looked around and had to focus on something way over the other side of the derelict plot. I saw a young boy perched on top of the pile of rubble, sitting very high up on the exposed lintel of one of the bombed-out windows. He startled us. I realized he must have been watching us.

"Stop right there!" he shouted.

Balancing precariously on the broken bricks, he started to clamber down the pile of rubble towards us. I watched him as he approached, expertly negotiating the twisted pipes and cracked wooden beams that were protruding from the rubble. The boy was slim and quite small in stature, and had long straight hair that was a dark reddish brown. It was an unusual color, like a shade of rust. His voice was quite high-pitched, yet authoritative and commanding. I guessed he must have been about 10 or 11.

He came closer and we could see that the boy was grimy and ragged. Ever since the war began, boys of all ages wandered the ruins and bombsites of Verolino looking dazed and bedraggled. He was wearing a rather smart waistcoat which looked out of place with the rest of his torn and dirty clothes. His undershirt and jeans were dusty and soiled. The streets were full of ragged boys like him, and yet there was something very different about this particular boy. There was an alertness in his eyes, an astuteness in his expression, and a defiance in his stance.

"You can't come in here," he said, resolutely.

He stepped forward, barring our way into what was once the doorway of the derelict house. It had been virtually reduced to rubble, and only the lower part of the outer walls was still standing, so I wondered what it was he was guarding.

"Why?" I asked.

"Cos you can't," he said, with a scowl, exposing his perfect little teeth.

He was menacing and irritated. But he was also very beautiful, with a clear, pearly complexion which contrasted with his rusty hair and he had big, round, liquid eyes and very full, red lips.

"You don't own the street," I said, loath to be cowed by his threatening behavior.

He took another step forward, then he seemed to puff out his chest so that his unbuttoned waistcoat fell open, and I saw the heavy pistol sticking out of the front of his pants. It was stuffed awkwardly into the waist of his dirty, baggy jeans.

"Says who?"

He let the pistol speak for itself. I recoiled at the sight of it.

"We're just looking for something to eat," I explained, "We're hungry and exhausted."

He was reminded that I was accompanied by Simon-Peter, who was still standing a little behind me still wearing his little backpack, with Howard the bear dangling from one hand.

The boy peered over my shoulder and he saw Simon-Peter standing there.

"Who are you?" he demanded, lowering his eyebrows with suspicion.

"We're shota boys," I said, "Our club was bombed and we're lost. Can you help us?"

He seemed to perk up at that.

"Shota boys?" he queried, "Really?"

"Yes," I nodded, "My name's Cloud and this is my protégé Simon-Peter."

I glanced back at Simon-Peter who was pursing his lips hopefully, appealing to this boy to help us. The boy looked Simon-Peter up and down and seemed to mellow instantly.

"Okay," he said, still a little wary, "I'll help you, but if you try anything, you're toast. Got it?"

And as he said it, he withdrew the pistol from his pants and fingered it ominously, as if to emphasize that he was in charge. Then he stepped back, reached down, and hauled open the heavy wooden hatch in the floor using a recessed handle. It opened up, and he walked around behind us, waving the heavy weapon in his hand as if herding us into the cellar.

There were steep steps leading down into the ground. We stepped into the hatchway, and clattered down the dusty wooden steps into the depths of the cellar. The boy followed us down and closed the hatch behind him, blocking out the daylight. Our eyes took a few moments to adjust to the darkness. There were many lighted candles placed about the room, creating a myriad of eerie flickering shadows on the damp stone walls. The ceiling was oppressively low, but the room was deceptively large. It was much larger than was implied by the modest house that once stood above it.

At the bottom of the steps, we stopped and looked around and after a few seconds, I saw that the cellar was full of other scruffy-looking boys. They aged from about 4 years right up into their teens. They were all huddled into the corners, some on their own, some in twos or threes. The older ones cuddled the younger ones. Some were lying down on low bunks. Others sitting cross-legged on blankets on the floor. They were all staring wide-eyed at us. All had grimy faces and ragged clothes. A few were barefooted. It was like a little rat's nest, a veritable underground community of feral boys.

Finally from the back of the semi-dark room, a wooden door creaked open which must have led to an adjoining chamber of the cellar, and another boy stepped out of the shadows. He was better dressed than the others, with a leather bikers jacket that was a little dusty and jeans which had a rather pronounced rip on one knee. It was gaping open, so that you could see his knee and part of his smooth but well-developed thigh. He was probably closer to my age, maybe 12 or 13, and he was very handsome, with long, floppy, raven-black hair and dark, deep-set, mysterious eyes.

"Who was it Spider?" he enquired.

His voice was commanding and superior. Immediately I knew he had authority around here. He was probably the pack leader.

"This is Cloud and Simon-Peter," Spider explained.

"What do they want?" the pack leader demanded.

Spider approached him sheepishly.

"They want food and a bed for the night," he said.

"They got any money?"

"They're shota boys," said Spider, in a tone that made it quite clear that we wouldn't be needing any money.

"Is that so?" the pack leader iterated with a note of cynicism, coming closer to study us further.

Just like Spider, his interest was aroused by the news of us being shota boys, like that carried some weight around here.

I took Simon-Peter's hand and stepped closer to him for reassurance. Simon-Peter stood next to me, looking up at me, and I could feel his little hand squeeze mine apprehensively. At that moment I felt we were pretty vulnerable, totally at the mercy of these lawless boys, and there was no knowing what they were likely to do.

The pack leader leaned towards me and stared at me closely. I could smell the faded leather of his jacket as he did so.

"You got anything on you?" he asked.

"No," I said, assuming he meant weapons of some kind.

He started to go through my pockets, reaching out and feeling my hip pockets and patting down my chest. Spider had the pistol trained on me. The pack leader felt all the way down my legs, my ankles and even feeling into my crotch. He sure knew how to do a thorough pat-down. He detected a soft lump in my breast pocket and burrowed his hand in to see what it was. He brought out a handful of rather sorry-looking cigarettes. They were the cigarettes that Aynan had given me.

"I'll have those," he said, deciding that he was going to keep them, and immediately transferred them into the inside pocket of his leather bikers jacket.

I gave him a killing look. I wasn't sorry to lose the cigarettes. I was just annoyed that he had decided to help himself.

Pausing for a moment, he seemed to be surveying me with a kind of curious admiration. Maybe he was shedding some of his frostiness. He stood back for a moment and I detected an air of approval from him.

"A real shota boy, huh?"

He looked me up and down as though taking in my proportions.

"You fuck?" he asked, tersely, like it was some kind of gauche invitation.

"Yeh, whadya think?" I replied, a little tetchily, thinking his question unnecessary. Everyone knew what shota boys were for.

He turned to look at Simon-Peter.

"And him?" he asked, directing the question at me.

"He's only a novice," I said, hoping to dissuade his interest in Simon-Peter.

The pack leader scowled at me.

"That's not what I asked you, is it?"

I was acutely aware of Simon-Peter's inexperience. It was true that he was just a novice, but I hoped that Simon-Peter would understand that our survival was at stake here. I didn't know what these boys were likely to do to us, but we had to do whatever we needed to, if not just to survive the night.

"Yeh, he fucks," I said, "He fucks good."

"Alright then, show us your shit," the leader demanded.

Showing your shit was a term we used for pleasuring yourself to an audience. There was a demand for a certain type of shota boy who just liked to play with their dick and balls and show them off. Sometimes my tricks wanted to watch me do that. You didn't necessarily need to have a stiffie, but in most cases it involved playing with your cock until it got hard, and more often than not, jerking yourself to orgasm. That was showing your shit.

"Food first," I said, determined to stem his impatience.

He took a deep breath, and seemed to mellow a little. Apparently he was prepared to accede to that.

"Scamp!" he called out, without taking his eyes off me.

I could hear a frantic scrabbling from the back of the room and a little shirtless boy came forward out of the semi-darkness and stood there subserviently. He was younger than the other two, closer in age to Simon-Peter. This little shirtless boy was wearing dirty knee-length cargo pants and he was barefoot. He had an unkempt shock of whitish blond hair that stuck up in a big tangled halo, and was so matted that it looked like it had never been brushed. He had beautiful bright blue eyes that shone with the vibrancy of little boy exuberance and were very prominent against his dirty face. His cheeks were grimy. His body was lithe and slim, and very pretty, but dusty with ingrained dirt. I noticed the way his cargo pants hung very low down on his hips, exposing the full expanse of his flat little tummy, so that you could see the little V of his abdomen. They were barely high enough to cover his smooth crotch. It was clear he had no underwear on and the loose waistband was nestling just above where his hairless little dickie would be.

"Any of those MREs left over?" the pack leader asked him.

The little boy nodded emphatically, his big blue eyes shining with eagerness.

"Get two," the pack leader ordered, still standing there and holding us in place with his stare.

Scamp padded off in his bare feet. I noticed, as he turned away, that he had quite an ugly and prominent diagonal scar on one side of his back, very low down. It was about three inches [8 cm] long, and a dark purple in color. I wondered if perhaps these boys were all survivors of something horrible.

Scamp came back with two small pre-packed meal pouches. They were sealed in a pale brown plastic wrapping. He tossed them down onto a heavy trestle table and, without saying anything, pulled up two high wooden chairs, as though setting places for dinner. He used both hands to maneuver the chairs into place, even though they seemed quite heavy for his tiny frame, and I watched the way he bit his lip as he hauled the chairs over, scraping them across the wooden floor, his pink little tongue protruding with the effort.

"Sit," said the pack leader brusquely, gesturing towards the table with a nod of his head.

We took off our backpacks and I led Simon-Peter over to the table. We sat next to each other, the two pre-packed meal pouches in front of us.

Spider dragged up another chair and sat exactly opposite us, ominously placing his heavy pistol on the table in front of him. The pack leader came over and sat next to him. They were both anxious to watch us and were studiously surveying us as we settled at the table.

"Eat," the pack leader said.

All his phrases were clipped and abrupt. He was clearly a boy of few words.

"Thanks," I said.

I looked down at the pre-packed meal pouches and picked one up. It had MEAL READY TO EAT – INDIVIDUAL written on the front, and lower down, in smaller lettering US GOVERNMENT PROPERTY. They were clearly US Army rations. No doubt purloined by this band of ragamuffins, these street urchins who were reminiscent of some kind of Dickensian novel, looking for all intents like some modern-day equivalent of the Baker Street Irregulars.

I turned to Simon-Peter and held up the pouches.

"Which do you want?" I asked him, "Beef teriyaki or meatloaf with gravy?"

"Meatloaf with gwavy," he said.

I tore open the plastic seal and handed him the opened pack. He didn't seem to know what to do with it. So I showed him. I tore the seal on my MRE and kneaded the semi-soft contents inside, between my fingers, squeezing the food up to the opening and into my mouth. Simon-Peter understood. He put the opened end of the pouch into his mouth and sucked out the contents, stuffing as much as he could into his mouth. His cheeks were bulging as he started chewing. Poor boy. He was ravenous. We hadn't eaten since yesterday morning.

"It's cold," he said, with his mouth full, more as an observation than an objection.

"Yeah, life's a bitch ain't it?" said Spider, from across the table, quite unsympathetically.

Simon-Peter was right of course. These US Army rations were designed to be heated for consumption, but there was no means of doing that here. No matter. We were grateful just to get some nourishment inside us.

"Drink?" the pack leader asked.

Simon-Peter and I nodded simultaneously, impetuously swallowing big mouthfuls as we chewed on our rations.

"Scamp! Get them the house wine," he ordered.

Spider smiled, faintly amused by that, and I could hear Scamp giggling in the background, which helped to lighten the atmosphere a little. It was good to see they had a sense of humor.

Scamp brought two bottles of Coke and set them down in front of us, the caps already levered off.

"Drink," said the pack leader, "It's a good vintage."

Scamp giggled again. He was very cute when he chuckled like that.

