Cosmo

Diary of a Shota Boy

Chapters 17-19

After being questioned by the UNHCR guy, Jens escorted us into the medical room to see the doctor. The medical room was in another part of the building, towards the back of the house, away from the bustle of the lobby. There was a small anteroom where Jens left Simon-Peter and I to wait. Then an orderly, wearing camouflage battledress, came out of the inner office and asked us to strip down to our underwear. We took our clothes off with a minimum of fuss, laying them all in an irregular pile, and sat on the chairs and waited. As we waited, Simon-Peter sat nervously swinging his legs back and forth under the chair. He looked so cute, sitting there in his tiny Ben 10 boxer briefs, his tight, smooth, hairless little body, so warm and lithe. I don't think I had ever been so turned on by a boy so small. I was horning up for the little guy. Tell the truth, I could have fucked him there and then. Suddenly, Simon-Peter giggled and his flat little tummy tensed as he inhaled. He looked over at me with a mischievous grin, smiling cutely, and at that moment I knew that he could tell exactly what I was thinking. I smiled back and then he did something which I thought was disarmingly insightful and mature.

"Later," he said, "You can do it to me again."

And I knew that he was remembering our feverish fucking from last night when I had busted his little cherry. The memory of it made my little cock stiffen, especially recalling the ecstasy of rooting his tight little cunt, stabbing my little fuckstick up his virgin boychute and depositing my kidspunk deep inside his narrow little pelvis. I wanted to repeat that beautiful memory. I wanted to do it to him again and again. It was like my cock needed him. Oh fuck, I was so horny I had to squeeze my little dick to relieve the aching stiffness, and it sent a delicious jolt of pleasure right through me, radiating right from the depths of my crotch where my little cock was anchored to my balls. It was like a mini orgasm.

At that moment the orderly came in and said he was going to do some routine tests. First he had us stand against the bare wall and took photos with a digital camera. Then he had us place our heads on a little device which shone a beam into the back of our eyes. He said it was to take a scan of our retinas. Those retinal images could be used to identify us. But he also took fingerprints, by rolling our fingers on an inky pad and pressing the tips of our fingers onto a special paper. Finally, he took blood samples. That was the bit Simon-Peter didn't like, and although he didn't protest, I saw his pretty eyes welling up with tears as the needle was inserted into his thin little arm. He said nothing, but you could tell it had hurt him. He tried to hide his tears, and stifled his cries, and my heart just melted for him. He was such a brave little guy. Finally, the orderly wanted to take DNA samples, using a cotton swab on the inside of our mouths. He did just about every available test and took every sample he could. As we sat back down and waited for the doctor, my horny little shota boy mind wondered why the orderly hadn't asked for a sperm sample too. He had taken samples of just about everything else, and that was the one thing I would most gladly have given him. I giggled to myself as we sat there. Simon-Peter smiled complicitly. He knew I was thinking something sexy and dirty. But then, Simon-Peter always did.

Finally, the orderly called us in to see the doctor. Strangely, we were allowed to go in together. The doctor's office had a large desk pushed against the wall, and the doctor was sat on a very low swivel chair. I could see why it was so low, because he seemed to maneuver around the poky little office by wheeling himself around on the chair. The doctor was a mature, gray-haired guy with a long white coat. The doctor was very quiet and unforthcoming and spoke very little, but he had very warm hands, and he fingered and prodded us gently. He had us sit side by side on the high bed, and looked into our mouths to inspect our tongues. Then he shone a little flashlight into our eyes. He pressed a stethoscope onto our chests and listened to our heartbeats. It induced a tiny shock as the cool steel of the stethoscope pressed into my warm skin. Next, he inspected our heads, parting our unkempt hair with a fine-toothed comb. I quite enjoyed that, especially when he was combing the hair on the back of my neck, combing it upwards and fanning the roots of my shaggy blond mop. I guess he was looking for lice. Then he had us hop down off the bed one at a time and lowered the front of our underwear to fondle our little dicks and balls. He even jacked mine, very briefly, retracting the skin between the tips of his fingers, and I remember feeling disappointed that he didn't continue. I wanted him to tighten his fist around it and jack it real hard for me. But he didn't. He tucked my semi-stiff little dick back into my boxer-briefs and let the elastic snap back into place. He did look momentarily into my eyes as he turned back to his desk to write some notes. "Nothing wrong with YOUR equipment," it seemed to say, which sent a delightful little sliver of self-satisfaction right through me.

As we were getting dressed, Jens came back to get us. He entered the anteroom just as I was throwing my shirt on, and I thought I saw an approving smile as he caught a glimpse of my body for the second time that day. By this time I suspected Jens probably appreciated a pretty little fuckboy like me. At any rate, I hoped he did. I was very drawn to him.

"Bad news," he announced, keeping the conversation focused, "There's no transportation to the refugee station until tomorrow."

Simon-Peter looked at me with a concerned frown. This was all so disorientating for him.

"It's getting late," Jens continued, "And we can't risk travelling after dark. Looks like you'll be spending the night here."

Simon-Peter looked disappointed.

"Aww," he grumbled.

"It's okay little one," I reassured him, stroking his head tenderly, "they'll look after us."

Jens smiled.

"You ARE like brothers," he remarked, turning to me, "You really care don't you?"

I was very flattered by his observation. I put a comforting arm around Simon-Peter as Jens led us out of the doctor's office and back down the busy corridor. I smiled affirmatively. "Yeah," I thought to myself, "I do care about this little boy. I care about him a lot."

"What's going to happen now?" I asked Jens, as we walked.

"You'll spend the night here. You can get cleaned up and have something to eat. Then in the morning we'll drive you over to Kolina."

I shrugged resignedly, distinctly unimpressed. Jens saw my expression and laughed.

"Oh, it's not as bad as all that," he said, with an upbeat tone, "This is the Danish Sector. It could have been a lot worse. You might have ended up in the Polish or French Sector."

Jens carried on laughing. His comment indicated that there was a friendly rivalry between the various contingencies of VFOR. He explained that Verolino had been divided into three sectors, each one administered by a different VFOR constituent. This had all been at the behest of the UN, who had passed the peacekeeping role in Verolino from the now defunct UNVERO to this special coalition assembled from amongst the NATO allies. The overall VFOR mission was being overseen by the Americans, with a view to minimizing the conflict, to secure a ceasefire and seek a more permanent solution.

Resigned to staying at Sector HQ for the night, Jens took us to a room on the upper floors of this enormous house. It was a nice bedroom, with twin beds, and long, heavy drapes over the windows. It was very comfortable, and a definite improvement on the bombed-out office building we had slept in the previous night. There was an ensuite bathroom, and I helped Simon-Peter to shower. I briefly considered showering with him, but thought the better of it. I was so horny I don't think we would have got much showering done. Afterwards, they brought us up some dinner on a tray which we ate in our room.

Finally, freshly washed and with his tummy full, Simon-Peter climbed onto the bed, ready for sleep. Simon-Peter didn't like being left alone, so I laid down next to him. It was so hot, we didn't bother to get under the covers. We just laid on top of the bed naked, propped up on the pillows, and he rested his little head in my armpit. Barely a moment had passed before I turned and looked down at him.

"Okay little one?"

No answer.

I saw that his eyes were gently closed and he was already asleep. He was so exhausted he must have fallen asleep almost as soon as his little head hit the pillow. I was mildly disappointed. I wasn't going to get to fuck him tonight after all. I didn't really mind. It had been a long, tiring and disorienting day for him, and I just watched him for a little while as he slept.

I got up and left Simon-Peter to sleep. I gently pulled the sheet over him. He let out a little moan in his sleep. It was so hot that he kicked the covers off, even as he slept, and his naked little body just sprawled there unconscious, one knee out to the side, his head turned the other way, and one arm up with a hand resting on the pillow. It was so cute. I laid down on the other bed and looked over at him. I enjoyed watching him sleep, and I liked the way his little chest rose and fell with each inaudible breath. His limp little todger nestled in his hairless crotch like a shriveled little slug. He was so beautiful, and I was so horny, I had thought to climb into his bed and just use his little body, even with him asleep. I could probably spunk him without even waking him up. I was pretty horned up by the idea of squirting my kidspunk onto him while he slept. There was nothing I enjoyed more than seeing his baby-soft skin glistening with droplets of my kiddiesperm. What turned me on more than that was the idea that Simon-Peter liked it. A couple of times he had woken up in the morning and seen the thin film of powdery little stains that had dried on his skin, and he had thought it quite exciting that I had done that in his sleep. He loved stuff like that. Simon-Peter was such a dirty, horny little tyke.

Whilst Simon-Peter slept, I suddenly realized that this was the first moment I had had to reflect on the events of the day. I too was exhausted, but I really couldn't sleep. So I laid on my bed in this strange room, in this strange place, still not quite sure what was going to happen to us, and I just pondered the concept that Ciggy might be dead. It was quite a strange sentiment that I was grappling with. I wasn't exactly shocked by the news about that transporter being shot down. Just saddened and disappointed. Saddened that Ciggy might have been aboard that aircraft and disappointed that our plans hadn't worked out. The future Ciggy had assured for us both, and which was only possible with his intervention, might be gone forever, never to be realized. And yet, I didn't quite believe it. Ciggy couldn't be dead. Not the clever, wily, resourceful young mercenary who had everything worked out. Not the beautiful, handsome, sexy young man who was kind and gentle and considerate. It just wasn't possible. I remember thinking, if it was true, then it was quite ironic. Ironic that Ciggy was the only guy I ever truly felt something for, and yet he was the only one I would never have the pleasure of fucking. For such an experienced and prolific little fuckboy like me, that had to be the ultimate irony. Somehow I just couldn't get used to the idea. I don't know why, but somewhere, deep down, I still believed Ciggy was alive.

As I laid on my bed naked, with all these thoughts running through my mind, I realized my little dick was poking up long and stiff in my crotch. I really felt like jacking it. I was so horny. I had been horned up for most of the day. It was one of those days where everything seemed to induce an erection. I couldn't even pinpoint what had triggered it this time, whether it was Simon-Peter, or thoughts of Ciggy, or just the fact that I was a horny little fuckboy who needed sex all the time, and who had a dick that was in the habit of constantly clamoring for attention. Little Cloud never liked to be neglected for too long.

I started thinking about Jens, the friendly Danish sergeant who had brought us in and had been our escort in the house. He had been so kind and considerate to us, and I liked him. I had a feeling he liked me too. I really wanted to just hang out with him. I was lonely and horny. Simon-Peter was asleep and I badly needed the company of an older guy. Sometimes we fuckboys just felt the need to be around older guys, I guess in the same way they craved the company of younger boys. It was a very symbiotic relationship. So I decided to go and seek out the soldiers. I know Jens had warned me to stay in my room, but my little dick was inordinately stiff with horniness and I needed to feel it spunking with a big adult dick rooting me hard up my little cunt, sticking it to me roughly, fucking the spunk out of me. A lot of boys couldn't do that – spunk from having their cunt rooted – but I could. I was one of the lucky ones. If I had my little button stroked in just the right way, or pummeled hard through the sides of my chute, I could have a good hard cum without even touching my little dick. Fuck, I wanted the spunk fucked out of me real bad. My little dick was so hard in my pants it was hurting with stiffness. Little Cloud was so engorged it was actually painful.