The little bottles of Coke were a welcome sight. Their iconic and familiar design was like a friendly presence in this uncertain environment. It was also an indication that these boys were quite organized and had been here long enough to have established themselves into a quite orderly little microcosm. It was clear that they had been here long before the fall of Verolino. Perhaps since the war in Europe first began.

"Is there anything you don't have?" I asked, wondering how they had acquired all these things.

"We get by," said the pack leader, and that was all he was prepared to say.

I took a quick swig from the bottle and savored the sweet, biting drink. Simon-Peter was so thirsty he drank two thirds of his Coke almost immediately, letting out an involuntary little belch. Scamp giggled again.

"So, you gonna tell us what you're doing here?" the pack leader began again.

"I told you, we're lost," I said, between mouthfuls.

"Why should I believe you?" he replied.

"Why so defensive?" I countered, "You got nothing worth hiding, far as I can see."

Spider turned to look at him, and they exchanged serious glances.

"What would YOU know?" said the pack leader, contemptuously.

"Don't tell me, you're working for the resistance?" I said mockingly, becoming a little fed up of their reticence and over-cautiousness.

There had been a resistance movement in Verolino in the early days of the war, before it was a UN-declared safe haven. The civilian population had organized themselves to fight occupation prior to UNVERO moving in. Now that UNVERO were gone, it was safe to assume that the resistance movement would re-emerge.

Spider picked up the pistol and pointed it at me, deactivating the safety catch. Obviously I had just said something rather sensitive.

The pack leader gestured to him to put the gun down.

"But Kenni!" Spider objected.

So the pack leader's name was Kenni.

Kenni waved away Spider's objections, indicating that he was in control of the situation. Spider reluctantly laid the pistol down again.

"We're just looking out for ourselves," Kenni said, "We ain't with the resistance, we ain't with the VLA and we ain't with the KAPOs."

His voice took on a note of contempt when he mentioned the KAPOs.

"Murdering bastards," Spider added, mumbling under his breath.

It was as though they all harbored some deep, underlying grudge against the KAPO militia for some reason. That was at least one thing we seemed to have in common, although for myself, having encountered Aynan, I knew that not all KAPOs were bad.

"Well, I'm not that fond of them either," I concurred, thinking of my experience at the hands of the KAPO captain, "My experiences with them haven't exactly been a laugh a minute."

"Why? What they do, try an' fuck you with lube?" Spider put in, facetiously.

It was meant to be sarcastic. There was a running joke in the wider community that shota boys were notoriously averse to using lube. I could never see the funny side, seeing as it was true. Lube just deadened the sensation of getting my ass rooted. I preferred to feel the friction of cock skin chafing against the lining of my chute. Lube felt squishy in my hole, and left a horrible greasy residue for days afterwards. You couldn't even shit it out. No thanks. Gimme an unadulterated bareback cock any day.

"Those bastards would sell their own mothers," said Kenni with contempt.

"I know," I said, "They forcefucked me and beat me and left me for dead."

"They nearly killed Scamp too," said Kenni, "He paid a heavy price for his freedom."

I didn't like the sound of that.

"What did they do?" I asked, hesitantly.

"Scamp!" Kenni called.

Within seconds the little blond boy was standing obediently at the end of the table, looking at Kenni expectantly.

"C'mere," said Kenni, beckoning him closer.

Scamp sidled up to Kenni. Kenni took hold of the little boy's tiny shirtless frame and spun him around, turning his back towards us. Kenni almost tucked the boy under his arm as he sat there, so that Scamp's little butt was pointed at us. His little cargo pants were so low down that you could almost see the top of the boy's butt crack. He had a beautiful little butt. Scamp didn't seem to mind being manhandled like that. He was very docile, very compliant and uncomplaining.

"See that?" said Kenni.

He was clearly demonstrating the angry purple scar on the little boy's back. It had the tell-tale cross hatchings where the incision had been crudely and inexpertly stitched back up.

"They took one of his kidneys."

Kenni was genuinely angry. He held Scamp there for a few seconds, the boy's back turned towards us, and made sure we got a good look at the painful looking disfigurement. Scamp was patient and quiet, his diminutive body breathing silent little breaths, and Kenni looked at him with a very affectionate stare. I wondered, in that instant, if there was something going on between Kenni and Scamp. Scamp seemed very acquiescent to Kenni's rough handling, as though he was kinda used to it.

"How can they do that to a kid?" said Kenni, "How?"

"What happened?" I asked, solicitously.

"We don't know exactly," said Kenni, "He's never been able to tell us. Scamp is mute."

"Oh," I said, almost regretting that I'd asked.

"Scamp has never spoken a word since," Kenni explained.

"Poor kid," I said, genuinely perturbed, and turned away in disgust.

Simon-Peter was looking at me with a worried, almost tearful look. I felt so sorry for him. He wasn't used to hearing of such horrors. He was innocent to the ways of the world, but since he had lost his father, and the fall of Verolino, he had seen many unanticipated horrors. In a way I wished he wasn't seeing any of this. I felt very protective towards him, and I would have preferred him to be spared these unpalatable truths.

I reached over and took Simon-Peter's little fist in mine, as a gesture of consolation. He smiled sadly. Kenni noticed that and seemed to mellow a little. I think he detected how much Simon-Peter meant to me. Perhaps it was on a par with his relationship with Scamp, I couldn't be sure, but at that moment Kenni's whole demeanor changed.

Kenni let Scamp go. The little boy straightened up and Kenni smiled and winked at him.

"Okay kiddo?" said Kenni, in a very affectionate way.

Scamp nodded and smiled back, and when he did I noticed how his two front teeth were missing. He was so cute. He held up his little hand, and made a quick, nimble gesture with his fingers. It was too quick for me to catch what it was. Obviously some kind of sign language. Then Scamp walked off quite happily, seemingly unperturbed, and went back to whatever he was doing. I watched him go and my heart melted for the little guy. I understood now why Scamp was so silent.

By now we had finished eating and put the empty packaging of our MREs aside, draining the last from our bottles of Coke.

Kenni reached into the inside pocket of his bikers jacket and brought out the cigarettes he had taken off me earlier. He had evidently changed his mind, and put them back on the table in front of me. They were rather crushed and all bent out of shape.

"Here you can have these back," he said.

"No, it's okay," I said, "You keep them. I don't smoke."

"In that case…" he said, and reached out and took one.

He stuck the cigarette in his lips.

"Scamp!" he called.

Within seconds Scamp appeared with one of the candles, which he held up for Kenni to light his cigarette. Kenni sucked hard, making the tip of the cigarette glow bright orange, and inhaled deeply, with all the aplomb of a seasoned smoker. He even took an appreciative look at the cigarette as it smoldered away between his knuckles. It was almost as though he had not had a cigarette for some time. Cigarettes were evidently one thing they didn't have around here, I surmised.

"So…" Kenni began again, exhaling smoke with the words, "You gonna show us your shit now?"

I shrugged.

"If you like," I said resignedly.

Kenni looked at Simon-Peter.

"Not him," I said, "He's not ready for that."

Kenni seemed to understand and nodded his agreement.

"Lucky for you I prefer blonds," said Kenni, with a wry smile.

I smiled back. It was the first overt indication he had given that he was into boys at all. I wondered if that was also a veiled reference to Scamp, and whether Kenni was maybe fucking the little blond boy. I rather liked the idea of those two boys together. Kenni was very handsome and Scamp was infinitely cute and fuckable.

"What you want me to do?" I asked him.

"You decide," said Kenni, taking another drag on the cigarette.

I was surprised but relieved that he was prepared to allow me free reign. I had promised to show them my shit, so that's what I did. I guessed they had earned it, after sharing their food with us. It struck me that this was going to be the equivalent of singing for my supper.

This end of the room was well lit, so I decided to get up on the table. Spider stood up, taking the pistol with him, and he and Scamp moved the chairs away and cleared the table. Kenni went to beckon the other boys over. They had all been mostly out of earshot of our conversation, still secreted about the room in their own little corners, and mostly invisible amongst the shadows of the darkened alcoves of the cellar. But the news that I was going to give them a show brought them all shuffling forward and they formed a little semicircle around the table. The little ones came to the front, the older ones behind, and they studiously scrunched together with a murmur of anticipation. I guess there must have been about twenty boys in the room, all looking scruffy and neglected, but all wide-eyed and curious.

Kenni went over and leaned nonchalantly against the grimy wall, still enjoying the cigarette. I noticed the way he had a habit of flicking his head to shake his long, floppy hair out of his eyes. I thought that was very sexy. Next to him, Spider stood gingerly fingering the pistol close to his chest. Scamp sat obediently on one of the chairs, and I was rather delighted when Simon-Peter pulled up another chair and sat next to him. They even turned and smiled at each other. It was so cute.

First I removed my dusty shoes and grimy socks, discarding them on the floor under the table, then I took off my thin jacket, which I tossed over to Simon-Peter. Then I got up, sat on the edge of the table and swung my legs up, so I was kneeling on the table in just my shirt and jeans. I began by running my hand over my crotch sensuously, thrusting my hips a little, and rubbing my palm over my dick. I was already hard, and already horned up at the prospect of showing my shit to this captive audience of curious and admiring boys. I would have preferred them to see my little dick limp, and demonstrate it getting big and hard. That would have been more interesting for them. But my irrepressible little dick was already stiffly pressing against the front of my pants straining to be unleashed. I just couldn't help it. It was burning with hardness and I desperately wanted to jack it. Right now I wanted to spunk real bad and I was inordinately excited that they were going to witness it. I knew that with this many pairs of eyes all trained on me, focusing on my dick, perhaps all with stiff little dickies in their pants, I was gonna cum real hard.

Sensuously, I unbuttoned my shirt, and let it fall open, with one hand up around the back of my head. I had my head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth open in feigned ecstasy, and rubbed my crotch with my other hand. Next I opened my pants, exposing my boxer-briefs, and stuck my hand down the front, rubbing frantically and grabbing at my shit. It felt good. I grabbed my package real hard, clawing at my balls and running my hand under my balls right into my perineum, even getting a quick fingertip rub on the rim of my little star.

I peeled back my shirt and exposed my shoulders, letting my loose shirt fall off my arms and onto the table behind me. Now shirtless, I laid down on the table with my legs stretched out and propped myself up on one elbow. Tilting towards my little audience, my head still thrown back in mock pleasure, I ran my hands over my smooth chest, being sure to give a pronounced pinch on my pink little nipples. I made a little grimace at that, feigning a gasp of self-inflicted pain, along with a quick glimpse into my mouth, my lips opened ever so slightly, ever so tantalizingly. I stroked my flat tummy and then slowly went further down into my crotch again. I lifted my butt off the table and pulled my jeans down to my knees. Then I rolled over and pointed my leg at my audience. I never talked to the audience during these performances. It was important to retain that separation when you were showing your shit. But I still interacted with them, and indeed sometimes even compelled their participation. When I pointed my toes at the audience, just as I expected, the response was automatic. It was Kenni who approached the table. He knew exactly what to do. He looked deep into my eyes as he leaned over and pulled my jeans off me. I leaned back on my butt with my legs lifted, and he very efficiently whipped off the jeans in one swift action.

Now in just my boxer-briefs, I got back up on my knees, still lasciviously rubbing my hands all over my body, and thrust out my pelvis so they could clearly see my stiffie. It was trapped upwards and slightly to one side in my tight boxer-briefs, its outline clearly visible under the stretchy fabric. I pulled on it roughly, even through the material, and sought out a pair of eyes in the audience to focus on. I saw Simon-Peter over to one side squirming in his seat, one hand firmly embedded in his crotch. That pleased me. What a horny little boy he was. Next to him, Scamp was fixated on me, staring wide-eyed, his little jaw dropped open in a wondrous smile, showing his missing front teeth. His blue eyes and whitish blond hair were so cute. He was like some adorable little boy doll. But it was Kenni I chose to focus on. Though he was staring with a pretty nondescript expression, his dark eyes were gleaming with fascination. I stared into those eyes, boring right into his head as I pulled the waistband of my boxer-briefs down just a little so that the head of my dick was showing, and I just squirmed around like that for a bit. The skin was pulled down so that the shiny little purple head was poking out, and the tightness of the elastic against my frenulum actually hurt a little as it cut into the soft sensitive flesh.

When I had drawn out the anticipation long enough, I flipped down the front of my boxer-briefs and my stiff, heavily engorged little dick fell out, fully erect and the skin drawn back as though it was cocked for firing. The other boys gave off an audible gasp. That really heightened the eroticism. Tell the truth, I knew I was gonna cum real soon. My cock was burning with hardness and I really wanted to fuck it into something – or someone. I pulled my boxer-briefs down to my knees, then slipped them off, threading them down my calves. I tossed them at the audience, still warm from my body heat, and hit Kenni square in the face. To my delight, he grabbed the limp little garment as it slipped from his face, and took a long, heady sniff, his dark eyes gleaming with mischief. I smiled at that, and he seemed to giggle. I liked Kenni's spirit.

I was now completely naked. My body was fully on display, free from the cumbersome shackles of my clothing. Being naked in front of an audience was always strangely liberating. Turning my back to my audience, I decided they needed to see a bit of butt play. I knew I had a beautiful butt, firm and round and smooth, and my narrow hips made it perfect for fucking. I knew my little audience would appreciate it. I wiggled my hips a little from side to side and bent forward, spreading my knees so they could see my tight little balls. I pressed my face flat against the table top with my ass up in the air, and my stiffie pointing down, so they could get the full unobstructed view of all my shit and my pretty little star. I laid my cheek flat on the table and reached back with both hands, parting the perfect globes of my young ass, exposing my little rosebud for them, so they could see the entrance to paradise, my delicious boycunt puckered so invitingly behind my balls, ripe for one of their little boycocks to stab into it. I rubbed my fingertips around the rim, then stuck two fingers in, showing them how ready and accommodating my little snatch was. At this moment I was so fucking horned up I desperately wanted someone to fuck me. It wouldn't have mattered who. I just wanted to feel boyflesh rooting hard up my little chute.

After that, I got up and turned around, taking hold of my dick once more. I scooted towards the edge of the table on my knees and pointed it at Kenni. I could see Kenni was really getting into my little performance. I liked that. I did a bit more sensual massaging of my chest and tummy, a little nipple play, and then moved back down to my stiffie. I licked my fingertips and rubbed my spit on my cockhead, plucking the exposed end gently. I took the base between my splayed fingers, and teased it a bit, making it waggle erratically, touching it in every way except actually jacking it in my fist. I wanted them to see as much of my shaft as possible before I went in for bombs gone. When I was ready, and I knew I couldn't last much longer, I turned so that I was slightly sideways on, so they could get the full effect. That way they could appreciate the length of my boydick and observe the refinement in my stroke. Jacking my dick was a pastime I had perfected to suit my own requirements, which I was pretty sure was the case with all boys, but I had a particularly edifying technique. I leaned back slightly, arching my back, and thrust my hips forward to emphasize my dick length. Then I formed a little O shape with my thumb and index finger, rather than using a whole fist, so they could see my fingers stroking my long, thick shaft. I was careful to turn so that my jacking arm was furthest away from them, so as not to obscure their view, and I used long, firm, slow strokes so that the younger ones, who may not even have touched their little todgers yet, could get a good idea of what to do. I was moaning now, and tossing my blond head around. I knew I was gonna cum real hard with all these young eyes watching me. Quite possibly there were a few little stiffies in the audience, and I briefly imagined how many of these dirty little tykes were gonna pull their tiny todgers after watching this. That was so erotic. The thought of these boys spilling their little kiddie fuckwads in muted pleasure over my performance was just too much. In no time at all I could feel the burning pleasure become ever more insistent and I knew I was gonna have to shed my load. Close to ignition, I stretched out on the table and leaned back. I propped myself up on one elbow, so that I was tilted towards my audience, and positioned my jacking angle so that my dick was pointed up towards my chest. I thought it would be bad form to spunk all over their floor, or even on the table, so I decided to let it out all over my chest and tummy. It would be good for them to see my smooth hairless body being pelted by its own fuckjuice.

"I'm gonna cum!" I announced breathlessly, by now jacking faster and with more purpose.

My little audience seemed to shuffle forward, so that they closed in, anxious to see every detail of my finale. I jacked frantically. I couldn't help groaning quite loudly – it was quite involuntary – but the impending pleasure was tangible and overpowering. I felt my dick tighten up so good and my whole body tensed, and I knew it was bombs gone. I shuddered violently and shot my load, cumming pretty spectacularly. There was a gasp from my admiring audience. I managed to elicit three pretty strong squirts that came out almost in slow motion, each one stronger than the last so that I had three lashes of cloudy kidspunk streaked up my chest and tummy. One had hit my little innie belly button square on and was pooling inside. The other had been ejected slightly off centre and was trickling down my hip, whilst the strongest one was glistening right in the centre of my chest, in the groove of my breastbone. It was one of my best cumshots ever. Fuck, it was beautiful.

The boys let up a low murmur of awe, clearly mesmerized by my antics. When I had finished cumming, I had to round it off in the only way I knew how. As I came down from my high, I looked admiringly at my work, smiling at the sight of my young spunk glistening on my smooth body. I rubbed a little of it into my skin, using swirling motions with my fingertips, creating a greasy smear over my chest, until it was absorbed into my skin, leaving a slightly sticky residue. The boys seemed to like that. I loved the way my spunk gave off that familiar heady aroma of sexual fluids as it was absorbed into my skin. Then it was time to invite my audience to explore. I stopped and looked around at my spectators and held up my wet hand. My fingers were clenched in a loose fist with my own kiddiecum still drizzled over my knuckles. I offered it to my audience with a mischievous smile. It was Simon-Peter that popped up from his seat and came over, putting his hands obediently on the edge of the table and leaned over. Scamp came over with him, curious to see what he was going to do. Simon-Peter opened his lips, presenting his little mouth to me. He had the right idea. I held my hand up to his open mouth and let him lick it. He tilted his head this way and that, his slick little tongue lapping warmly over my spunk-stained hand, savoring every drop of my discarded boyjizz and even suckling on my fingers like a little puppy. I had pumped so much of my kidspunk down his throat recently I think he was quite partial to the taste. Taking his lead from Simon-Peter, Scamp dared to reach over and dab a curious little finger into the kidspunk that was pooled in my belly button. He looked at it studiously, smiling with fascination, and I could see the gap in his teeth where his front two baby incisors were missing. I couldn't help wondering if that little gap in his teeth made him more suited to cock-sucking, whether perhaps the absence of those two front teeth facilitated a better blowjob. Scamp was such a cute little thing, and I would have loved to test out my theory by sticking Little Cloud right into the back of his little mouth and feverishly fucking his cute blond head. Scamp then stuck out his tongue and licked his fingertip to take a tentative taste of my boyjizz. This certainly impressed the others, who were murmuring their approval, and they all decided to surround the table, closing in on me from all sides, eager to touch me and explore my body for themselves. I was in heaven. I just laid on the table naked and let them do what they liked.

Kenni put his hand gently on my cock and looked at me enquiringly, seeking my permission to play with it. I smiled and gave him a vague nod, showing him that he could do whatever he wanted. He smiled back gratefully, took hold of my wet little cock and squeezed it, as though trying it out for size. It sent a sharp jolt of pleasure all through me. But then, Kenni was such a handsome boy, with that long, floppy hair and deep-set eyes. He could have jacked me off to another cum almost immediately. His fist around my boydick was exquisite! He dipped his thumb into the pool of clear kiddiecum that was smeared on my cockhead and was accumulating in the opening of my foreskin. He rubbed the cum between his fingers as though gauging its viscosity. The other boys were touching me all over, stroking my chest and tummy, squeezing my arms, rubbing my thighs, murmuring their fascination and approval, and congratulating me on my performance. It was wonderful, and for a good few minutes I reveled in their attention. Firstly, I loved having my body stroked and explored by so many little curious hands, but I was also aware that my stiffie was unwavering, and Little Cloud never went down after just one cum. He was still proudly standing to attention, clearly bolstered by the spectacle he had created. Of course it was blatant narcissism on my part, but then I always did have a very dominant streak of exhibitionism in me. I think all shota boys did. You couldn't really perform on demand unless you had some semblance of vanity about you.

Standing off to the side, I could see Spider languishing somewhere behind Kenni. He made no attempt to reach in and touch me, but I could see that he was clearly caught up in the general permissiveness of this whole scenario, but I wasn't sure if he was able to override his inhibitions enough to join in. He was admiring me with a cool, detached kind of fascination, and he had that look of longing in his eyes, like he wished the other boys weren't there and he could be alone with me so we could do stuff together. Tell the truth, Spider was very attractive. Yes, Kenni was handsome, but whereas Kenni was quite blatantly good-looking, Spider's beauty was more innate. Spider had this pent-up prettiness about him, a latent and reserved sexual allure that almost craved the opportunity to flourish. With that pearly complexion and rust-colored hair, and his dark, mysterious eyes. No sir, I wasn't averse to the idea of fucking around with him, not one little bit.

Simon-Peter then got up on the table, clearly spurred on by the general mood of 'anything goes'. He clambered up and knelt down next to me. He leaned over and sucked up the kiddiecum that was drying on my body, his little lips gently skimming the skin on my chest and tummy. Tell the truth, it was very arousing. Then, like a true spunkboy, Simon-Peter closed in and firmly attached his little mouth to mine, kissing me hard. In doing so, he fed my kidspunk back into my own mouth. The other boys gasped. They had never seen such explicit antics. Simon-Peter surprised even me. I had never taught him anything about cum-swapping or snowballing. Evidently this was something he decided to do all by himself. It was a good indication that my sexual mentoring of him had paid off. I had always encouraged him to do what he felt like, to listen to his body and go with his instincts. Evidently I had taught him well. What a horny, dirty little tyke he was. I was so proud of him.

Chapter 15
Escaping Verolino

Kenni and Spider had their own room. They were the only ones that occupied that chamber of the cellar, separate from the other boys. I guess they were both leaders of sorts, so they were entitled to that privilege. Except that Spider had assumed the role of lookout and sentry, and spent most of his time above ground guaranteeing everybody's safety by watching the entrance to the cellar. Since he spent much of the night above ground, he kindly let me sleep in his bed. Actually, it wasn't really a bed. It was an accumulation of thin blankets and a comforter which he had arranged on the hard stone floor. Kenni's bed, just next to his, was the same. Simon-Peter, meanwhile, had opted to share Scamp's bed. That was at Scamp's invitation. Evidently the two little boys were drawn to each other, and Scamp's bed had ample space for both of them. But they spent much of the night whispering and giggling conspiratorially under the comforter, much to the annoyance of the other boys.

In the morning, I was awoken by the smell of fresh coffee. I was alone in Spider's bed. I was still sleepy, and my bones were sore from the hard floor. I sat up and looked around the room. Kenni's bed was empty. Through the heavy wooden door I could hear the clattering of mugs and the muted voices of the other boys. A little daylight emanated. On the side of Spider's bed I could see he had made a little table out of an upturned bread crate, with a piece of roughly cut plywood placed over the top. On this low table he had all his personal effects – a spare magazine for his pistol, a pencil that was chewed halfway down, a toothbrush and there was even a comb that had a few of his distinctive reddish hairs trapped in it. There was one item I was drawn to in particular. It was a little photo in a frame. I got up off the bed and reached over to pick it up for a closer look. I stood there for a moment admiring the little photo in its heavy metal frame. It was of a much younger Spider with his family – mum, dad and what appeared to be an older brother. As I stood there admiring it, taking in the details of the scene, I was saddened that it had obviously been taken in happier times, before the specter of war was even anticipated.