I pulled on my jeans – no underwear – and slipped on a shirt, without bothering to button it up. Then I silently unlatched the door and I crept out of our room barefoot. It was late and the house was quiet, so I padded softly down the big staircase to the lower parts of the house where I knew the Danish soldiers hung out. One wing of the house was given over to their living quarters, and they were billeted in bunks of twos or threes in the various rooms that led off the corridor that ran the entire length of that wing. It was only accessible from the central lobby, so I paused at the bottom of the stairs, sneaking past the guy sitting at the computer at the far end of the lobby, by the entrance. He was too busy staring into the computer screen to even notice me. I followed the long passageway, with my bare feet padding silently on the dusty wooden floor. There was an open door at the end which opened into a large room where the lights were turned down very low. A flickering glow was emanating. There were lots of male voices, chatting and laughing. It sounded like the soldiers were socializing and generally having fun, exchanging witticisms and sharing the laughter. I sidled up to the open doorway and stood on the threshold looking in. There was a sofa and various armchairs around about where the soldiers had made themselves at home. There was a large flat-screen TV burbling away in the background, which is where the flickering glow was coming from. I guessed this was the soldiers' mess room. At the back of the room, by a big high window, there was a well-lit pool table and there were four soldiers circling it with their cues, chatting and taking pot shots in a very laissez faire kind of way. Others were variously reading, smoking or playing cards. Nearly all of them were drinking bottles of beer. It was so hot that some had their camouflage jackets unbuttoned and hanging open, or were simply lounging around shirtless, their little metal dog tags strung about their necks on ball-chains. They were all very young and handsome, and a fair number of them were blonds. Oh fuck, so many erotic delights on offer, it was like stumbling across an Aladdin's cave of sexual spoils.

One of the soldiers on the sofa nearest the door lowered his newspaper, having spotted me, and said something in Danish to the others. They all looked around, but hardly batted an eyelid. They saw me, but didn't really stop what they were doing. The soldier on the sofa uttered a further remark in Danish, to which they all laughed, then he reverted back to me and spoke to me in English.

"Looking for something, young man?"

This was the first moment that I realized that these Danish soldiers all spoke English as well as Danish, and they seemed to be able to switch from one to the other with consummate ease. I wondered if English was perhaps a second language in Denmark.

"You could say that," I replied cryptically, furtively grabbing my stiffie through my pants at the same time. I didn't even realize I was doing it.

He laughed. They always seemed to find me funny.

"Is Jens here?" I asked, timidly.

"Hey Jens!" he called out, "You got a visitor!"

Jens appeared from another doorway at the far end of the room, shirtless and with his hair wet. He was ruffling his head with a towel, clearly having just stepped out of the shower. When he spotted me, he broke into a smile and didn't seem fazed in the least.

"Hey pretty boy!" he called out.

He actually seemed pleased to see me.

He beckoned me over, waving me towards him, so that I had to walk the entire length of the room to get to him. The other soldiers were so laid back and mellow, they just smiled benevolently. One winked at me, and one at the pool table said something lewd in Danish. I could tell it was some kind of smutty remark because they all laughed. I didn't mind. The most important thing was that they seemed to have no objection to me being there.

"Hi pretty boy," Jens said, warmly, "Come to see where we hang out?"

I nodded, pleased that he was so receptive and comfortable about me being there.

"Couldn't sleep," I replied, smiling precociously.

He laughed, either unconvinced or unconcerned. At any rate he seemed quite relaxed about it.

For the first time I got a good look at Jens. Without his helmet, I had an unimpeded view of his face and head. His hair was cut fairly short. It was quite fine and wispy in texture and was a beautiful shade of ash blond. It was still damp and was sticking up in uneven little spikes where he had ruffled it with the towel. He had quite a smooth, brave looking face, with a high forehead and slightly pouting cheeks, which gave him a kind of moody, smoldering expression. His eyes were a bright, inviting shade of azure blue. He was extremely handsome. He was wearing only his battledress pants and was barefoot and shirtless. I had been right about him – he kept in good shape. He had a very attractive physique, with such perfect musculature that he could easily have passed for a catwalk model. He wasn't overly muscly, but his body had a lovely taut smoothness to it, and such good definition that he just exuded sex appeal. He was very slim, with a big chest and broad shoulders and a shallow groove at the center of his powerful chest which ran all the way down to his ridged stomach. Below his navel, there was a thin line of lightly-colored hair which disappeared tantalizingly under the waistband of his battledress pants. He was simply beautiful – a perfect specimen of maleness.

"Wanna beer?" Jens asked, proffering a bottle with the cap already levered off.

"Okay," I said, rather too readily.

I didn't really like beer, but I could tolerate it just to be sociable. What I liked was that Jens thrust the cold beer into my hand, then got another one for himself, then he put a very fatherly and affectionate arm around my shoulders and steered me over to the sofa. He kicked another soldier out of the way, so that he had to move his feet to make room for us. Jens sat down, and he practically pulled me onto the sofa next to him, with his strong arm still across my shoulders. I was already feeling at ease and welcomed his attention. He seemed so down to earth and relaxed.

"Everyone, this is Cloud," he announced, and you could detect a hint of pride in his voice as he said it.

The others all halfheartedly nodded and murmured their greetings. I was amazed that they were all so relaxed about me being there and didn't seem in the least objecting to Jens being so affectionate. I liked these Danes. They were apparently not averse to what Jens was doing. Maybe they were all into boy ass as well. Maybe these Danes were all casual boyfuckers at heart. They were so inclusive, so friendly, so open. Oh fuck, it was like stumbling upon a little vault of paradise.

As Jens and I drank our beers, I watched another of the soldiers come and sit cross-legged on the floor by the sofa. It was Emil, the soldier that had found us and had brought us in with Jens that morning. He had very light brown hair that was shorn quite closely, almost a crew-cut, giving it a velvety texture. I felt like I wanted to run my palm over it. He had very classic Nordic features. He was also very handsome, with pink, ruddy cheeks and piercing green eyes. Emil reached over and offered an ashtray with a smoldering joint tipped up on the edge.

"Want some joint?" he asked.

I realized he was offering it to me. I looked at Jens, to seek guidance, but he seemed content to let me do whatever I wanted, so I took it. I leaned back on the sofa with the ashtray on my lap and took a couple of tokes.

"That's it pretty boy," said Jens, "anything goes around here."

I took that to mean that I had free reign to do whatever I liked. I was only a very occasional smoker, so as I inhaled, the smoke tickled my lungs, causing me to cough. Jens didn't seem to notice. As soon as the smoke reached my brain, I was momentarily dizzy, and my whole body was infused by a warm mellowness that made me want to melt into Jens's embrace. I turned towards him and laid my head on his smooth, powerful chest. He was fresh out of the shower, clean and warm, and his skin smelled of sweet, mildly scented pine. I breathed in his aroma and he dipped his head and kissed the top of my head. Jens gently wrested the fragile little stub of the joint from between my fingers and took a couple of drags himself, puffing his cheeks and blowing streams of bluish smoke straight up into the air. For a few moments we just sat there enjoying the calming, relaxing effects of the joint, and we both smiled at each other, acknowledging the fact that we were feeling good.

I sipped my beer and looked around the room as I sat contentedly next to Jens. To one side of the room they had a long table with snacks laid out. It appeared to be a type of buffet, with lots of slices of dark bread piled high with various toppings. I figured it must be something quintessentially Danish. It was very colorful. They had demolished most of it, and left behind a trail of scraps they had dropped all over the table. But there were still a few of these little morsels left untouched and they looked infinitely more edifying than what Simon-Peter and I had had for dinner – some kind of insipid stew with a thin gravy that had hardly any meat in it. Jens saw me looking at the little spread of goodies and he spoke to one of his colleagues who happily put a few random slices onto a plate and passed it to him. Jens took one of the toppings and stuffed it into my mouth.

"Here, have a piece of Danish sausage," he said, pressing it between my lips.

The others all laughed. They were always laughing. These Danes had an excellent sense of humor. Or perhaps they were just all stoned. It was difficult to tell. I chewed gratefully, swallowing Jens's offering without hesitation. It was delicious. No sooner had I swallowed it, Jens offered me another piece. He was feeding me. For some reason I was very touched by that. It was a very affectionate and even erotic gesture, with overt sexual overtones. I was flattered and aroused by it at the same time.

Suddenly, I felt such deep affection for this handsome Danish soldier that I instinctively turned and put my arms around him, even as he sat there, so that I was almost thrown across him. He reciprocated this act of affection by pulling me onto his lap. He was so strong that he was able to lift my whole body with apparent ease. He dug his hand under my knees and hauled me across him, placing me sideways on his lap, so that my butt was resting directly on his crotch. He held me tightly. That was more comfortable. I could feel his muscled chest against me and I enjoyed his proximity, basking in his attention. Feeling happy and secure, I tilted my head back and he kissed me on the lips. It was exquisite. I knew then that this was what we both wanted.

I decided to relax and enjoy the attention Jens was giving me. As soon as I laid back against Jens's chest, he nuzzled against my cheek. I could feel the faint roughness of the stubbly little bristles of his beard against my face. He gave me a sidelong kiss on the corner of my lips. I could smell the beer on his breath. Under my butt, his cock was hardening. This young Danish soldier was inordinately into me, and he ran one hand over my body where my unfastened shirt had fallen open. His warm palm was stroking my chest and tummy, feeling me up all over, running his big hand over my diminutive shoulders and under my arms, where it tickled slightly. He was squeezing my underdeveloped pecs and even pinching my nipples. I squirmed in his lap every time he did that. At this point I had no doubt, Jens knew exactly what he was doing.

When Jens's hand went straight to my crotch, I melted with pleasure. He didn't even look for my stiffie, it was like he knew it was there and homed in on the exact spot. He felt the ridge of my hard little dick, trapped awkwardly up against my abdomen, and he traced his fingertips up and down the underside of it, stroking it gently through my pants. I could tell that it was the touch of an experienced boyfucker, and at that moment I knew that my objective had been realized. I felt something like a scientist on the verge of some earth-shattering discovery. Good sex was in the offing and these handsome Danish soldiers were going to assure my evening. I wanted to get naked with them. I wanted to suck and fuck with them. I wanted their big adults dicks all over me, pumping my little snatch full of jizz and spraying their hot, creamy loads over my naked little body. Fuck, I was so horny.

Some of the other soldiers came and sat down around the sofa, finally wanting to be a part of what was going on, and they variously settled cross-legged or stretched out on the floor in front of the TV. Emil took out some paraphernalia to roll another joint with. I sipped my beer and just watched them. Then Jens whispered into my ear.