Suddenly I was rudely pulled back from my reverie.

"Don't touch my stuff!" Spider yelled, from somewhere behind me.

Before I knew it, he stormed up to me and snatched the little keepsake from my grasp.

"Leave my stuff alone!" he bawled into my face.

I was a little unprepared for his abruptness and his sudden yelling made me recoil slightly. I wasn't used to being screamed at.

"Okay, okay," I countered, "Calm down. No need to be so touchy about it."

"Don't tell me to calm down!" he screamed.

At the same time he pulled out his pistol and waved it menacingly in my face.

"Just don't tell me what to do or, so help me, I'll blow your fuckin' head off!"

"Okay, okay," I conceded, holding my hands up, partly in surrender and partly to fend him off.

Spider turned away in a huff and grouchily set about putting the photo back in its place. He carefully placed the photograph back as it was on the little table.

Kenni came in, having heard the shouting.

"Hey what's going on?"

"Nothin's goin' on," said Spider, and then he turned to me with a flash of hostility, "Isn't it enough that I let you sleep in my bed?"

Then Spider left the room in a huff, leaving Kenni standing by the threshold. Kenni had obviously decided that it was probably better to let him calm down.

"What's his problem?" I asked Kenni, still a little overwhelmed by Spider's overreaction.

"Don't be too hard on him," said Kenni, "He's prone to flying off the handle like that."

"Don't know how you put up with it," I replied, slightly rattled.

Kenni hesitated, and he shook his floppy hair out of his eyes with that well-practiced flick of his head, which I thought was extremely sexy.

"He's been through a lot," said Kenni.

"So have we all," I said, thinking that no defense for Spider's behavior.

"Not like him," said Kenni, and then added, almost as an afterthought, "Spider is from Falkenburg."

That shut me up immediately. The name of Falkenburg was enough to strike terror into anybody. That is, anybody who knew the atrocities that that name was associated with.

Still standing by Spider's little table, I looked at Kenni, a little subdued by that information.

"But they killed everybody in Falkenburg, didn't they? Every man, woman and child."

"Not all of them," Kenni stated emphatically, "Some managed to escape from the burning church."

"Oh," I said, struck dumb by the implications of that statement, "Spider was one of them?"

"Yes," said Kenni, nodding, "so don't judge him too harshly. He's seen things that most us could never even imagine."

Everybody knew what the KAPOs did at Falkenburg. It was well documented. The perpetrators were even now being sought for war crimes.

"I had no idea," I said.

Kenni nodded some more, confirming his statement.

"Yeh, they tortured and killed his whole family before his very eyes," Kenni went on, "And then they tried to kill him too. I can't imagine that. Can you?"

I looked at Kenni, not knowing quite how to answer that.

"No," I said, shaking my head, "How could I?"

"War does funny things to people," Kenni said, and it was a remark that revealed an altogether more philosophical side to him, "Spider will have to live with that for the rest of his life. It makes me afraid for the future – growing up with all that bitterness."

I nodded, for now quieted by these revelations and resolved not to bear a grudge against Spider. On the contrary, I actually felt like going to find him, putting an apologetic arm around him, and telling him how sorry I was. His story made me realize that in our encounter with KAPO, Simon-Peter and I had got away relatively lightly.

Breakfast consisted of coffee and stale bread, cut into thick hunks. There was even some butter and jam. They at least had a little gas stove which they used to boil water, but used it very sparingly, since both gas and water were in short supply. In the main part of the cellar, I saw Simon-Peter playing cards with Scamp. They were sitting cross-legged on the floor, in amongst Scamp's rumpled bedding, smiling and giggling and emitting little remarks and witticisms. The two little boys seemed to be getting along fine, the miserable circumstances of their lives temporarily forgotten. Pretty soon I knew that Simon-Peter and I would be leaving. We had to go, and couldn't abuse these boys' hospitality any longer.

After breakfast, I emerged from the cellar into the ruins above ground. I saw Spider way over on the other side of the ruined plot. He was sitting on what was left of one of the outer walls of the house. He had one leg swinging loosely, and was holding the pistol in his lap. He was obviously keeping watch from that vantage point, in case anybody approached. He saw me and, since he was out of earshot, just gave me a single pronounced nod. It was slow and deliberate, almost a bow of acknowledgement, and a sign that his earlier hostility and anger was now forgotten. I bowed my head in reply. I looked around and decided to stay and soak up the warm sunshine for a while. I realized that one of the drawbacks of hiding in a cellar was that you never got to see daylight. I also realized that Spider was a valuable member of this little boy community. He guarded the entrance day and night and they owed their safety to him. That was a big sacrifice and responsibility for a boy who was only 11. And I had to keep reminding myself that, despite these boys' maturity and wisdom, despite all their streetsmart savviness, they were still just boys.

I picked my way through the ruins and went around the back of the derelict plot, to the side of the house that was away from the road. The wooden fence had been blown down and there had once been a yard with flower beds and trees. Most of the saplings had been snapped like twigs. The older trees were practically stripped of foliage. The lower branches were hanging off, broken, and the thick trunks had pock marks where shrapnel had splintered against the bark. It was shady and dark around there. I walked up to the remainder of what had once been the garden wall, and took up position to take a pee.

Whilst I was standing there, with my todger in my fingers, watching my pee running down the wall, splattering the powdery brick dust, I saw Spider just on the left take up position next to me. It caught me unawares because he was so stealthy I didn't hear him approach. He was fiddling with his flies, and then I heard another stream of pee splashing onto the wall next to mine. I glanced over at him. He was looking at my todger as I held it there, peeing. He looked up at my face, then turned away and looked back down to concentrate on finishing his business. He then stared at the blank wall in front of him. As we both stood there peeing, he started directing his stream of pee into mine, playfully intercepting my jet of pee with his. I knew immediately that it was an act of rapprochement, a token gesture of apology and reconciliation after his earlier flash of anger.

"Sorry I shouted at you," he said quietly, "Sometimes I can't help it."

"That's okay," I said, "I shouldn't have touched your things, I'm sorry. And I do appreciate you letting me sleep in your bed."

"That's okay," he replied, and then there was a moment of quiet reflection as we absorbed each other's apologies.

I sensed that he was no longer guarded and confrontational, but had mellowed towards me. After spending the night with these boys, we knew enough about each other to have earned each other's respect.

After a short pause, Spider piped up again.

"That was some show you put on last night," he said, with a tone of genuine admiration.

"You enjoy it?" I asked him, as I shook off my dick and stashed it back into my pants.

He nodded.

"Yup. Very much," he said.

"Good," I replied, "I aim to please."

I waited for him to finish, standing a bit behind him, just able to see the tip of his todger as he held it there, still peeing. It was a nice size, long and fat, with a nicely rounded head that was a delicate shade of light pink. He turned and saw me staring as he finished, suddenly realizing I was checking out his shit.

"Summat you want?" he asked, challengingly, as he tucked his dick away.

I looked at him, slightly taken aback by his forwardness.

"Me?" I retorted, "I could teach YOU a few things."

"No doubt you could," he replied.

And then, after a pause of hesitation, he turned towards me, open and relaxed.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," I said, a little unprepared for his entreaty, but interested to hear his query.

He put his hands in his pockets, the pistol safely stowed into the waist of his pants. His stance was very unthreatening.

"What's it like?"

"What's what like?"

"Being a shota boy."

"Like any other job, I guess," I replied, "On the whole it's pretty routine, but it has its moments."

He looked confused and pulled a pained expression.

"But all those strange men… Don't you ever get tired of it?"

"You ever get tired of wanking?" I asked, plainly.

His expression, though one of surprise, was not altogether incredulous. I could tell from the look in his eyes that we both knew the answer to that.

"Well then," I said, by way of conclusion.

"Yeah but… being fucked up the ass all the time…"

I laughed.

"It's not as bad as all that," I said, playing down his concerns, "It can be quite enjoyable."

"Really? You enjoy it that much?"

"Sure," I said, "I'm horny all the time, so it suits me."

"You horny now?" he asked, quite innocently.

I laughed again.

"Is that a proposition?" I replied, with a wry smile.

He stared for a moment too long before replying.

"Well… I am kinda curious," he confessed, "I mean, I never… you know…"

"What? You never fucked about with another boy?"

He shrugged.

"Only a bit of jerking off with Kenni, when we were younger."

"You never fucked about with him?"

"Not properly," he said, "not really."

"Would you have liked to?"

He looked at me with an 'are you crazy?' expression.

"Of course," he replied, emphatically, "Who wouldn't?"

I nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, he is pretty handsome."

Spider shrugged again, looking down at his feet hopelessly.

"Just wondered what it was like," he muttered, quietly.

"C' mere," I said, looking at him suggestively, and beckoned him towards me with a quick flick of my head.

He stepped towards me quite readily, and stood within touching distance with a vacant expression. I leaned over, hooked my arm around his neck and drew him towards me. My lips connected with his, at the same time as I squeezed his crotch with my other hand. I ignored the pistol that was pressed between us and felt for his dick. It was soft but substantial. I kneaded it gently through his loose jeans, simultaneously exploring his mouth. He exhaled softly against my cheek, instantly aroused and, I could tell, game for a bit of fumbling around.

He suddenly pulled away. His face was flushed and his dark eyes were wide with arousal.

"Not here," he said, suddenly taking control, "Follow me."

He turned and led me towards the boundary of the devastated yard, through a half demolished brick wall and clambered down a short, grassy embankment. Kneeling down, he allowed the soles of his sneakers to slide down the slope without losing his balance. You could tell from the ease and familiarity with which he did it, that he had done this many times. I followed him, though I was not quite as sure-footed as him down the grassy slope.

At the bottom, there was a little gully that wound its way along into the undergrowth, and Spider expertly stepped in amongst the tall grass, parting the reeds for me to step through the gap. We followed the gully for a good long while until we were well out of sight of the derelict house. In fact, from down there, the ruins of the city were not visible at all. We were almost hidden from view on both sides of the gully by the embankment and the tall grass.

At last Spider found a good spot. The grass was long, but well flattened, and we were well hidden by the tall grass that surrounded us. It was quite a cozy and intimate spot. I couldn't tell if this was a favorite spot or one he had just chanced upon, but it was clear that Spider had a good knowledge of the terrain. Like a good scout, he knew his locality well.

Spider settled himself on the flattened, springy grass, and stretched out, laying the pistol on the ground next to him. He leaned well back, propped up on his elbows, and looked around at me. His cheeks were flushed – the flush of sexual arousal. I knew that look. He was waiting for me to show him the way, quiescently putting himself in my hands.

I got down on the grass next to him and leaned over. We kissed for a good long while. At first it was very tentative, with me leaning over his reclining body, but as things heated up, I almost clambered onto him. He pulled me to him, so that I rolled over and was lying on top of him. I could tell from the urgency of his tongue and lips that he was inexperienced, but very keen. Enthusiasm was key in such situations. He didn't really know what to do, but he was willing. His willingness was enough. He slobbered and slathered all over my face, sticking his tongue in my mouth tentatively, nibbling on my lips, making my face wet. His inexperience, as always, was tremendously arousing. He had more or less admitted that he had never been with another boy. I kinda felt sorry for him. He was a good looking boy, with a beautiful physique, what I'd seen of it, and he was obviously curious about boysex.