"You're so pretty," he was saying, as he continued stroking me and feeling me up.

I absorbed his compliments with a self-satisfied smirk, still sitting in his lap, staring straight ahead. I had the feeling it was something he had been anxious to tell me all day.

"Bet you have a beautiful cock," he went on, cruelly squeezing my dick through my pants as he said it.

I nodded. It felt so good.

"Wanna show me your pretty little cock?"

I nodded.

Jens unzipped my flies and dug his fingers into my pants. He hesitated when he detected that I had no underwear on, and he knew immediately that it was for his benefit. Then he wrapped his big fingers around my throbbing little cock and I melted in his embrace.

"You wanna play with me, pretty boy?" he whispered into my ear, more as an observation than a question.

I nodded.

Then I knew for sure that Jens was an experienced boyfucker. 'Playing' was the shota boy term for fucking around, a familiar fuckboy euphemism for getting down and dirty with an older man.

Jens took my stiffie out, so that it was poking up through the opening in my pants, a naked little column of little boy fuckstick almost drowning in the folds of my jeans. It was heavenly to have Jens holding it in his fingers. He inspected my stiffie quite close, even retracting the foreskin and running his fingers under the rim of my little cockhead, stimulating the most sensitive part of my dick. It was all shiny, greasy with precum, which he rubbed between his fingers.

It was funny, that when Jens took my stiffie out, it looked so small in his big hand. When I had fucked Simon-Peter the other day, my cock had looked so big stuffed into his tiny little cunt, so much so that his pucker looked obscenely stretched around my boycock. But now, in Jens's big hands, my little hairless cock looked just like a little kid's cock.

Jens looked at me with a smile.

"What a beautiful cock you have," he said.

Jens, like me, knew the true value of paying your little playmates a compliment or two. I was so flattered. Yes, it WAS a nice cock, and it was always so delightful whenever another guy acknowledged it like that.

"Mind if I suck it?" he asked.

"Mind?" I said, humorously, "I insist."

He laughed. I was starting to get the hang of their humor. And with that, he bent down and buried his face in my lap, and I felt the heavenly sensation of my little dick being enveloped into his warm, wet mouth, tightly gripped between his tongue and the roof his mouth and he sucked hard. I squealed loudly, not expecting it to hurt so good. I could see the other soldiers in the room cast cursory glances. One of them licked his lips as though relishing the spectacle, but otherwise pretty much carried on with what they were doing. The joint carried on circulating. The strange thing was, no one seemed to mind. Maybe this Jens even had a reputation. Whatever, they seemed to be enjoying the show.

"Cloud?" said Jens, quietly.

"Hmm?" I replied, still in the throes of ecstasy with my little dick in his mouth.

"Get naked for me?" Jens asked, "I wanna see your body."

So I did. I hopped up off his lap and put my beer aside and hurriedly ripped off my clothes, even in front of all the other soldiers, and carelessly threw them aside. All I had on was my unbuttoned shirt and jeans, so within seconds I was completely devoid of attire, stripped and standing before them with my stiffie sticking out, waggling eagerly before me. This time they did actually stop what they were doing to watch. I liked that. I was in my element – the center of attention – and once again it made me inordinately horny to have all these eager eyes on me. I hoped that I had made all their big mansize dicks as stiff as iron in their pants. There was a chorus of approving noises, whistles and claps.

"Wow!" they exclaimed, clearly impressed.

"See," said Jens, "pretty AND horny."

"Bet the kid fucks good," someone called out.

"I can spunk too," I added, just for good measure.

"You give good head, eh kid?" one called out.

"Yeah, you swallow the evidence?" another shouted.

"How about two cocks at a time?" yet another asked.

I puffed out my chest and gave them a precocious grin.

"I can take you all!" I replied, with a playful sneer.

They all laughed loudly.

"I LOVE this kid!" someone else exclaimed.

Jens leaned over, still sitting on the sofa, and grabbed me from behind. He put his big hands on my hips and pulled me closer to him, planting kisses all the way up my back. He reached around and jacked my little dick as he did so. I melted backwards onto him and his big warm hands stroked my arms and shoulders. I threw my head back and closed my eyes in ecstasy. His lips sent wonderful tingles all the way down my spine. My little dick waggled about uncontrollably in my crotch, stiffly straining upwards with the pleasure. I could see all the other soldiers in the room casting approving and maybe even envious glances at me. I enjoyed their attention.

I couldn't wait. I needed Jens's cock. I wanted to get it out so that I could play with it. I turned and got down on my knees, and reached for his flies. Clearly I had caught him unawares because he looked confused for a moment. I unzipped his flies and dug my hand in. He leaned back, finally acquiescing to my intentions. His cock was hard and substantial in his crotch. I had trouble lifting the stiff rod through the gap in his pants. I fumbled a bit, my little fingers grasping the turgid organ gingerly, and I levered it out. Oh fuck, it was exquisite – hot and hard, with a beautiful tapered head peeking through a neat covering of taut foreskin. I lowered my head and wrapped my lips around it, retracting the skin gently with my teeth, and Jens trembled as my little lips grazed the sensitive head. He had a neat little patch of blond pubes and his crotch smelled clean and fresh. I opened my jaw to maximum aperture, so that my lips were stretched painfully around its girth. I could hear the other soldiers gasping in awe. Then I lowered my head, buried his cock right into the back of my throat and sucked hard. Jens thrust his butt up off the sofa as I did it, unable to resist the temptation to fuck it into me, holding my head down as he did it, so that his spongy cockhead actually stabbed into the back of my throat. Tell the truth it made me gag a little, but I liked it.

"Hey Jens, go easy on the kid," someone else called over, clearly having witnessed what we were doing.

"Yeah, don't drown the boy," someone else called out.

They all let out an unrestrained chorus of laughter, guffawing loudly.

"Watch out Cloud," another called out to me, "Y' know what Jens's nickname is?"

I looked around enquiringly, twisting my head while still impaled on Jens's massive dick.

"Supersoaker," he announced.

Everyone laughed. Supersoaker? Oh fuck, I really wanted to see that! I started manipulating that enormous organ, giving it all the attention I could, wrapping my little fingers around it as I bobbed my head up and down, licking the head while my hands massaged the shaft. I wanted to make him cum. I wanted to see this oversized appendage give up its load for me. I was already naked and I wanted it to cover my little shota boy body in scalding hot spunk.

I sensed the other soldiers quieting down as I concentrated on giving Jens a blowjob, and they seemed to be appreciating the spectacle. Jens was seated right back on the sofa, his legs open, and was stroking my head as I knelt before him, performing on his cock. Then I felt someone else brush up against my butt. He was naked too. I felt a hot, hard dick being rubbed over my butt cheeks and another soldier whispered into my ear.

"Can I join in, pretty boy?"

It was Emil. He had obviously shed his clothes and was so horned up by the proceedings that he wanted some of me too. I liked the fact that they were flattering me with their 'pretty boy' moniker. I liked that they were all so considerate and polite. They always asked my permission before doing anything. It showed they respected me as a fuckboy, which was something of a departure from the type of treatment I was afforded at The Saxon Club, where the general perception was that fuckboys commanded very little respect and were only there to be abused. I stopped sucking Jens's dick for a moment to look behind. Emil looked fantastic naked – so smooth and tight. He was so handsome. He had incredibly long, shapely legs. His dick was also long. Not as big as Jens, but technically perfect, very straight, with beautiful proportions. I wanted it up me. I figured it would be nice to have him rooting that gorgeous fuckstick deep into my little cunt while I concentrated on bringing off Jens. As he waited for my answer, he rubbed his cockhead on the curve of my ass, smearing precum over my butt cheek.

"Fuck me," I pleaded, dispensing with any preliminaries, "Make it slide in."

My words seemed to ratchet up the anticipation, and there was this look on Emil's face like he couldn't quite believe this pretty, horny little shota boy was kneeling there before him, waiting – begging – to be fucked.

Breaking off my blowjob for a moment, I twisted around and reached back to center Emil's dick against my star. I adjusted my knees to be at the right height, and I stuck my butt out tantalizingly. He scooted forward, his dick in my clutches, and he held his dick just at the entrance to my hole. He was gently caressing my tight little balls, tickling my little ring, but not attempting to enter me. We both looked at his beautiful dick, then his gaze moved on up to meet mine and I think he saw the need in my expression, which was solemn and flushed. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes. He waited, and I knew he was savoring this beautiful moment, trying to appreciate the utter pleasure that my little cunt promised. But he waited too long. To me, those moments of hesitation were sweet torture.

Finally, Emil screwed up his face, mustering his strength, and thrust forward with a single, nasty stab. In one swift motion, his dick sank into me, stabbing my little pucker wide open, and invading my hot little cunt with thick, blood-engorged cockmeat. I moaned loudly, not from pain or pleasure, but sheer relief. In a few more thrusts, his dick was fully inserted into my hungry and eager little snatch, stabbing my hole with his stiffness, stretching my cunt to the limit with its girth, filling my narrow pelvis with his substantial cock. I was impaled on him, helpless to his thrusting, incapacitated by the way he docked his organ into me, with such seamless expertise. Yeah, Emil was an expert boyfucker, and he started thrusting into me pneumatically, relentlessly rooting deep into my little cunt, in pursuit of the ultimate reward: to fill me up with his essence, to inject his eager adult jizz deep into my immature little boycunt, and drench my young hole with his misappropriated fuckwad. I wanted it too. I wanted to feel his hot fuckjuice inside me, warming that magic spot deep inside my chute, accepting his gift into my most intimate place, and rewarding his dick with the ultimate thrill of bursting open inside my veteran little shota boy pleasurebox.

As I assimilated the utter pleasure of having these two Danish soldiers to fuck around with, complete with an admiring audience, it was almost like being back at The Saxon Club again. It was reminiscent of the sessions we used to have in the backrooms at the Club, where the clients could pretty much do as they wanted. It was the same kind of libertarian permissiveness where I would service multiple clients, sometimes performing with another shota boy. I couldn't help thinking, as I lowered my lips around Jens's cock once again, that it was just like old times.

As Emil fucked me, I focused on making Jens cum. It was about time one of us shot our wad, and I really wanted to see one of these sexy Danish soldiers give up his load for me. I went to town on Jens, jacking and sucking his enormous dick with all my shota boy expertise, and I eventually had him hyperventilating with the anticipation. His cock was hardening and he was unable to stop himself thrusting up into my mouth.

"That's damn good, pretty boy," he was saying, his gaze fixed on watching me suck him off, "Don't stop. You're gonna get a nice reward."

Jens was heading for his bomb run. There was no turning back, and I knew it was just a question of a few more masterful strokes. I lifted my head for a moment, roughly rubbing my cupped palm over his cockhead.

"Spunk me," I said, and straightened up, still kneeling between his legs.

Jens gave a little smile of disbelief, but nodded. He knew exactly what I wanted – his spunk all over me.