Rolling off him for a moment, I laid next to him and reached for his flies. His dick was hard and long in his pants, pulsating against the tightness of his jeans. I opened the front of his pants and freed it from its bondage. I was inordinately aroused by the fact that Spider wasn't wearing any underwear. His hairless package looked so inviting nestling there freshly unwrapped from the crisp denim of his jeans. His dick was very substantial in its aroused state, and was perfectly long and thick. It looked so good to me, I had to wrap my lips around it. He pulled his opened jeans down below his butt, releasing his hairless balls, and he drew his shirt up to expose his midriff. He had a beautifully smooth and flat tummy. I licked his cock and balls. His hairless little rod laid flat on his abdomen, pointing towards his navel, so I kissed the underside, pressing my lips all the way up the ridge of his tube – I loved having my dickie kissed like that – and he moaned with pleasure. He held onto my head, digging his fingers into my shaggy blond mop, and he was almost pushing me away because the sensations were too much for him. I moved on up, kissing the pinkish head of his dick, then his abdomen and his tight tummy and burying my face in his warmth. He smelled good, and his skin was very silky and clear. It was a shame, I thought, as I pulled his shirt up further to gorge on his nipples, that no boy had ever enjoyed his body like this before. His dick was very pretty, and inordinately stiff with excitement. I could see that Spider was actually very sexual and his young hairless body was infinitely spunkable. I wanted him to feel the unbridled pleasures of boysex with me. I wanted him to experience the sensation of having his dick blown. I just needed to do stuff to him. Fuck, I needed to sex him up real bad.

I sucked on the underside of his boydick for a good long time, moving my lips along the length rather like playing a harmonica, every now and then stopping to wrap my lips around the head. I didn't put a hand on it. I laid my palms flat on his slender thigh and his tight tummy, and bobbed my mouth around his crotch, stimulating his dick using only my mouth, and you could see his young dick straining upwards and becoming stiffer and more aroused. I realized that I could make him blow his wad like that. That little dick was responding well to my ministrations, and I decided to see if I could make him blow his wad without using my hands. I kissed and licked and sucked and he went on writhing around on the grass. His urgent, high pitched moans were so erotic. Eventually his vocalizations became so prominent that I knew he was gonna blow any minute. I didn't dare stop now. When his dick finally spat out his load, I knew what was coming because he almost held his breath, feeling his orgasm approach, and his dick went into spasms long before he shot his juice – in fact it seemed to waggle violently, drawing up as far as possible, brushing up against his abdomen, at maximum elevation. It did that a couple of times, then rose back into the air and squirted a beautiful little line of boyspunk up towards his belly button. It squirted out in a series of droplets, and they laid there glistening on his silky skin, like a row of tiny pearls. Just like me, he didn't squirt out much, but there was a beautiful semi-opaqueness to his unripe boyjuice, which made it look thicker and more substantial than mine. I stooped over him, pleased with my work, admiring his kidspunk, taking in the sight of this immature essence that his young body had given up just for me, this magical liquid I had coaxed from deep within his underdeveloped little balls. Whatever – I had to lick it up. That kiddiecum looked so good lying there still warm on his belly, that I lapped it all up. I swallowed it eagerly, even licking my lips, just like a cat with a saucer of milk. His kiddiespunk was sweet and raw, with a slightly salty undertaste. It was delicious.

With my lips still smeared from his juice, I moved on up and kissed him, just so he could get a hint of what his own boycum tasted like. He didn't know what it was at first. He kissed me readily enough, then detected the unfamiliar substance on my lips, and I could see him savoring it and wondering if that was what kidspunk really tasted like. His expression was promising – he seemed to like it. At any rate there was no hint of revulsion or disapproval. I laid next to him, propped up on one elbow, staring down at him as he came down from the high of his cum. I smiled. He assimilated the ecstasy of what I had just done to him, and he returned the smile in a knowing, relaxed and even appreciative way. I knew he had enjoyed it. It was funny, I thought, that when we had first met this boy, only a matter of a few hours ago, last night when we had stumbled upon him and his lair, he had seemed so threatening and powerful, waving that stupid pistol around at us. Then we had been totally at HIS mercy. Well, now he was at MY mercy, and I hoped I had just given him a lesson in how to use his weapon properly – the one that really counts.

As he was lying there contentedly, he reached up and pulled my head down and we kissed. I was pleasantly surprised that he wanted more, apparently not prepared to let this magical encounter end just yet. There was real passion in his kiss, and as our lips parted, he whispered tremulously.

"Fuck me."

I looked down into his big, liquid eyes, a little unsure.

"What?"

"Fuck me," he said again, a little louder.

I looked at him lying there next to me, and his little dick was hardening again. He was a beautiful boy, with that clear, pearly complexion and that distinctive rust colored hair. He looked so fuckable lying there in the grass.

"Please fuck me," he implored me.

I brushed his rusty hair out of his eyes tenderly as he laid there, revealing his clear, high forehead.

"You're sure?" I asked.

He smiled as though I'd said something quaint, and nodded assuredly.

"Please let me know what it feels like," he pleaded.

I admired his presence of mind. He wanted his cunt rooted and certainly knew how to exploit an opportunity. At the same time I almost felt sorry for him because he had never felt the unbridled pleasures of cock and ass play. In my book, that was the birthright of all boys.

Unbidden by me, he rose up and took his shirt off completely, exposing his torso for me. I rather liked the expert way he did it, by crossing his arms and pulling it off over his head in one seamless movement. Then he took off his jeans completely, pulling them off each of his feet, so that he was totally naked. I liked that even better. It showed that he was comfortable enough with me to shed all his inhibitions. When he was completely unclothed, he laid back down next to me and stretched out in the grass. With his clothes off, I was able to appreciate his musculature and composition. I almost gasped at his beauty. His boyish body was so perfect, quite well-defined but as yet untouched by the ravages of adolescence. His skin was so clear, so smooth and white and creamy. He turned over, carefully turning his face to one side, and presented his flawless butt to me. It was beautifully smooth and round, perfectly formed, rising up with a gentle swell from the dip of his narrow waist. It was so inviting, so alluring. Fuck, I had to stab my cock into it. Little Cloud was already horning up in readiness, in anticipation of injecting his little load right into Spider's hot little cunt.

I stripped off quickly. I wanted to get naked with him and feel his hot young body against mine. It was odd, I thought, as I shed my clothes item by item, that with all the fucking around I had done, this was the first time I had ever got naked with anyone outdoors. It was tremendously exciting. I impetuously jettisoned the last of my clothes and threw my boxer briefs aside, so that my clothes formed a little pile with Spider's, beneath which I could see the handgrip of his pistol sticking out. Then I mounted him, straddling his thighs, and sat astride him for a few moments just admiring his physique. He had a beautiful back, shapely shoulders which tapered down to a narrow waist, with the perfect groove of his spine running all the way down the middle to the hard little muscles in the small of his back. Tell the truth, his body was so perfect lying there, I could have spunked all over his back. I felt like I wanted to spray my kiddiespunk all over him. I huddled down close to him and kissed him on the back of his neck. Then I whispered into his ear.

"You're so beautiful."

He gave me a sidelong glance, his face turned so that one cheek was resting on the grass, and he looked amused, like he didn't believe me. But I swear, at that moment, this boy's natural beauty radiated tangibly.

"No," he said, "I'm not. Don't say things like that."

"Why not?" I countered, "You're gorgeous."

"Then why has Kenni never been interested in me?" he asked, looking to discredit my assertion.

"Because Kenni has never seen the beauty in you," I said.

Still with his head turned to one side, one cheek pressing into the grass, he seemed to smile a little.

"Do you really mean that?"

"Oh yes," I said, "You're very beautiful."

He smiled proudly at that. I could tell that my flattery had bolstered him. He badly needed to hear it too, because he really didn't realize how good looking he was. In a way, that was part of his attraction. There was a kind of sexual innocence about Spider that made him infinitely attractive. That was compounded by his inexperience, which was also inordinately arousing.

Galvanized by my kind murmurings, and reassured by my benevolent iterations, he settled himself on the grass, spreading out and relaxing. He folded his arms under his chin, as though he was sunbathing, and closed his eyes. Still sat astride him, I stroked his smooth back, rubbing him up and down with long, firm strokes, and I felt his warmth, squeezing the hard little muscles in his arms and shoulders, sheathed beneath that flawless young skin.

"Cloud?" he said, his eyes still closed.

"Yes?"

"Go easy on me."

I bent down and kissed him on the back of the head, acknowledging his request, and as I did so, I moved my hips down and laid my pelvis on his butt. My hard little dick fell into the natural groove of his gorgeous butt, and I stabbed a few times looking for his hole. On the third attempt, I was inside him.

As my dick found its target, I used more force to penetrate as deep as I could. He seemed to tremble, and his mouth opened in a silent gasp of pain and shock as his hole felt the first sting of intrusion. But he didn't protest or recoil. My dick sought the increasing pleasure of his virgin snatch, digging deeply into his pelvis, and he bore my insistent stabbing with great fortitude. What I liked was that he even rotated his hips, to ease my thrusting into his little cunt and give me a better angle to fuck into him. He was a natural. Little nuances like that can't be taught – they're instinctive. Spider was a true fuckboy. I couldn't help thinking as I fucked him, increasing my pace, forcing my little dick in and out of his butt, reveling in the tightness of his hot virgin cunt, that Spider would have been very popular at The Saxon Club. His firm, round butt was perfect for a little shota action. He had natural good looks, and his skin was so smooth and flawless, men would have loved spunking all over him. Yup, Spider would have made an excellent shota boy.

My orgasm approached with frightening suddenness – probably after only a few minutes of stabbing my hairless little boydick deep into his cunt. I thrust my hips into his butt, still laying flat on top of him, and soon felt the welcome and familiar tightness of my dick going into ecstatic seizure. I knew it was going to be a good one. The intensity of my cums rose in direct proportion to the beauty of the boy I was fucking – and Spider was infinitely beautiful. I cummed real hard. My little dick pumped long and hard, sheathed deep inside him, pulsing against the tightness of the walls of his virgin snatch, ejecting my watery kidspunk into his creamy warmth. It felt like I spunked a hell of a lot. It must have been a hefty serving even for my immature little balls because his chute was flooded. My cum was so powerful, it felt like the very lifeforce was draining out of me with every pulse, and infusing into him through my over-inflated little cock. Fuck, it was exquisite.

After I had cum in him and emptied just about every last drop of my kiddie fuckjuice into him, I reluctantly lifted my butt and pulled out my saturated little fuckstick. It was sopping wet with the boyjizz I had just injected into him. I laid down on the grass next to him, slightly breathless. Spider turned over onto his back. He reached over and pulled me towards him so that I was lying across him, and we kissed for a while. That was a good sign. How your lover behaves AFTER you have made love is always a good indicator of their true feelings. Luckily, Spider was receptive and thankful towards me, and was obviously intent on drawing out these special moments as long as possible. He smiled submissively.

"Was I any good?" he murmured.

I kissed him gently on the lips.

"Out of this world," I said.

That made him smile. I guess a compliment like that from an experienced shota boy like me was a big vote of confidence. But I meant it. As a boyfuck, Spider was sensational.

"How about you?" I asked.

He looked unsure, lowering his eyebrows.

"It wasn't like I expected," he said.

"No?"

He broke into a sly smile.

"No… it was much, much better than that."

He giggled playfully, and I closed in for another kiss. My hands were still feeling him up, stroking his chest and tummy, taking in the smoothness of his skin and the warmth of his still relatively inexperienced body. His little dick was hardening again and I massaged it in my fingertips as we cuddled on the grass. It was a beautiful afterglow hug, that left us both with contented smiles.

* * * * * *

We left at nightfall. When it came to saying goodbye, Kenni sent us off with Spider as our guide. We assembled above ground, amidst the devastation of the house which once stood there, and Kenni took me aside. He hugged me warmly and, I could tell, with great sincerity, and then turned to me with a serious expression, holding onto my forearms.

"Do something for me will ya?" Kenni said, plaintively, "Get outta here safely. Get as far away as you can."

And that was the last thing he said to me as we parted.

I knew that Scamp couldn't speak, but when it was time to say goodbye to Simon-Peter, he found an altogether ingenious way of saying his goodbyes which was more effective than words. He stepped back and held up his little hand, making a little sign with his fingers. It looked like his thumb, index finger and last finger all extended, and the two middle fingers folded down. It was obviously a symbol of some kind. I could see Simon-Peter smile. It seems he understood it immediately. He broke into a sweet smile and hugged Scamp in a very endearing little boy cuddle.

"I love you too," he said.

It was so cute.

It was Spider who escorted us, in the dead of night, and at great personal risk to his own safety, towards the bridge over the railway track where we could jump the goods train. He took us under cover of darkness through the bombed-out streets, so that it soon became apparent how he had earned his nickname. He was quick and stealthy, and infinitely adept at climbing over things and squeezing through tight gaps. He led us across endless alleyways and through deserted goods yards. He led us underneath razor wire, through thick undergrowth and over high walls. We scurried across open fields and crawled between gaps in mesh fences. It must have been miles, well out of Spider's usual locality, and yet he knew exactly where he was going.

Finally, we reached our destination. It was a new and unfamiliar part of Verolino. Spider showed us onto the stone bridge which spanned the railway track, from there we could jump the goods train. He said the train would take us north. It terminated at the border. On the other side was Zachyna. We would then have to figure out how to get across. If we made it across the border, we would be in neutral territory and we would be safe. Spider had done so much for us. By the time we reached the bridge, I was almost sorry to say goodbye to him.

Standing on that bridge in the half-light, it was quite an emotional and profound scene. Spider stood facing us, the moisture on the surface of his big dark eyes glistened in the moonlight. Our shadows cast an eerie flicker on the ground, and we all said goodbye. And when we did, even he hugged us both and wished us luck. He hugged Simon-Peter, and then he hugged me, squeezing me tenderly and clasping me to him for a few seconds longer than he should, almost as if he didn't want to let me go. At that moment I felt a stab of love for this boy. Then he let me go, and held me out in front of him, his hands resting affectionately on my shoulders.

"Be lucky," he said, and the look in his eyes told me that he meant it too.

"Thanks," I said.

He let me go, and then turned to take his leave. But he had only gone a few paces when he stopped and turned. He came back towards us, delving into the hip pocket of his waistcoat, and brought out a bar of chocolate.

"Here," he said, proffering the chocolate, "Something to remember me by."

I accepted it gratefully. It said HERSHEY'S in big letters on the wrapper, and I knew immediately it was contraband. Probably more rations purloined from the US Army. The chocolate bar was a little squashed and broken, but I stuffed it into my jacket pocket anyway, with a notion that Simon-Peter and I would enjoy it later. Spider gave me one last, brave smile, and then he turned and walked away. I watched him go with a twinge of sadness. I recalled our intimate moments together earlier, and wondered whether, in the height of the brief passion we shared, some unwritten agreement had been struck between us. Whether, perhaps by swallowing his kidspunk, and injecting mine into him, we had formed some ethereal bond. But what impressed on me the most was that even this boy, who had suffered such terrible wrongs, and had grown up so quickly in his short life, still had a semblance of compassion in him. He was probably never going to see us again, but he risked his life for us. You never forget kindness and courage like that.

Chapter 16
Rescue

"I'm tired," Simon-Peter said, looking up at me appealingly.

He was hoping for a rest and I could tell from the way he was squeezing my hand that he was growing more and more exhausted. He was standing with his cheek resting against my arm, propped up against me. The poor boy could barely stand.

"Okay," I said, at last, "Let's stop here for the night."

We were still in Verolino, having made it to the border on the goods train. We were just on the border with Zachyna, neutral territory. But the border was heavily fortified with double rows of razor wire. The rows were several hundred yards apart and between the rows of razor wire, the terrain was littered with minefields. Spider had warned us about the minefields. It would have been suicidal to try and get across. So, we were going to have to figure out another way. We were not entirely out of danger, but for the moment at least the shelling had eased. There was still the distant rumble of heavy artillery, but it was sufficiently far away for it not to be a threat.

Not far from the railway line, we found a bombed-out office building that had once housed multitudes of desks and clerks. Now all the clerks were gone. The desks had been mostly chopped up for firewood, and the steel filing cabinets were now lying on their sides, with their drawers open and all their contents strewn across the waterlogged floor like some kind of oversized confetti.

We clambered up the damp concrete steps and found a room where most of the windows were still intact. I guessed this had once been somebody's office. It was now completely bare, save for the rich, deep carpet that they had obviously not had the opportunity to remove. It was soiled and damp in places, where the rain had got in, but otherwise it was comfortable. And the windows were low enough for us to be able to look down into the shattered street below, and spot anybody who approached.

I found some torn curtains still flapping redundantly on one of the windows, so I pulled them down and rolled them up into a bundle, making a makeshift pillow for Simon-Peter. He settled on the carpet, in one of the corners, and laid down on his side. He curled up in the embryo position. I placed the rolled up bundle under his head and he cutely laid his cheek against it. I took off my jacket and draped it over him. He snuggled under it, preparing to let his exhaustion overtake him.

I stood up, but Simon-Peter called out.

"Don't leave me!"

"I'm not gonna leave you little one," I said, "I'm just looking for something else to keep us warm."

He smiled, nestled under the collar of my jacket, and then lifted one end with his arm, inviting me to join him underneath the impromptu blanket. It was a very affectionate gesture.

I got down on the floor and laid down behind him on my side, spooning him in my arms. I thought I would lie with him till he was asleep. He settled his little butt right against my cock. I could feel his little boy softness even beneath the thick fabric of both our pants. As we laid there together, Simon-Peter piped up again.

"Cloud?"

"Yes, little one?"

"I'm hungwy."

I remembered the Hershey bar I had in my pocket. The Hershey bar that Spider had given me. I took it out. The chocolate was crushed and had softened a little against my body heat, but it was still edible. I tore open the wrapper and gave it to Simon-Peter. He wriggled and turned towards me, smiling his gratitude, and half pushed-half sucked the sorry looking bar into his mouth, even as he laid there, his little cheeks bulging with the pleasure. He chewed away, swallowing big gulps of the sweet confection, until it was all gone. Then when he had swallowed the last mouthful, he looked at me, apparently struck by a sudden thought.

"Where's yours?" he asked, puzzled.

"I'm not hungry," I lied.

If he wasn't convinced by that, he certainly didn't show it. He hesitated momentarily, but didn't say anything. It wasn't important for me. The way Simon-Peter had swallowed that chocolate, it looked like he needed it more than I did.

He turned back onto his side so that I was able to spoon him again, and I thought I would wait until he was asleep and then get up and doze by the window. From there, I could watch the deserted street, just in case anybody approached during the night.

We settled into our favorite position, on our side with me spooning him, and pulled my jacket up over us both. His little boy warmth was very alluring, and his little butt pressed into my crotch gave me an irrepressible erection. Little Cloud was so sensitive to such stimulation, especially being pressed so close to another boy's butt. After a few minutes of lying there together silently, it was Simon-Peter who spoke.

"Cloud?"

"Yes little one?"

"Do you want to put your pee-pee in me?" he asked, plainly.

His remark must have been prompted by my hard-on. My initial reaction was to laugh.

"Go on, put your pee-pee in me," he said again, "I know you want to."

He could obviously feel my hard dick pressing into his butt. I pulled him to me even tighter and kissed him behind his little protruding ear, but didn't take his demand too seriously.

"Just go to sleep now," I said to him.

When he sensed that I was not about to accede to his request, he fumbled for my hands, clasped about his chest, and he slid them both down onto his crotch, placing my palms flat against the little lump he had in there.

"I feel vewy horny," he sighed.

He let out a trembling little breath, like a little sigh of ecstasy as he felt my hands press on his stiff little rod. It was an unequivocal message. That was what I liked about Simon-Peter, he was good at making his feelings known. I had taught him to always communicate what he was feeling. His little dick was so hard, I knew he was so sexed up that he urgently needed relief.

"I can feel your little pocket rocket," I said, and gently squeezed the hard little lump in his crotch.

He let out a little high-pitched laugh.

"Hehe, pocket wocket," he giggled, and with that he thrust his little hips, pressing his irrepressible little rod hard into my palms, seeking stimulation for his little boy boner.

It seemed that his tiredness of a few moments ago had magically dissipated.

"You really are horny, aren't you?"

"Yeh," he said, and continued thrusting his crotch into my palm.

I pressed the heel of my palm hard into his stiff little rod, squashing it down roughly. He gasped with pleasure. That was extremely erotic. So I did it again, pressing my hands even harder onto his straining little dick. I loved the way he winced when I did it. He held onto my hands as I did so, ensuring that I didn't let go, almost begging me to hurt him. I cruelly mashed my hand into his crotch through his pants.

"Ah!" he squealed.

I pressed and pressed, thoroughly obliterating his little stiffie into his abdomen and he winced again.

"Ooh, you're making me… I think I'm gonna…"

Then suddenly he froze. He opened his mouth and drew his head back hard into my chest as I held him in my arms, and I knew he was cumming. I pressed hard a couple more times, thus ensuring his little orgasm, and he surrendered to a gentle tremor. He seemed to tremble in my embrace for a good few seconds as his irrepressible little dick dry-cummed in his pants. This little boy was so sexed up and his little dick was so sensitive, I had made him cum even through the fabric of his jeans. His tiny little rod had achieved nirvana swaddled in the folds of his clothes. Fuck, it was so erotic.

Simon-Peter laid in my arms for a few seconds, not moving, not speaking. I held him there, my hands resting lightly over his post-orgasmic little jewels, now recovering in his pants. Then he spoke.

"Please put it in my bum now," he pleaded.

He was so sexed up he wanted my cock in him. I knew that feeling. I knew that feeling well. But I was all too well aware that Simon-Peter was still a virgin.

"I can't put it in you just like that," I explained, "You've never had anything up there have you? It'll hurt you. We need to open you up first."

He wriggled about and turned towards me so, that we were huddled together face to face under my jacket. The faint sweetness of the chocolate was still on his breath.

"Open me," he said.

I looked right into his cute little elfin face, slightly bemused.

"What?"

"Open me," he said again.

I hesitated a moment, thinking it over.

"You really want me to?"

"Yeh," he said, without hesitation, "I want you to be the first."

And as he said it, he thrust his little hips against me, pressing his still hard little lump into my tummy, and I could feel how sexed-up he was. His little dickie was hard again. When I looked down at him, pulsating with little boy lust, it amazed me how powerful the sexual urge was in this little boy. Human sexuality is such an irrepressible force. It is so inherent in us that even here, amongst all this devastation and destruction, our lives in transition, our very survival in the balance, this little boy's burgeoning sexuality still found a way to flourish. His wayward little boy lust was tremendously arousing. This tiny little pixie-like boy was so beautiful to me and I wanted to fuck him more than I had wanted to stick my cock into anybody in my entire life. To have him lying there next to me, squirming around with a little erection in his pants, begging me to fuck him was quite a sight to behold.

Still huddled under my jacket, I pulled him towards me so that we were pressed together face to face. I could feel his heat – the flush of sexed-up little boy. His little body was burning with desire. He buried his face in my neck, submitting to me, and I breathed in the heady aroma of his chestnut-colored hair, which smelled of boy – a faintly tangy whiff of little boy pheromone, like warm milk. I loosened the front of his pants and pulled them down to his thighs, so that his little butt was exposed. His little dick sprang up insistently, still sexed-up even though he had just dry-cummed. I put my arms around him again, pulled his now naked little butt closer, so that his crotch was pressed right into me. It was so arousing when his stiff little peg dug hotly into my abdomen. The two squishy globes of his little ass were perfectly small and round, just right for the palms of my hands to clasp and squeeze. I licked my fingers so I could stick them into his little cunt. I slathered my fingers really well and then started feeling into his butt crack for his little star. When I felt its puckered firmness, he winced a little and gasped slightly at the feel of my fingers seeking entry. His little star was burning hot. I pressed and pressed, a little harder each time, until I managed to get one finger in. His little chute yielded, and my finger slipped inside. I was able to get it in about halfway. The lining of his little chute was velvety and smooth and so warm that I knew it was the perfect orifice for my cock. I couldn't believe this little boy, who was still relatively inexperienced in all this sex stuff, was letting me feel him up so intimately, and that it was at his instigation that my fingers were now probing into his most intimate place.