Emil was still fucking me from behind and instinctively adjusted his angle so he could fuck upwards into me as I straightened up. I leaned back against him, and he held onto my hips. I carried on jacking Jens. Jens widened his eyes and reached out, stroking my chest and tummy, wanting to feel the young body he was about to cover in spunk, the smooth young skin he was about to soil with his steaming hot seed. With a few more hard yanks in my little fist, Jens finally let go. When he cummed, Jens moaned loudly, almost taken by surprise by the sheer pleasure of his orgasm. He doubled up, bringing his knees up and tipping forward, but he aimed his dick in exactly the right place as it released his fuckwad with an angry power and intensity. I thrust my chest out, wanting to feel his hot jizz pelting my young skin.

His spunk was copious and wet. It came out in big spatters that were loose and sloppy. There was so much of it, it was almost as though Jens had this endless reserve of fuckjuice, and he must have managed at least ten really powerful squirts before his volley began to wane. I could feel his bombardment drumming against my chest and tummy as he emitted his load. It went everywhere, spraying all over my arms and shoulders. It was clinging in loose gobs from my nose and chin. It must have got Emil, who was still busily stuffing my little cunt even as this was happening. There were greasy little drips and dribbles all over my chest and tummy, even my balls were wet with it. My stiffie was coated, and it was all over the sofa and the carpet. No matter, Jens was panting with the exertion, clearly catching his breath from the pleasure of his achievement.

I hardly had time to assimilate this spectacular display when Emil wrapped his arm around my chest and panted into my ear, still fucking into me from behind. His breath was warm and moist against my cheek.

"I'm gonna fill you up now, okay?" he warned.

I nodded and started meeting his thrusts in sympathy with that aspiration. I took his hand from my hip and put it on my stiffie. I wanted him to make me cum too. My little dick was so horned up, it wasn't going to take much to tip me over the edge. Paradise was only a few strokes away, and with Emil's beautiful dick hammering against my gland, I was afraid I might cum too soon. Luckily, Emil was in complete control, and he was able to judge the moment perfectly. He wrapped his big fist around my dick and jacked it roughly just as he pummeled my chute harder than ever, and with two or three more powerful thrusts, he sent me into orbit. My whole pubic region contracted hard as my orgasm ignited, so that his cock, still buried in my chute, was strangled tightly, and that sent him over the edge too. His dick let go inside of me, filling my little cunt even as it squeezed out my own orgasm. My little stiffie strained and struggled in my crotch squirting my little kiddie load all over Emil's big fist. I was breathless for a few moments, almost lost in the sheer pleasure of it. At the same time, I could feel my little snatch filling up with warm, creamy spunk, pumping me full to bursting, until my chute was overflowing with wet Danish fuckjuice. Oh fuck, it was fantastic.

I moaned when Emil withdrew. There was a tangible sense of disappointment as he left my hole vacant and dilated. My little ring was throbbing painfully from the punishment of his energetic thrusting. Breathless and spent, I fell back against Emil, thoroughly fucked. He held me in a quite loving embrace, so that my naked little body was clasped securely in his strong arms, and I looked down at my saturated skin, with Jens's splatters of creamy white jizz painted across it. Then I looked back up at Jens with a look of astonishment.

"Wish I could do that," I said, enviously.

Jens and Emil both laughed loudly, then Jens leaned over so that I was squeezed between them. They both kissed me. My head turned from one to the other, stealing little kisses from each of them, a grateful little fuckboy sandwiched between these two handsome Danish soldiers. It was heavenly. The heady aroma of spent mansperm wafted off my saturated skin. My little fuckstick, still sticking up redundantly, was wet with my own meager offering. With Jens's copious jizz all over me and Emil's inside of me, finally I was satisfied.

"Shit," said Jens, with a tone of disbelief, "You're damn good, pretty boy."

I smiled smugly, his thick gobs of fuckjuice still glued to my face.

"Yeah, I am," I replied arrogantly, "and don't you forget it."

To which they all burst out laughing.

Chapter 18
Kolina – I

The refugee station at Kolina was nothing more than a vast conglomeration of prefabricated huts and tents. It was mostly comprised of row upon row of nondescript buildings, all arranged in neat, symmetrical blocks, and a little sea of hastily erected marquees, with their canvas skins fluttering in the breeze. The whole camp was a hive of activity, with legions of UNHCR staff dashing hither and thither, distinctive with the white UNHCR logos emblazoned on their light blue shirts and caps. This was what Simon-Peter and I observed through the barbed wire fence as the VFOR Land Rover approached the camp gates.

At the entrance to the camp, we pulled up next to a checkpoint with a barrier across it. Jens jumped out to exchange a few words with the guards that were manning the checkpoint. He produced some rather important looking papers, which the black-clad guards verified on the computer. I could see them through the observation window comparing details. Finally, the guard handed the papers back and the Land Rover was waved through.

We were taken into the single story building that stood right at the front of the camp. It was bigger and grander than all the others, so I guessed this was like the office and administration block. Inside we were met by the same UNHCR guy who had interviewed me at Sector HQ the day before, the one who was in his late 30s and had that thick, black, neatly combed hair. He was wearing the regulation light blue sweatshirt with the white UNHCR logo and was carrying his notepad with a sheaf of papers clipped to it. He introduced himself as our support worker. His name was Matti. Matti was Swiss. He escorted us into a little office and waiting area. There were UNHCR staff sitting at computers and answering telephones. It seemed very busy and there was a constant hum of activity in the air, with phones ringing and people tapping away on keyboards. Simon-Peter and I hovered about uncertainly at the front of the room while the formalities were completed.

At this point Jens and Emil handed us over and prepared to leave. Saying goodbye to Jens and Emil was hard. Harder than I expected. They had done so much for us, not only in the practical sense of removing us from the war-torn streets of Verolino, and delivering us into the safe custody of the UNHCR, but also especially in demonstrating to me the civility and kindness of the Danish people. Even if they were not typical of the Danish, they were certainly good ambassadors. They had shown me their warmth and humanity, as well as their open-mindedness and good humor. Tell the truth, I was gonna miss them. I had only spent one night with them, but it was a night which I would treasure, the memory of which had cast a tangible spell on me. They bade us goodbye, and Jens even gave me a warm hug, wishing us luck with a buddy-like slap on the back. And as he did so, I recalled the random scenes of the previous night from our joint-fuelled little sex games in the mess room. I pictured us fucking around, stripped naked; his handsome body with that big, beautiful dick of his spraying my naked little frame with his copious jizz; Emil's pumping thickly into my little snatch. Last night seemed such a long time ago now. Under the full gaze of Matti, I watched them through the window, climbing back into their VFOR Land Rover, and I knew then that these Danish soldiers were going to leave me with some wonderful memories which would stay with me for a very long time.

When Jens and Emil departed, the sense of abandonment was overwhelming at being suddenly marooned in this forbidding place. It was significant, I thought, that the barrier was firmly closed after their VFOR Land Rover had gone, so that it left me with a slightly scary, slightly claustrophobic feeling of confinement. As soon as we arrived I could sense that there was something not quite right about this place; something unorthodox; something harsh and austere. It seemed to hang in the air, like a pall of misery and doom. My initial instinct was to turn around and walk straight back out again. But of course, at this point, that wasn't really an option.

Matti then assumed a very businesslike air and got straight down to work. He took Simon-Peter and I away from the busy admin area to a separate room at the back of the open plan office. It was a long and narrow room with very high windows that were too high to see out of. It meant that the room was quite cool and shady. There were two desks pushed together back to back in the middle of the room, and to the side the usual token chairs for visitors. I guessed this was Matti's office, or at any rate the office he shared with a colleague. As Simon-Peter and I sat down on the chairs by the wall, I spotted the framed photograph that was propped up on Matti's desk. There were two young boys in it, probably aged about 8 and 10, with the same thick black hair as Matti, dressed in expensive designer casuals, with windswept hair and toothy smiles and eyes that were squinting into the sun. I guessed they were his sons, brimming with health and happiness, and both very beautiful. He was a lucky man. I wondered, very briefly, as I watched Matti maneuver himself into his chair behind the desk, whether he had ever enjoyed his little boys' nascent libidos. I wondered whether he had ever coaxed them into the unbridled pleasures of man-boy sex; whether he had ever sampled their tight, youthful little bodies, flush with virginal sexual desire, yearning for that incestuous foray into the forbidden realms of dad-son erotica; whether they had ever fascinated themselves playing with daddy's adult yogurt-squirter, or whether he had fooled around with their tiny stiffies, perhaps manipulated their turgid little organs to the heights of dry-cum ecstasy, or maybe even tapped their hairless little pussies. Oh fuck, those two little boys in the picture made Little Cloud harden perceptibly in my pants.

My musings were interrupted by Simon-Peter giggling. He had seen me looking at the photograph and was flashing a sly little grin in my direction from the seat next to me. I swear he was so attuned to my way of thinking. He was such an astute and insightful little boy, he simply amazed me. At this point Matti demanded our attention and we were obliged to focus on what he had to say.

"Good news," said Matti, pulling himself closer to the desk on his swivel chair, and he looked directly at Simon-Peter, "We've traced your mother. You're going home."

There was an awkward little moment of hesitation. Matti grinned at us both, almost as though he expected a slight delay for the news to sink in. But our hesitation was not due to us assimilating the good news. The pregnant silence was due to us recoiling metaphysically from the magnitude of its implications.

"Aren't you pleased?" asked Matti, looking at Simon-Peter expectantly.

Simon-Peter turned to me, momentarily confused, then turned his focus back on Matti.

"You found my mummy?"

"Yes," Matti nodded enthusiastically, "Or rather, SHE found YOU. Isn't it great?"

Matti explained that after he had taken our details at Sector HQ yesterday, everything was entered into the computer. After that, it was just a question of waiting to see what came up on the database. The UNHCR database held records of all the refugees and IDPs in Verolino, and details of people looking for their loved ones. It was designed to bring separated families back together, and to verify the names of any civilians who had been confirmed killed in the fighting. There was also a register of people wanting to adopt a displaced or orphaned child. According to Matti, the UNHCR database extended across the globe. Apparently, there were many families all over the world wanting to adopt a child and Verolino had many such children to offer. Using the DNA sample and other details, it didn't take long for Simon-Peter to be officially identified and almost instantaneously matched to his rightful next of kin. His family were looking for him. They knew his father was dead – officially he had been 'killed in action' – but they had been told that Simon-Peter was still very much alive and arrangements had been made for him to be sent home. As the son of such a high ranking British officer, Simon-Peter was going to be afforded a great deal of honor and respect and treated with the highest priority. He was going back to England where his mother was waiting for him.

Of course, I had always known at the back of my mind that my time with Simon-Peter would have to come to an end some day. But even so, now that it was a reality, that prospect filled me with profound terror. It was just too sudden, and I realized just how unprepared I was to deal with it. Beside me, I was aware that Simon-Peter was quiet and thoughtful and had not said anything.

"W...when am I leaving?" Simon-Peter stammered, almost overwhelmed by the news.