"Okay little one?" I whispered into his face.

He smiled and nodded, his eyes gently closed.

"That feels good," he whispered back.

What an utterly sexual little boy he was. Other boys his age might have been screaming in protest by now, with both my index fingers now stabbing insistently into his hole, stretching the opening of his little boycunt. But he didn't protest at all. On the contrary, the deeper I probed, the more compliant he became, until I had pressed my fingers so deep inside of him, he was moaning and keening with the sensations I was giving him. His urgent little high-pitched moans were tremendously arousing, rising in intensity in direct proportion to the depth my fingers were stabbing into him. I had to raise myself up in order to shove my hand in further, so that my index finger was buried in him all the way. That was quite deep, considering it was the first time anything had been up this little boy's virgin cunt.

When I had played with his hole and stretched his little cunt as much as I could, I decided there was no more time for preliminaries. The truth is, my little dick was so inordinately horned-up for this little boy that if I didn't stick it into him real soon I was gonna waste a perfectly good fuckwad by squirting in my pants from sheer overexcitement. I needed to feel my stiffness firmly engulfed in his little butt and injecting my meager load deep inside him. There was no more time to waste. I stood him up and stripped his pretty little body completely bare, so that I could enjoy him in all his glory. It was cold in that bare room, with most of the windows blown out, but I didn't care. I had to fuck him. I clinically removed all his clothes, lifting off his little t-shirt and removing his little jeans one leg at a time. I sat on the floor as he stood there naked and I marveled at his boyish prettiness. He was so perfect, with all his curves and contours so nicely proportioned. His little body was so smooth, so tight, so hot with little boy lust, and his little dick was so stiff with desire, it was like he needed this. Even his little cocklet was straining upwards with the need to fuck, his tiny little peg inordinately aroused by the prospect of the utter pleasure that was in the offing. And that little metal amulet strung about his neck, nestling against the silky-smooth skin on his chest – this boy just oozed fuckability. He was so beautiful, so knowing, so precocious, and so utterly exploitable, I needed to bury my boydick right inside him. I wanted to force his tiny star open and stab my hairless dick into it. I wanted to deposit my warm kidspunk deep into his little virgin cunt and soil his pristine little chute with its first baptismal rinse of boysperm.

I could stand it no longer. I hurriedly took my clothes off and freed my trapped erection. Little Cloud was proudly standing rigidly to attention, ready for action, loaded and cocked for firing. Then I laid back down with Simon-Peter, both of us naked. I picked up his bare little frame and lifted him onto me, so that he was astride my lap. He was imperceptibly light. I wanted to be able to see him, to look into his face as I entered him. I positioned him over my crotch, his slender thighs parted over my hips, and I maneuvered the tip of my dick just behind his tight little balls. I placed my cockhead at the rim of his little star, held in place by the natural funnel of his little cunt, poised to invade it.

"I'm gonna fuck you now okay?" I said, in keeping with my teachings to always say what you wanted, to express what you were feeling and explain what you intended to do.

He nodded, patiently putting himself in my hands and closed his eyes, expectantly mustering his reserves, waiting obediently for my assault. I thought that was so erotic. It was a wonderful quality for such a little boy to be so attuned to his sexuality. I really admired that of Simon-Peter.

I held him in my hands by his waist. I took a deep breath and thrust up quickly, at the same time pulling his hips down hard, and my cockhead punched into his yielding little muscle, burying itself deep into his little pelvis. When I forced my dick into him for the first time, he yelped. He tried not to. I could see him biting his lip and holding his breath to stop himself from crying out. I held him there, to make sure he didn't struggle free. But he didn't try to fight it. He sank down onto my little stiffie with minimum effort, so that it glided up into him with frightening lack of resistance. Fuck, my little cock felt so good in his tiny cunt. My stiff little fuckstick burned with pleasure. I was in heaven! His little virgin cunt was so tight, as yet untouched by any kind of fuckgames, still innocently unfamiliar to the pleasures and perversions of boysex. His little sphincter gripped my cock with all the rigidity of a new pair of shoes – it needed to be broken in. It needed to be rudely awakened from its boyhood latency, stripped of its guileless innocence and traumatized into accepting the unwarranted invasion of my boydick. It needed to be worn in and limbered up for the sexual calisthenics that were invariably going to be demanded of this little boy. Simon-Peter was going to be such an accomplished little fuckboy. How I envied the many men that were destined to pump their copious pedo fuckjuice into him, and the many other young boys who would fill his little preteen cunt with their meager little kiddie fuckwads. Mine was just the first. The first of many.

When my dick was fully inside him, he was sat right down on my lap, breathing little shallow breaths. Simon-Peter was very tenacious, very compliant, and I thought very brave. The way his eyes widened as I forced my dick into him told me he had never anticipated what it would feel like to have something so big up there. But he seemed thrilled by it. It was hurting him, but he was deriving a strange pleasurable pain from it, and I was happy that it was me that was driving this pleasure into his little body. His little snatch was so snug that I thought I would never get my boycock into him, yet alone stab it in and out. But when I did start my thrusting, he fell forward onto me, his little arms gripping me, so that we were hugging face to face as we fucked. It was a good sign, almost as though he was embracing the act of fucking as much as he was embracing me. I was firm, but gentle; single-minded, but patient, using all my knowledge and expertise to make this as smooth and painless as possible. He was a brave little chap, so utterly committed to this quest. I was in awe of this tiny boy, who was prepared to suffer this excruciating ordeal for me and for his own sense of achievement. He wanted to be fucked. He really did want to be rooted hard up his little cunt, and the thought that this boy was so driven by his libido that he was prepared to suffer for it, was inordinately arousing.

I moved him up and down slowly on my lap, maneuvering his little body in my grip, as though pumping my dick with an oversized fleshlight – a live fleshlight – and he gasped on each downstroke, as though my thrusting into him was forcing synchronized little breaths out of his mouth. My cock was gripped so tightly inside his little chute, my foreskin was stretched and stinging. But the sensation of tightness just added to the pleasure. With my boydick buried so deep up his little cunt, gripped so firmly by his recalcitrant little sphincter, the rising excitement in me was tangible. It was one of those fucks that was so acutely arousing, and so stimulating to my little cock, I knew it was going to be profound and explosive. My cock actually entered a state of semi-orgasm, where I knew that my cum had already started and was teetering on the brink for a long few seconds before boiling over into a full blown cum. Then I knew I couldn't hold back any longer.

"I'm gonna cum inside you now," I announced breathlessly, trying to get the words out before my orgasm took hold.

Simon-Peter nodded with confidence and without hesitation, not at all fazed. I could see him fully attentive and fully compliant. What a dirty, filthy little spunkboy he was. I was gonna pay him the ultimate compliment by shooting my kidspunk right inside him, deep into his hot little boysnatch.

I had waited so long for this. Fuck, I wanted to shoot my spunk into him so bad. I had long anticipated this beautiful moment. I exhaled sharply. My orgasm knocked all the breath out of me as it took hold. Little Cloud almost exploded, violently bursting my watery fuckwad deep inside his abdomen, staining the walls of his little chute, finally christening his little snatch with its first de-virginal soiling of boyspunk. My cum rippled through me with each violent pulse of my dick as it injected my essence deep inside him, making my whole body quake with unbridled pleasure. It was the most delicious orgasm. My little dick tightened up so good inside him, it was almost transcendental. His big round eyes widened as he felt the warmth of my watery kiddiecum permeating his boycunt, and the sheer joy was evident in his grin. He had never felt such delightful sensations up his little chute before.

I stabbed violently into him a couple more times, trying to wring the last few jolts of pleasure out of my orgasm as it tailed off. Unable to pump anymore into him, my cock stopped pulsing and I reluctantly pulled out, laying Simon-Peter gently back on the floor. He was limp. He seemed spent and exhausted. He rolled over onto his side and curled up into the embryo position. I surveyed his beautiful, naked little body for a few moments, admiring his soft baby-like curves, pleased with my work. It was so gratifying to look on the little boy I had just deflowered. I admired the little body I had just fucked my boyseed into, and there was something infinitely satisfying at seeing him there, so used up, so utterly fucked, and leaking watery boysperm from his punished little star. Actually, there was a slightly pink hue to it. Simon-Peter was bleeding. Not profusely, but there was enough pink slime on my cum-stained cock to know that his chute had taken a battering. The remnants of my thin kidspunk was mixing with his blood, turning the residue a bright pink, and it gave me a cruel little stab of satisfaction that I had now de-virginized this boy. He had felt the first painful intrusion of erect boycock up his little cunt – the initial ordeal now over, his pain for the moment assuaged, and I curled up next to him content in the knowledge that his initiation was complete. His little cherry had been busted. His tiny butt had been opened and he was now fair game for all the impetuous little boydicks and mancocks that were destined to enjoy it from hereon in. His tempting little chute was going to pleasure those appendages with such relish and aplomb. Fuck, it was a great feeling.

"Cloud?"

Simon-Peter spoke without looking at me. He was still laid on his side, staring into the makeshift pillow, looking withdrawn but obviously still very much alert.

"Yes little one?"

"Does this mean we're bwothers now?"

I smiled, and he looked around just as I beamed down at him affectionately. It was an odd question. I didn't quite understand his little boy logic, but I rather liked it. I leaned over and kissed him gently on his flushed cheek.

"Yes," I said, "I guess it does."

* * * * * *

We were rudely awoken by the sound of people coming up the stairs and voices echoing up the stairwell. I sat up with a start. Damn! I had fallen asleep and didn't hear them approach. I realized it was morning. The wall of darkness that was visible through the windows when we had gone to sleep had now given way to bright sunlight. I was momentarily dazzled. By the time I came to my senses, there was someone already in the room, standing on the threshold looking down at us. It was a soldier, with camouflage battledress, full body armor and night vision attached to his helmet.

"Look here Jens, two strays," he called out to his colleague.

Another soldier, a sergeant, stepped into the open doorway just as I looked up, and they both stood there expectantly looking down at us.

"Good work Emil," said the sergeant, apparently pleased to have stumbled across us.

They were not hostile. In fact they seemed very unthreatening. They had assault rifles, but the barrels were pointed at the floor. Their weapons were Colt Carbines, but I couldn't work out what nationality they were.

"Come on you two," the sergeant said, "you're coming with us."

By now, Simon-Peter was also awake, and he looked at me, alarmed. We remembered, almost simultaneously, that we were both naked. We had fallen asleep like that, curled up together, keeping warm from each other's body heat. His instinctive reaction was to sit up and embrace me, I guessed partly to cover his nakedness and partly to comfort himself against this rude intrusion. His little body was still warm from where he had been huddled with me under my jacket.

"Here, get dressed," the sergeant said, kicking our little stack of clothes across the floor towards us.

I hesitated, still rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. Simon-Peter was reluctant to let me go. He wasn't an exhibitionist like me, and wasn't used to flaunting his nakedness. He was still very bashful and reserved, not being the seasoned fuckboy that I was, whereas I had no difficulty showing my shit to anybody who was interested.

"Don't be shy," said the other soldier, "we're Danish."

The sergeant laughed. I didn't quite understand why that remark was funny. I assumed it was because the Danes were perhaps renowned for their lax attitude to nudity. I didn't really know. I'd never been fucked by a Dane.

"Where are you taking us?" I asked, still sat up on the floor holding onto Simon-Peter.