"This afternoon," Matti announced, "There's a car coming for you. You'll be on the next flight out of Verolino. A US Air Force transporter will take you to Ramstein Air Base in Germany. From there, the RAF will take you to Brize Norton in England. Your mother will be there waiting for you. By this time tomorrow you'll be back home."

Simon-Peter looked frightened. But I knew instinctively that it was not the prospect of flying home that frightened him. It was the prospect of leaving me.

"What about Cloud?" he asked.

Matti seemed perplexed by the question.

"We'll look after him," Matti replied, flashing me a reassuring grin, "Who knows, maybe we'll find his family too."

Ha! Good luck with that, I thought to myself. As far as I was aware, I HAD no family. They were just a dim and distant memory to me, vague images like regurgitated flashbacks from some delirious nightmare; odd snippets, like random stills from a second rate movie; barely remembered scenes which made no logical sense. And what I did remember left me reeling with horror and distaste, as though it was something I didn't want to recapture, a part of my life I had no desire to recall or relive.

"Why can't Cloud come with me?" Simon-Peter asked, innocently.

Matti laughed. But it was an amiable, unassuming little laugh, which indicated that he found Simon-Peter's question cute and endearing.

"That's just not possible," said Matti, shaking his head with regret, "Cloud has to stay here with me."

This should have been a happy day, with Simon-Peter and I finally being transferred to the refugee station and placed into the safe hands of the UNHCR, where we would be effectively out of the combat zone and away from the fighting. But it wasn't happy. It was sad. It was sad because Simon-Peter was going home. I looked on him as we sat there in Matti's office, and I took in the sight of him for what I now knew was going to be one of the very last times. I took in the incredible beauty and cuteness of this little boy, sitting there swinging his little legs back and forth on the high wooden chair, with Howard in his lap, the frayed teddy bear looking rather soiled and shopworn. I wondered how I could be so enamored by such a little boy. I took in his slim, lithe little frame and his little pixie-like nose and those big, bright, liquid eyes. I looked on his big head with those raffish protruding ears, the ears which I had been so tempted to grab onto when he was sucking my little dick. Oh, how I wished I could stick my boydick into his little rosebud mouth one last time, and experience the exquisite pleasure of his pink little tongue lapping at my piss-slit, ingesting the little squirts of kiddiecum he so adroitly coaxed from my hairless little balls. We had shared so much and been through such tumultuous experiences together, I couldn't quite believe I might never see him again.

"Looks like rain," said Matti, casting a wary eye at the high window, beyond which the sky had turned a menacing gray.

It was an indication that, as far as he was concerned, this conversation was over.

Simon-Peter stood up and looked very uncertain for a moment. I stood up with him. Then a momentary flash of panic spread across his face as the magnitude of the news became tangible to him. He looked scared and threw himself against me, wrapping his little body around my waist and burst into tears. I held onto his sweet head and comforted him.

"Shh, don't cry little one," I whispered, kissing the crown of his shiny, chestnut-brown mop.

He sobbed away in my arms, his little body shuddering against me with grief.

Matti got up from his desk.

"I'll leave you two to say goodbye," he said graciously, and stepped out of the room.

Matti thoughtfully closed the door behind him so that the noise of the neighboring room was instantly muted, and I found myself alone with Simon-Peter, both of us standing there entwined in a hushed silence.

I let him cry for a few moments, and waited for his tears to abate. Tell the truth, I felt like crying too. But, for my part, I knew I had to put my feelings aside. After everything Simon-Peter had been through, I had no intention of trying to keep him from going home. I knew that it was only right that he should go back to his family, to a stable, loving environment where he would be safe at last. It was right that he should be with his mother. He deserved it. Who was I to deny him that? And as we stood there, in this stranger's room, in this forbidding, unfamiliar place, it struck me at that moment for the first time that I actually loved Simon-Peter. I really did love that little guy. But loving Simon-Peter meant wanting to do the best for him. And if I truly loved him, I knew I would have to let him go.

We waited with trepidation in Matti's office until the car came to collect Simon-Peter. He had fallen silent by then, still trying to come to terms with the sudden and unexpected turn of events. By the time the car arrived, the sky had darkened considerably and it had started to rain, almost mirroring what was going on in my heart.

Matti took us outside, where the raindrops had begun to dapple the dusty ground, and I could see the enormous car, an olive green VFOR Humvee, waiting by the gate with its engine growling. Matti greeted the young uniformed soldier who stepped out of it. He was the US Army Liaison Officer charged with getting Simon-Peter home. They shook hands, then Matti beckoned Simon-Peter forward. Simon-Peter went to step towards the vehicle, holding his little backpack, but stopped. He turned and looked back at me, and he saw that I had not walked towards the car with him. The reality was finally taking hold: I really wasn't going with him. I saw he had tears in those pretty eyes of his. It was very unnerving to see this little boy so wracked with emotion. It always amazed me how quickly his eyes filled with tears. We knew this was it. He stepped towards me, dropped his backpack onto the ground, and we hugged one last time. His little arms embraced me tightly, grabbing handfuls of my shirt as though he wanted to hold onto me forever. We allowed ourselves one last little kiss, and then he looked up at me, still clutching me tightly. The rain was drumming against our faces, peppering our complexions with tiny splashes.

"But what will happen to YOU?" he asked, looking up through the raindrops, as though suddenly fearful that I might be overlooked and forgotten.

"Oh, don't worry about me," I said brightly, "I'll be alright."

And I really believed that too. I wasn't concerned because I knew I would always land on my feet. I was clever and resourceful and I had youth and good looks in my favor.

"I'll always wemember you," he said, through his tears and the rain.

"I'll remember you too," I said, "I'll never forget you baby boy."

"You will come to visit me one day, won't you?"

"Oh yes, for sure," I said, emphatically, "Just try and stop me."

"You pwomise?"

"I promise."

Finally, he released his little fists from my clothing, resigned to his fate, both of us acknowledging that, painful though this was, we were powerless to do anything about it.

"Go, little one," I said, pushing him away into the rain, "Go home. Your mom is waiting for you."

Finally, the Army Liaison Officer picked up Simon-Peter's backpack and took his little hand and led him away. Simon-Peter twisted his little head as they went, looking back at me wistfully as though trying to eke out every last glimpse of me, Howard the bear still dangling precariously in his other hand. Then he turned and hopped up into the cavernous Humvee. The dull matt paintwork of the car was already awash from the rain. The door was shut, and the vehicle rolled away. The vehicle paused as the barrier was lifted, then it turned out of the gate. As the car disappeared from sight, I knew I would never forget this beautiful, remarkable little boy; this tiny person that had wormed his way into the deepest recesses of my heart; my little buddy, my lover, my adopted brother. He had been my constant companion during these momentous days. Undoubtedly, the memory of him was going to stay with me for the rest of my life.

Whilst I was overjoyed that he was going home, I was filled with sadness at losing Simon-Peter. I was already starting to feel his absence. So after he had gone, I just stood there, rooted to the spot, oblivious to the rain, staring at the barrier, the estranging shield that separated us as he journeyed further and further away from me.

"Come on," said Matti, from somewhere behind me, "Let's go back inside."

But, even despite the rain, I couldn't find the motivation to leave that spot. Perhaps Matti had gauged the depth of feeling between Simon-Peter and me, and was able to suppress any objection he may have had. So he didn't say anything. He seemed to understand, so he just stood there and waited. The rain was falling harder than ever now, in cold, hard pellets that disintegrated against my face and scalp as they hit. Matti was waiting patiently, squinting at me through the rain as it increased in intensity. My shaggy hair was saturated and clung to my head in greasy clumps, the water running down my neck, until I was soaked through and had rainwater dripping off my chin. Finally, Matti stepped up beside me and put a consoling arm around my shoulders, and he gently coaxed me away, silently guiding me back inside.

Matti was very kind. He smiled a benevolent little smile, and spoke to me quietly, in hushed, sympathetic tones, and explained what I had to do next. We collected my backpack from his office, then he escorted me along the endless little alleyways that crisscrossed the sprawling camp, forming narrow thoroughfares between the squat buildings. He took me to one of the blocks way over on the other side of the camp, keeping close to the walls so we wouldn't get too wet. Inside was a long corridor with lots of rooms leading off it. The rooms were tiny, almost like little prison cells, and had bunk beds in them. Matti explained that the camp was a former army barracks where new recruits completed their basic training, and these rooms were where the soldiers used to live. Now they were just used as accommodation for the refugees in the camp. He told me that I would have a room to myself, until another boy arrived to share it with me, the prospect of which I regarded with what I can only describe as ambivalence.

When Matti showed me inside, I saw how bare and uninspiring the room was. It was small, with barely enough floor space for one person to move around comfortably. The décor was dour and soulless, with a sickly yellow paint on the walls. There was a single high window with frosted glass, and to one side, bare mattresses on bunk beds. Sheets and pillows were neatly stacked at the foot of each bunk. There was a tiny table and a single chair in one corner and a wash basin in the other. It was very dispiriting. Not that I expected five star accommodation – this WAS a refugee camp after all – but the prospect of spending time in this cell-like room was depressing beyond words.

I sat disconsolately on the chair in the corner, clutching my backpack, and Matti handed me one of the towels that were next to the basin. I dried my hair and neck as Matti made up the bottom bunk for me. I watched him as he was bent over the mattress, smoothing out the sheets and the comforter for me. His movements were calm and gentle, but confident and purposeful. He was a very trim, lean figure of a man, quite tall, with handsome, distinguished features and a very cute butt. I decided I was quite drawn to him, and tried to imagine his naked butt humping pneumatically between my opened thighs, driving his big adult dick deep and hard into my little shota boy cunt. Right on cue, Little Cloud stiffened at the thought of it.

Just then, Matti turned and caught me checking him out, and it looked for a moment like he was a little flattered or even embarrassed to see how much I was admiring him. He flashed me a 'cheer up' expression, as though to say that things weren't so bad, and then he sat down contentedly on the edge of the bottom bunk and patted the space next to him. I got up, deposited my backpack on the floor and the wet towel on the chair, and went to sit down next to him. He detected my sadness and loneliness and went on giving me little smiles of encouragement. I took his little tokens of benevolence towards me as a sign of his affection. There was something very paternal and comforting about Matti, so I turned and hugged him. I was relieved to find that he was very receptive and tactile, and gave me a reciprocal hug, turning towards me and linking his hands behind my back, pulling me against him. I wondered if he hugged his sons like that, and tried to imagine what it must be like to have a dad like him. As he held me against him, both of us turned towards each other so that my face was muffled against his strong shoulder, I decided I would have been very thankful to have a father like Matti. For a long few moments I enjoyed the embrace, which was very comforting in the wake of Simon-Peter's departure. I enjoyed Matti's proximity and I could feel his warmth through his UNHCR sweatshirt, and the firmness of his adult torso underneath. All the time, neither of us spoke. Little Cloud was so hard in my pants, I wanted Matti to play with him. Having only my previous experience with adult men to draw on, I took his silence as acquiescence, and the fact that he didn't forbid this physical contact between us could only mean that he would welcome my advances. I tentatively reached down and placed my palm over the neat, soft bulge in his crotch, and gently pressed down.

Matti broke the hug suddenly, grabbing me by my shoulders, and pushed me away. He looked confused.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded angrily, spoiling the moment.

His tone frightened me and the look in his eyes was distant and scared. I realized this was all wrong.

"I… I'm sorry," I stammered, "I… I thought…"

"It's okay," said Matti, realizing he had startled me, and stroked my upper arms to soothe my ruffled feathers.

Matti was a little unsettled, and his quiet, confident, self-assuredness deserted him briefly. He knew I had made a move on him. But he had stopped me. He had indicated quite unequivocally that any sexual activity between us was not welcome.

"I'm sorry," I said again, looking down dejectedly, "I thought you liked me."

"I DO like you," said Matti, emphatically, "But…"

"I'm not pretty enough?" I asked, almost disappointed, "You don't think I'm sexy?"

Matti laughed, as though I had said something vaguely ridiculous.

"What is it then?" I demanded, genuinely confused, and I tried appealing to him, "I'm hot and dirty. I can make your cock real hard. You can fuck me any way you want."

Matti shook his head, dismissing all my assertions.

"It's not that," he explained, "I just can't do stuff like that with you. It wouldn't be right."

I didn't know what to say. There was just no script in my archive for this eventuality. It was a stark contrast to find myself forbidden from any sexual contact at all when I was used to having free run and virtually unrestricted access to any guy I damn well chose. That was quite a hard adjustment. For a horny, prodigious and quite permissive little fuckboy like me, the idea that any man would turn me down was something quite alien and unanticipated, the fundamental nature of which I found difficult to comprehend. I just couldn't understand it. I was blond and pretty, and had a great physique for a boy my age, with a larger than average little dick. And I could spunk too. How could any guy decline the opportunity to spunk all over my hairless little body, or pound my cute little butt? Men paid good money for that. I sure hoped Matti wasn't a moralist, or worse still a religious nut, because I couldn't abide those types. They aggravated the hell out of me, tell you the truth.

Matti got up, giving me a forgiving little squeeze on my arm, and said he was going. He asked if I needed anything. I had wanted to say "Yes, your stiff fuckstick ramming hard up my little cunt", but I didn't. I just shook my head. So he quietly slipped out, saying he would be back later to check on me. Then he closed the door behind him, leaving me sitting forlornly on the edge of the bed.

Suddenly, and for the first time in a very long while, I found myself alone. I had almost feared this moment. I had been afraid of being alone because there was finally no escape from the ugly truth that was hunting me down; no avoiding the inevitable sadness that had been waiting in the wings to claim me. I had just spoiled things between me and Matti, with whom I was already forming an attachment. I had probably shocked and repulsed him. Worse than that, Simon-Peter was gone. Our magical little liaison was over. What Simon-Peter and I had shared was pretty unique and special, and our friendship went way beyond the realms of normal shota boy liaisons. He was one of the best things that had ever happened to me in my short and relatively unremarkable little life, and now he was gone. So, finally finding myself alone, enclosed within this joyless and forbidding space, which felt just like being in prison, I finally succumbed to my sorrow. I drew my feet up, rolled over and curled up in my little bunk. I was so overwhelmed with sadness, that I turned my face to the wall and cried like I'd never cried before.

* * * * * *

My initial impressions of Kolina were not ameliorated by the experience which followed. With the rows of nondescript little huts and the barbed wire fence, Kolina felt just like a prison camp. That impression was reinforced by the fact that the whole place seemed to be policed by these ubiquitous black-clad guards, who took the pressure off the UNHCR staff by overseeing the day to day running of the camp. I discovered that it was the responsibility of some private security company who had been contracted to control the general security of the camp, leaving the UNHCR staff to focus on their humanitarian work. What seemed odd to me was these guards looked like members of some modern paramilitary organization, all dressed in black, clad from head to toe in black pants and sweatshirts, with black boots and even black caps. No word of a lie, they looked like some latter day equivalent of the SS.

The routine at Kolina was also very disorientating. My first night was pretty sleepless and uncomfortable. Finding myself in this little cell-like room was a stark contrast to the private room we had been given at Sector HQ the night before. There was a washroom at the end of the corridor, with a communal shower. The whole regime was quite alienating and impersonal. Isolated in that little cell, I was very lonely. And it was noisy too. The walls were paper thin and I was kept awake by the constant illicit chattering of the boys in the other rooms, to say nothing of the involuntary moans and vocalizations of their dreams as they tossed and turned in their sleep, and the constant comings and goings emanating from the corridor.

The entire camp was very daunting. The prospect of being assimilated into this new and unfamiliar environment filled me with dread. It was so big and confusing. Worst of all, I didn't know anybody. I was sad and lonely, lost and bewildered. I was so disoriented by these new surroundings, that for the first day I hardly spoke to anybody.

The most difficult times were mealtimes. The entire population of boys in the camp all descended on the hut with the dining hall in a noisy, disorganized rabble. The dining hall was always unbearably raucous. It was a scary, forbidding place, a vast panorama of long tables, and the room was full to overflowing with noisy, chattering boys – the girls were kept in their own separate part of the camp. We had to join a long queue to file past a server counter where disinterested kitchen staff doled out an indistinct and unappetizing slop into the various little compartments of our molded plastic trays.

I took my tray and found a secluded corner of the dining hall to sit down. There was a table end that was pretty much vacant, so I set down my tray, picked up the plastic cutlery, and made a start.

As I ate, I watched the antics going on around me. At the other end of the table, two older boys decided to chase away a much younger boy, to make room for them to sit together. Cowed and subdued by their menaces, he meekly picked up his unfinished meal and moved further along the table. To add insult to injury, one of the older boys then decided to reach over and steal his hunk of bread. Of course the younger boy raised no objection. He was a little peeved, but seemed resigned to it. I guessed this was all quite usual. I had to assume that bullying and subjugation was endemic in this kind of environment.

I had not worked very far through my meal when I was interrupted from taking another mouthful by someone passing by behind me. I heard someone call my name in a voice which I knew was familiar.

"Cloud?"

It was one of those moments when I instinctively recognized the voice. It was a young voice, and one which I had known well, but couldn't pinpoint it immediately.

I turned, not having yet succeeded in placing the owner, and there, poised with his plastic tray in his hands and a crooked little smirk on his lips, was Chip. Chip! The pretty little shota boy with whom I had shared so many exploits. Chip! The pretty, horny little tyke, with that cute elfin face, those round wire-rimmed specs and steel-gray eyes. But there was something very different about him. Chip looked somehow older, hardened, more street-wise. I realized it was because his hair was gone. That mop of longish light brown hair with that distinctive unruly little curl on his forehead was missing. His hair had been shaved very closely, revealing the true shape of his pretty head. His eyes had dark circles around them and appeared more sunken, and his cheeks were thinner. He looked very different, tired and drawn, and yet he was still a very welcome and beautiful sight.

"What are YOU doing here?" was all I could think to ask.

"Same as you probably," he replied, grinning in amusement.

We both laughed. It was a stupid question. Chip stepped towards me and put his tray down next to mine. I shifted along to make space for him. So overjoyed was I to see him, I instinctively threw myself onto him and kissed him in a hungry, emotional, desperate greeting. I gorged on his sweet lips and held him. The older boys at the other end of the table jeered and whistled, witnessing our embrace, and evidently thinking it worthy of acclaim. They clapped and cheered and some of the other boys joined in, alerted by the attention we were attracting. Chip and I didn't bat an eyelid. We were both seasoned fuckboys. We didn't care.

I hugged Chip tightly, and our lips locked together. His little body felt somehow thinner and harder, like he had lost weight and his physique had suffered from recent hardships. Nevertheless, he embraced me warmly. It was the embrace of a favorite fuckbuddy from the past; the same boy I had performed countless times with; the tight, well-toned little body I had thoroughly sucked and fucked; the pretty little boy whose ass cherry I had busted; whose dick cherry I had popped; whose tiny frame I had repeatedly smothered in my kiddie fuckjuice; who had swallowed inordinate amounts of my boyspunk and who had even fucked me on occasion, his little dick pulsing with pleasure as he dry cummed inside my veteran little snatch. As I held him close, it was as though all those memories flooded back; the feel of him, the warmth and substance of his little frame seemed so familiar, even the smell of him, and I realized I was horning up for the little guy even as we hugged each other. It was as though my body instantly recalled all those pleasurable encounters. My body remembered it all because the body never forgets. We were united by our shared experiences, bound through a relationship which was rooted in unique circumstances. We were comrades, united in our common suffrage, like old soldiers who had fought together and ultimately survived together. For how could I ever forget this brave little warrior that had fought with me. No, the body never forgets.

As we broke apart, and he stood before me in all his glory, I realized there were tears in my eyes. But they were tears of joy, for Chip was like a little angel, sent to save me from my loneliness, to lift my spirits in the aftermath of losing Simon-Peter, and to assuage the grief of my incarceration in this stark, forbidding place.

We talked excitedly all through our meal. I rushed, wolfing down my food and swallowing impetuously, almost finding the necessity for nourishment an inconvenience to my personal agenda, which was to get Chip back to my room and fuck him. Yes, I was overjoyed to see Chip, and the emotional connection we had was as tangible as ever, but he was such a good looking boy, at this moment he just made me very horny. It was also partly because I knew how hot and dirty Chip was, and how sexually skilled he was. I couldn't wait to get him alone so I could sex him up real good. Little Cloud was rock hard in my pants, eager to press up against Chip's hard little 10 year old body, to feel his heat, to sink between his soft butt cheeks, to root hard into his little cunt and be totally engulfed in his creamy tightness.

When we had finished eating, I was so keen to get Chip alone, that I took him by the hand and we half ran-half skipped our way back to my little room. We crashed through the door and I slammed it shut. We fell against the door, giggling and breathless. We were alone at last. The daylight was fading and the whole room was bathed in a dull shadow. There was a kind of subdued hush and I didn't want to spoil it by putting the light on. I leaned back against the door and pulled Chip towards me, kissing him once again. He fell onto me and let me do whatever I wanted. I kissed his mouth, invading it with my tongue, and then my lips explored his pretty face. I removed his little specs and kissed each of his eyelids, then his nose, his chin, and all the way down the side of his neck. He was burning hot. I sensed his little body yielding to me. He was receptive and seemed acquiescent to whatever I wanted to do. He felt my stiffie in my pants and humped up against me hard, sending little jolts of pleasure right through me. I could feel the little lump in his crotch, then I knew that he wanted this too.