"To the refugee station at Kolina," the sergeant explained, "we're under orders to round up any civilians."

"Whose orders?" I demanded.

The soldiers both turned to each other and laughed. I was confused because I wasn't aware that I had said anything amusing.

"Never mind whose orders," said the sergeant, dismissing my question, "Get your things and come with us. You can't stay here. It's too dangerous."

"Why should we?" I questioned.

They both laughed some more. Everything I said seemed to amuse them, though it was a friendly if condescending laugh. They didn't seem to take my reservations seriously.

"What's so funny?" I asked, offended.

"You," said the sergeant, "you're funny."

"Yeah, like you have a lot of choice," said the other, heavy with irony.

"How do I know I can trust you?" I asked, suspiciously.

"We're with NATO," said the sergeant, by way of explanation.

"Coalition forces?"

"Yes," said the sergeant, "we're part of VFOR, Verolino Protection Force."

"Not UNVERO?"

They both exchanged glances and laughed mockingly, like I'd just said something ridiculous.

"UNVERO was a joke," said the sergeant, "We're here to sort out their mess."

"Yeah," said the other, "Come on, you'll be safe at the refugee station."

"But I don't want to go to the wefugee station," Simon-Peter protested, and he held onto me even tighter, as though expecting me to save him.

"It's okay little one," I reassured him, kissing his cheek, "they're gonna look after us. Don't be afraid."

He seemed reassured by that. The soldiers didn't question my spontaneous kiss. Perhaps they assumed we really were brothers.

I managed to prize Simon-Peter off me, then I helped him up and dressed him, holding out his underwear for him to step into and pulling his t-shirt back on over his head and his diminutive little shoulders. The two soldiers stood and waited. When Simon-Peter was dressed, and I had tucked his t-shirt into the waist of his pants, I started getting dressed myself.

As I dressed, pulling on my boxer briefs and hitching up my pants, the two Danish soldiers were watching me silently. I just caught a glimpse, out of the corner of my eye, of their admiring looks and the way they briefly glanced at each other with a hint of approval. They even smiled at each other like they were really enjoying looking at me. That gave me a little stab of delight. I liked it when guys admired my body, even when they were doing it furtively. Tell the truth, they were quite good looking themselves. They were young, no older than 21 maybe, and both of them were blonds. Their heads were well hidden by their helmets, but they had blond eyebrows which gave them away. One of them, the sergeant, was slightly shorter than the other, and quite bull-chested. He had very toned and muscular shoulders and upper arms. It was clear he worked out. The other was altogether taller and slimmer, with incredibly long legs. They were both very handsome, obviously fit and virile, and I found myself wondering if they had big cocks. I was starting to miss playing around with a proper adult cock. Fucking about with other boys was great, but there was really no substitute for a good hard rooting by a thick adult dick. My little snatch craved a good pummeling from a big mansize fuckstick and I wondered if these handsome soldiers were the ones to do it. How I would have loved their blond dicks in me, filling my boycunt with their steaming hot Danish jizz. Fuck, I wanted them to stick their cocks in me real bad.

When I was dressed, they picked up our backpacks and Simon-Peter grabbed Howard the bear. Then they escorted us out of the derelict office block that had been our home for the night. On the way down the stairs, Emil, the other soldier, took Simon-Peter's hand, which I thought was incredibly caring and thoughtful. The sergeant, Jens, gently put his hand on my shoulder, protectively guiding me down the steps. As he did so, he glanced down and smiled at me affectionately. I knew straight away that he liked me. It was a warm and benevolent smile, and his touch was very caring and paternal. I decided I liked this young soldier and was instantly drawn to him.

Down in the pockmarked road was a waiting vehicle. It was an olive green VFOR Land Rover and there was a third soldier sitting in the driving seat, with the engine running. Jens held the rear door open and Simon-Peter and I climbed into the high vehicle. Within minutes we were sitting in the back seat of the Land Rover being chauffeured through the rubble-strewn streets of Verolino.

Jens sat in the front passenger seat and Emil got into the back, with Simon-Peter between us. I put an arm around Simon-Peter, partly to steady ourselves as the vehicle jiggled about on the uneven road, and partly to comfort us against the devastation that we observed as we rode in the Land Rover. I looked out of the window and saw the sheer scale of the destruction, now revealed to its full extent by the daylight. There were streets and streets of nothing but rubble. Where the buildings had not completely collapsed, their burned-out shells still stood with no windows. Shops were bare. Houses were abandoned. A few stray dogs roamed the streets, but otherwise they were deserted. The road was littered with shell craters, so that we had to weave and meander around them. The sheer scale of the destruction was so great, it was almost impossible to envisage how all this might someday be rebuilt.

Presently, we reached a very imposing building that seemed to be set well back from the road, and was surrounded by a large expanse of lawn and hidden by trees. It had obviously been a well-to-do home at some point, and was strangely untouched by the shelling. Its separation from the surrounding buildings had spared it. It was a sprawling mansion with lots of high windows. At the front there was a long, sweeping drive that led up to a grand entrance. There was a portico supported by two ornate pillars, from which a flag with the VFOR insignia was flying. Parked on the drive were other olive green vehicles, APCs, Humvees and Land Rovers, all with VFOR in big white letters on the sides. All had little Danish flags on them. There were troops in battle dress crisscrossing the lawn in groups of twos and threes.

The Land Rover came to a halt on the gravel drive by the entrance, and the soldiers helped us out of the car, gripping our arms firmly as we climbed out. I noticed the way my feet crunched on the gravel as I hopped down. I looked up at the impressive building.

"Is this the refugee station?" I asked.

Jens laughed. He laughed at everything I said.

"No, this is Sector HQ," he explained.

Sure enough, there was a wooden sign erected just on the side of the entrance, VFOR MULTINATIONAL FORCE – SECTOR HEADQUARTERS.

The soldiers escorted us inside through two high wooden doors that were propped open. Inside there was a rather elegant lobby with a polished marble floor. It had a very high ceiling with an enormous crystal chandelier hanging from it and a grand staircase that wound its way to the upper floors. I guessed this must have been home to some very important people. To one side there was an enormous desk with computers and telephones on it, with lots of untidy cables trailing all over the floor. It looked very out of place in the grandeur of the lobby. Behind the desk, a very young soldier with spectacles was sitting with his tunic hanging open. It was oppressively hot in there, I noticed.

Jens and Emil took us over to the desk.

"Two more for you," said Jens.

The young bespectacled soldier took a cursory look at us and then switched back to staring at the computer screen.

"Okay, take a seat," he said, "I'll deal with you in a minute."

He seemed more interested in finishing what he was doing and was in no hurry to deal with us.

Simon-Peter and I sat down on a row of wooden chairs that were by the wall.

"Wait here," said Jens, "you need to be processed."

At this point Jens and Emil left us. The bespectacled soldier at the desk largely ignored us, for the moment absorbed by some other more important task. We sat there nervously observing the comings and goings in the echoey marble lobby, with various troops tramping in and out, carrying Colt Carbines or grenade launchers or some other piece of military paraphernalia. Tell the truth, it was a little disorienting and alienating.

When he was ready, the bespectacled soldier finally turned to us and asked us a whole battery of questions. He asked for our names and all sorts of other information, all of which he typed into the computer. I told him what little I could. For myself there was not much to tell. I had nothing to confirm my identity. I remembered nothing much from before the war, except that I had a pretty abusive childhood. I ran away from a violent and dysfunctional home because my parents didn't want me. But I had no idea who they were or where they would be now. I had a few vague recollections, but since my head injury I seemed to have forgotten more than I retained. Simon-Peter, on the other hand, was able to remember everything. He gave a lot more information, including his surname, his parents names, his birthday and even his address in London. Tell the truth, he made me very envious. I thought how nice it must be to know when your birthday is.

When Jens and Emil came back to collect us, the bespectacled soldier called them over and they murmured confidentially amongst themselves for a few minutes. They gathered around and pored over the computer screen, either suspicious or perhaps doubtful as to our identities. I could see the seated soldier glancing over at us as they talked, his spectacles glinting from the reflection of the computer screen. They exchanged a few words. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but clearly their exchange was about us. Even Jens turned and glanced over at us one more time as they talked.

When they had finished, Jens came over.

"Come with me," he said, beckoning me over.

I stood up. Simon-Peter got up at the same time.

"Not you," Jens said to him.

Simon-Peter panicked and threw himself onto me, afraid the he was going to be left behind.

"It's okay little one," I reassured him, "I'm just gonna talk to the sergeant. I'll be back."

"You pwomise?"

"I promise."

He was loath to let me go, but he grudgingly released his little fingers from around my waist, and allowed Emil to guide him away.

Jens led me away across the lobby and into a side room. It was cool and calm and quiet in there, away from the general noise and commotion of the lobby. It was also fairly bare except for one small table and four chairs. I sat in the chair that was facing the door. Jens sat on the left hand side. When we were sat down, another guy entered. He was not in battledress. He was a civilian worker and was wearing a light blue sweatshirt with a big UNHCR logo emblazoned on it in white.

"This man is from the refugee station at Kolina," Jens explained, "he just wants to ask you a few questions."

"Okay," I nodded, having no reason to be apprehensive.

I trusted Jens. This blond Danish sergeant had already formed a secret little rapport with me, and I found his presence reassuring, so I had no qualms when the UNHCR guy sat down opposite me.

The UNHCR guy was a lot older, maybe in his late 30s or early 40s. He had rather thick black hair that was combed neatly to one side. He took out a rather slick looking ballpoint pen and a pad, which he folded back to expose a fresh page. Then he leaned over the table towards me, his pen poised to take notes.

"Who is that little boy you were brought in with?" he asked me.

"Simon-Peter," I replied, mystified as to why he would want to know that.

"How did you come to know him?"

I thought to answer "I'm giving him fuck lessons", but I resisted the temptation. I didn't think they would appreciate that.

"He's my brother," I replied, thinking that a far more fitting response.

They looked at each other, perhaps in recognition that this wasn't going to be as straightforward as they expected.

"C'mon, he's not really your brother, is he?"

"What would YOU know?" I retorted.

The UNHCR guy took a deep breath.

"It's very important that you tell us everything you know," he explained, "there may be people looking for him."

"Okay," I said, relenting, "I met him at the hotel where I worked. He was staying there with his dad."

"He's the son of a British Army officer, isn't he?" the UNHCR guy asked.

I bit my lip. I couldn't lie. I didn't think I could make it stick, so I nodded.

"Yeh," I confessed, "His father was a Major General."

The UNHCR guy nodded in agreement.

"Thought so."

I neglected to tell them that his father was also an expert boyfucker. I omitted the bit about enjoying the inordinate pleasure of having my little ass rooted long and hard by his father's big adult dick.

I looked up at him sheepishly.

"Am I in trouble?" I asked.

He looked confused.

"Trouble? Nooo," he replied, reassuring me, "You're a hero."

"A hero?"

"Yes. You saved that little boy's life. We all thought he was dead. Have you any idea what his mother has been going through?"

I told them the story of how we had tried to get on that transporter. I confessed everything about our trek across Verolino to the airfield. I told them how we had greased the palms of the UNVERO soldiers to let us in, and even the bit about how we very narrowly failed to get on that aircraft. They looked at each other, exchanging a concerned look, and it was easy to see that the same thought had occurred to them both simultaneously.

"Lucky for you that you never made it onto that transporter," said Jens.

That seemed an odd statement. How could it be lucky?

"Why not?" I asked.

"That flight never made it," he replied.

I looked at him querulously, not sure if I had heard him right, or necessarily believed it.

"What do you mean?"

"It came under fire shortly after take off," Jens explained, "the last RAF flight out of Verolino was shot down."

"Oh," I said, not quite able to envisage it, "Did anyone…"

"No," he interjected, already anticipating my question, "There were no survivors. Everyone on that transporter died."

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