I had become so accustomed to Simon-Peter's dimensions, that meeting Chip again was a lesson in re-acquaintance. As we kissed, I was relearning Chip's physiology. The difference between Chip and Simon-Peter was that Chip was more knowing and dirty. Sure, Simon-Peter was not averse to sucking and fucking, and he had all the instincts of a true fuckboy, but so did Chip. And Chip was dirty-minded too. He knew how to ratchet up the eroticism. He thought dirty and talked dirty, just like me. He was so entrenched in his sexuality that he reveled in his sexiness, whereas Simon-Peter was innocently dirty. Simon-Peter acted out of instinct, whereas Chip's actions were tinged with perversity. Like a true fuckboy, Chip was inventive in his perviness, which is what I liked most about him.

We clambered up to the top bunk bed and pitched into each other in a flurry of writhing and kissing, and for a few moments there was nothing but the sound of our lips slobbering over each other and our heavy, irregular breaths. At the same time, we struggled to shuck off our clothes, impetuously throwing off first our shirts, then our pants and finally our underwear. Perched up there on the top bunk, it was as though we were discarding unwanted detritus from our nest. When we were finally naked, I found myself on top of Chip, on all fours. He laid submissively beneath me, squirming with pleasure, his pretty, perfect form laid bare for me to enjoy. His muscly little tummy still had the discernible ridges of his little preteen six pack, and his chest and arms were very well defined. I swear this boy had the most perfect physique. He had a body that was so beautifully sculpted, so perfectly boyish, that it almost begged to be glazed with boyjizz – it was so beautiful that it cried out to be lashed with creamy, sloppy fuckjuice, and soiled with rivulets of hot sticky spunk. When he stripped off and discarded the remnants of his shabby clothes, to reveal that pretty little bod of his for the first time in a long while, I wanted to instinctively push him down onto the bed, mount him, and furiously jack my little fuckstick until it pulsed out my boyjizz all over him. I just wanted to cover him in cum – that was the kind of effect Chip had. His tricks would all testify to that. I could still clearly recall the sight of him dripping with all those freshly extracted fuckwads at the New Years Eve Bacchanal. He just had the kind of body that contrived to be fucked hard and spattered with sperm. What was more – he liked it.

Chip's little dick was standing up clear and proud, long and straight and engorged with blood, hot and hard and aroused by the pleasure that was in the offing. I looked down at this perfect boy, lying between my knees. My arms were either side of him, my face above his, and we looked into each others eyes. I reached over and gently slid his little spectacles back onto his face – how I loved those little round specs – and we smiled affectionately.

"It's so good to see you again," I said quietly, almost in a whisper.

Chip looked up at me, flattered by that, and raised his head off the pillow to kiss me. I swooped down to meet his kiss, and laid down on top of him, the full length of my body pressing against his. He was hot and hard beneath me, and I could feel my hard dick pressing between his slender legs, cradled in the natural groove of his smooth, slender thighs, and I swear I could have spunked him just like that. I could have frotted my dick against his hairless, muscly little thighs, until my kidspunk gently pulsed out in pleasurable release. It was just as good as fucking him.

Chip started thrusting his hips up into my tummy, so that his little stiffie was digging into the muscles of my stomach, and he started moaning in his cute high-pitched voice. Fuck, his little boy moans were so erotic.

I kissed him on the lips and spoke quietly into his ear.

"You wanna fuck me?"

He closed his eyes and nodded, at the same time he wriggled around beneath me, horny as hell.

I wanted Chip to fuck me. Matti had turned down the opportunity, much to his detriment in my view. Chip had no such reservations. Chip was born to fuck. His little dick was no substitute in size for what I imagined was Matti's big adult boy-plunger, but Chip had technique and experience on his side. I wanted my little cunt rooted, and Chip knew exactly how I liked it.

We exchanged places and I laid down on the comforter. Chip rose up and positioned himself between my knees. His favorite position was the same as mine – face to face. I brought my knees up to my chest and opened my legs so that he could have free access to my hole, proudly presenting all my shit to him. He looked at my hardened dick, so much bigger than his, and he scooted closer to jack it a couple of times, just for good measure. It felt good. He then lowered his little body onto me, his abdomen pressing against the underside of my dick, which was laid flat, pointing up towards my tummy. I supported his little body between my opened thighs. He paused, holding the base of his little dick at the entrance to my hole, and he looked lovingly into my eyes.

"Can I?" he asked.

His dick was pretty small, and we knew it would easily penetrate my little sphincter. He was well versed in achieving entry with one single thrust. He was simply asking permission to ram it into me. I nodded, indicating that I was ready. He rubbed the hot, hard little head of his dick against my ring, centering it against my star, and for those few moments the anticipation was tangible. How I loved that magical moment just before my little cunt was filled, feeling a warm cockhead tickling my ring, and pressing against my pucker as though knocking on the door to seek entry, just on the brink of utter paradise.

The next thing I knew, there was a disembodied shout and I felt a sudden and searing sting from deep inside my chute. I realized the shout was my own. Chip's entry had been violent and forceful, and he was now thrusting so insistently into my snatch that I hardly had time to catch my breath. I reached up and stroked his arms and shoulders as he labored above me.

"Fuck, that hurt," I said, bracing myself against his energetic thrusting.

"Sorry," he said, but didn't slow down, just went right on stabbing into me.

He smiled. He was turned on by it and continued thrusting his little pelvis into me repeatedly. He was rocking me hard into the mattress as he fucked. Chip liked rough sex. He was not like Guus – into fist-fucking and bondage – but he liked a good hard fuck, and he was thrilled by hard boydicks stabbing into yielding boycunts. Oh yeah, Chip was so accomplished, so prodigious. He was the quintessential fuckboy. His technique was unrivalled. His experience showed in the confidence and maturity of his movements. He was grunting with the effort and really stabbing his little dick into me hard. He was a strong boy, and it hurt a little. He was desperate to cum in me. It was sheer animal lust and a real pleasure to behold, that even in a boy so young, the sexual imperative was so strong. The drive to pump his non-existent kiddiespunk into my butt was tangible. I reached behind him and put my palms squarely on his smooth, rounded little buns, and pulled his pelvis into me, forcing his stiffie to dig painfully into my little cunt. It felt so good to have his veteran little dick inside me – a dick so small and young, and yet so proficient, so experienced, so hard with little boy lust, so attuned to boring into tight little fuckholes, so technically accomplished at hammering into boychutes, seeking that elusive nirvana of cumming up another boy's butt, and pulsing powerfully whilst sheathed deep inside their taut little sphincters.

I could tell when Chip had worked close to his orgasm because he started thrusting faster, with harder, shorter strokes. He also changed his angle of attack, thrusting upwards rather than just in, painfully digging his little fuckstick into the sides of my chute, trying to hit my gland. It worked. Every time he struck my gland it felt like my little dick wanted to let go, unleash all my boyjuice in one powerful explosion. But I held on. I expected him to ram his little dick into me even harder on the paradise stroke, burying his little fuckstick into me as deep as he could. But he didn't. Instead, he suddenly pulled out and started jacking it, leaning in between my legs as though he wanted to shoot it over me.

"Watch this," he said, with a sense of urgency, frantically polishing away with his little fist.

I watched him between my open legs, Chip kneeling between them working away on his little dick. With another few deft strokes, he cummed. His little orgasm was heralded only by the merest intake of breath. Then he moaned loudly and arched his back, and he trembled violently a couple of times, his eyes widening with the pleasure. Then a couple of sharp breaths, as his orgasm played out. He was looking down in amazement at his little dick which was straining in his fist in a seizure of pure pleasure, waggling strongly in his grip as though it was being asphyxiated. When it had stopped, he looked up at me with a wondrous expression.

"Look Cloud," he said, holding his little dick for me.

He retracted his trim little foreskin and showed me the pink exposed head of his cute little dick. We both looked down, and there, glistening on the very tip, a few droplets of clear kidspunk had trickled out over the head of his dick.

"See! I can spunk!" he announced, triumphantly.

I looked on in amazement, and remembered how much I had looked forward to tasting Chip's kiddiecum one day. And now, finally, his little balls were starting up production. It was a milestone in the development of all boys – the end of muted little dry-cums and the beginning of big, sloppy wet ones. Chip had a smirk of smugness on his lips. He was so proud of it.

Pleased for him, I paid him the ultimate fuckboy accolade, which was to lick it off. I stuck my tongue out and he knew immediately what I wanted. He clambered over me, and sat astride my chest, pointing his stiff little dickie at me with both hands. I gave it a very precise and deliberate lick, cleaning his little cockhead with my tongue, and savored the taste of the little drops of kiddiesperm he had produced for me. It was sweet and slick on my tongue.

"Mmm," I said, "Delicious. Make some more for me."

He giggled and scooted off me, lying down next to me on the narrow little bunk, and shut his eyes contentedly.

"Heh, you're the best," he murmured, lying there with his eyes closed.

I smiled, more to myself than anything.

"Good to see I haven't lost my touch," I replied.

"You haven't," said Chip emphatically.

I giggled a little. He was so complimentary. But then Chip knew how to strike a good rapport with his lovers. He had a natural affinity for being easygoing and down to earth. It wasn't just the fact that he was pretty and horny and one of the most accomplished boys in boyfuckdom – he was also a nice boy with a friendly personality. He was very intuitive, genuinely good at getting the measure of people. He was emotionally mature and had a level of knowingness about him that even the older shota boys lacked.

As I lay there, with Chip next to me on the narrow little bunk, I was still hard and had to cum. Little Cloud was so hard in my crotch that I knew it wasn't going to take long to jack him into a state of paradise with a few hard yanks. I needed to blow my load. I needed to pump out my kiddie fuckwad, and I wanted to do it all over Chip.

I rose up and quickly mounted him, straddling his waist, and leaned in so that my dick was waggling threateningly above his naked little frame. He smiled. He knew what I wanted.

"Spunk me," he cried out, almost imploring me, grabbing recklessly at my dick as it wavered above the taught rib cage of his little frame, "Fuckin' blast it all over me. I know you want to."

Boy, did I want to. I wanted to paint his little body with my cum. In fact, at this moment, I wished I could spunk just like Jens. I wanted to spray a whole fountain of jizz at him, to glaze his little body all over with an angry cockful of boyjuice. He reached up and jacked it good and hard a few times for me, stretching the skin and eliciting a little stab of pain. Tell the truth, his little fingers clawing at my boner like that almost made me jettison my load prematurely. As I jacked frantically, I sat down hard on his pelvis so that my balls were pressing warmly into the dip of his tummy. He reached behind me and began jacking his own little dick, which was still engorged with hardness even after his own orgasm. He was pulling it and stretching it, painfully manipulating his stiff little organ this way and that as though the pain would induce another little cum out of it. It was just too much. I rose up and tipped forward, feeling the first stirrings of my seizure approaching, and I pressed the head of my dick into the groove of his chest. The warmth and hardness of his little body against my spongy cockhead sparked ignition. The pleasure was exquisite. For a few moments my whole body was gripped by the inordinate ecstasy that was centered on my dick. As the first nominal jet of my boyjizz forced its way out in a graceful little arc, it came to rest in the little dip of the V at the base of his throat. My cum was overwhelming and profound, pulsing out my kidspunk in a couple more little squirts. For a few moments I floated about in a haze of pure pleasure, my vision almost blurred, and my little cock felt like it had exploded, as though I had spunked a whole damburst of fuckjuice over him. I hadn't of course, but the pleasurable stinging in my tube told me that what little I had squirted had been ejected with great intensity. Finally my little cock stopped pulsing and I was able to breathe again. When it was over, I sat back down astride his slender thighs, his little cock pressed into mine. I could feel its heat on my balls. My heavier boydick, now softening somewhat, rested above his, leaking little dribbles of my almost clear kiddiecum onto his still stiff little todger, and our little dicks nestled together like two dancers exhausted from a duet.

Eventually, I flopped down on the bed next to him and we both fell silent. There was only the muted sighs of our breathing as it slowly regained its regular rhythm, and we laid there side by side, basking in the afterglow of our lasciviousness. We both dozed for a bit, nearly falling asleep.

After a while, I woke up and saw the beauty of this boy on the bed next to me. The room had now darkened as the sun was setting, bathing us in an intimate semi-darkness. Chip looked so cute and sexy lying there next to me. I rose up and stole a little kiss. I leaned over and gave him a smacker on the mouth. He smiled contentedly. He was still awake.

"This is nice," he murmured, his eyes still closed.

"Yeh, it is," I concurred, and laid back down with one arm draped across his chest.

"Y' know, I missed you," said Chip, unexpectedly, "You should never have left without saying goodbye."

I looked over at him regretfully, almost apologetic. He was right of course.

"Sorry," I said, "there just wasn't time."

"That's okay," he said, smiling, "I forgive you."

And he let out a little laugh of absolution.

He then rose up and reached over to the little pile of clothes we had discarded earlier, which had been unceremoniously kicked to the foot of the bed. He found his pants and extracted a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He even had a little lighter, which he ignited with a soft click. Having lit his cigarette, he laid back down next to me, puffing smoke up into the air. I was mildly shocked, because he used to be such a health freak. He used to frown on anything that was hazardous to health. I assumed he had let go of his principles somewhat, his disapproval perhaps ameliorated by recent experiences. Whatever Chip had been through, it had certainly changed him, physically and psychologically. He took a couple of puffs, then turned towards me. He stuck the lit cigarette in my lips and held it there for me to take a puff. It was ironic, I thought, that the only time I smoked these days was when someone else stuck a cigarette between my lips.

I took the cigarette and granted him the courtesy of taking a couple of puffs, enough to make it look like we were sharing it, and we both laid on the pillow looking up at the ceiling. With our libidos for the moment satisfied, and our impetuous little fuckboy urges now assuaged, we could perhaps finally talk. I had been dying to ask him.

"Chip, what happened to you?"

I handed the cigarette back to him and there was a moment's silence during which I detected he was making sense of my question, perhaps considering how to reply. Then he lifted his head and looked over, exhaling smoke.

"What do you mean?"

"What happened to you?" I asked again, "What happened to Guus and the other boys?"

He laid back down, not immediately volunteering a reply, apparently reluctant to go into it.

"It wasn't very nice," he said, downbeat, "After you left, the Club was raided. Guus was arrested and we were all taken prisoner by the VLA."

I stared at him, incredulous, especially as he said it so casually. He then turned over and buried his face into the pillow.

"I don't wanna talk about it," he said, muffled into the pillow.

I didn't pursue it. I didn't want to upset Chip. No doubt I would get to hear the full story soon enough.

We laid there side by side staring at the ceiling and smoking, passing the cigarette back and forth, lost in our own thoughts for a few moments. When the cigarette was spent, Chip extinguished it between his wetted fingertips and flicked it expertly across the room, into the little basin in the corner. Then there was a long, long period of silence, during which I almost fell asleep. My body was aching slightly from our earlier exertions, but was nevertheless sated. I was the happiest I had been in a long time. With Chip lying next to me, still naked, still sporting the drying little stains of my kidspunk where it had liquefied and finally dried into a powdery film on his unblemished skin, it was a perfect moment. I watched the thin veil of cigarette smoke slowly dissipating in the air above us. Then, after a while, Chip piped up again, dispelling the silence.

"Y' know, after you'd gone, someone came looking for you," he said, casually.

I turned and rolled over towards him.

"Who?" I asked, curious.

"Some trick," he replied tersely, "Didn't give his name. Said he'd played with you before."

I rose up onto my elbows, interested.

"What did he look like?"

"Dark curly hair and a bandana," said Chip.

I gathered my legs and sat up cross-legged on the bed next to him. A little stab of intensity shot through me.

"What nationality?" I demanded.

Chip glanced over at me, curious to know why this was significant, and he flashed me a look of near-annoyance, like he wasn't expecting to be interrogated over it.

"I dunno, American I think," he said.

I look at him, stunned.

It must have been Ciggy! If that was true, then that changed everything. I had so hoped and prayed that Ciggy was alive. I had almost given up hope. But he was alive! Chip had seen him – spoken to him. My heart soared. And with that realization, the future that Ciggy had promised was now a possibility again. My only hope of salvation was once again a reality. Of course we would have to find each other first. But the most important thing was that Ciggy was alive.

I just had to check one more fact with Chip.

"Was he chewing gum?" I asked, almost breathless with anticipation.

Chip thought for a second, looking up towards the ceiling momentarily, querying his memory.

"Come to think of it, yeh, he was."

Then I knew for sure. It was definitely Ciggy. Ciggy was alive. He was alive and he was looking for me.

Chapter 19
Kolina – II

When I woke up, Chip was playing with my dick. I opened my eyes to find him smiling manically, with his arm plunged under the comforter and his little hand fiddling about in my crotch. The dirty little tyke had grabbed hold of my shit while I was asleep and was unashamedly waggling my hardening little todger from side to side in his clammy little fist. I smiled. Chip was such a beautiful boy. What a pleasant sight it was to wake up to him. Of course Little Cloud instantly firmed up in his grip, and Chip took great delight in bending my stiffie this way and that, jerking it down hard, and eliciting a little jolt of agonizing pleasure. I squirmed into the pillow and let him continue. In fact, he readjusted his grip, taking my fully inflated fuckstick in his tightening little fist, and started jacking it up and down in long, firm strokes. They were good, hard yanks too, designed to induce an orgasm. I knew he was serious when he ducked under the covers and gave it an earnest suck. I could feel his hot little orifice swallowing my dick right to the root. His warm, wet lips around my stiff little pole was heavenly. He was gonna make me cum. I let him.

It didn't take long. I stroked his head, feeling the velvety texture of his recently shorn scalp as he bobbed up and down on my stiffie. After a few short moments my little dick exploded into his mouth and I floated around in pure pleasure as Chip's expert little lips finished me off. He impaled his cute head hard on my cock as I was cumming, eager not to spill a drop of my essence as it pumped onto his expert little tongue. He then licked my cockhead clean and emerged from under the bedclothes smiling smugly, clearly pleased with his work.

"How was it?" he asked, his lips greasy with my boysperm.

"Great," I replied, "Glad to see you haven't lost your touch."

He smiled a self-satisfied smirk. Then another thought seemed to occur to him and his expression changed.

"Your spunk tastes different," he said.

"Different how?"

"I dunno," he shrugged vaguely, "More chalky."

I giggled. Good old Chip. He had just as keen a palate for spunk as me, with a genuine affinity for the taste of it. Indeed, you had to like it to be able to swallow it so eagerly. Like me, Chip was a true connoisseur, and could detect even the most subtle variations in any spunkload.

My dick for the moment satisfied, I rolled back the comforter and swung my legs out over the edge of the bunk. Then I hopped down onto the floor.

"Come on," I said, "Don't you want breakfast?"

He let out a cute little giggle.

"I just had it," he chuckled.

I laughed.

"No seriously," I said, "It's late, we should get over to the dining room."

"You go," said Chip, turning over in the bed, "I'm not hungry."

And with that he snuggled back under the comforter and curled up in the bunk with only his head poking out. He was probably still traumatized from recent events. I felt so sorry for him.

I left Chip in bed. I hurriedly got dressed and went outside to make my way to the dining hall.

Breakfast was nearly over by the time I got to the dining hall. As usual the place echoed to the raucous din of many chattering boys. I collected my tray of food at the counter and found a table in the corner where I could sit anonymously, trying not to run into anyone or catch anybody's eye. I really wasn't interested in making small talk and it was relatively secluded in that corner of the cavernous room. That particular table was empty. On the next table, just opposite, was a boy sitting on his own. He looked around the same age as me, maybe a little older. He was sitting well back in his chair, having finished eating, and was listening to some music that was being piped directly into his ears because he had an earbud in each ear, with two thin threads of cable trailing down into some unseen device that must have been secreted in his pocket. He was nodding rhythmically and tapping one sneaker-clad foot, looking very mellow. I noticed him straight away because he was the only other boy in the whole room that was sitting on his own. Not only that, he was extremely handsome, and had this beautiful mane of long blond hair. It was down to his shoulders – even longer than mine, and was a healthy golden color, not dull and whitish like mine. It was neat and shiny, unlike my shaggy, dirty-blond mop. In fact, this boy looked generally well groomed and clean cut, with a healthy, radiant complexion, and he was very well dressed. Clearly he was a boy who had a good eye for trendy clothes that also looked good on him. He had classic good looks, an oval face with wholesome choirboy features, prominent cheekbones and a sweet rosebud mouth with lips that were cherry red. It was apparent to me straight away that he was a boy of the highest quality, not only because he had inherently good dress sense and took trouble over his appearance, but because, above all, he was incredibly beautiful.

I focused on finishing my breakfast, and kept a weather eye out for the blond boy. He was settled into listening to his music and seemed very relaxed. But he was cheerful and alert, which infinitely raised his allure. In fact I thought I saw him looking over at me. Perhaps he caught me checking him out, I couldn't tell. As he was listening to his music, he picked up a teaspoon and started amusing himself by repeatedly throwing it up into the air, twirling it like a little baton way up above his head. At the same time he was still nodding his head vaguely to the music and tapping his foot. Every time he tossed the teaspoon aloft, he would look up briefly, tilting his blond head back to steal a quick glance over at me. At least I thought he was looking at me. His seductive eyelashes flashed only a momentary glimpse of his mysterious eyes. I watched him, mesmerized by his beauty, as he went right on tossing that spoon up into the air over and over again. I quite admired his dexterity and the confidence with which he made that spoon twirl so high above his head, and how it fell straight back down into his hand. He caught it squarely in his palm every time without faltering.

After a few minutes of watching him, the blond boy tossed and caught the spoon one last time and finally put it down. He then switched off his music and pulled the earbuds out of his ears, stowing them safely away in a bundle in his pocket, then he got up. He seemed to rise up purposefully and I realized he was coming over. He had undoubtedly seen me looking at him. He marched towards me with a confident stride, all the time his gaze fixed on me so that his objective was by now fairly unequivocal. He was wearing a bright green hoodie that was unzipped, beneath which he had a tight white t-shirt and quite trendy, low slung jeans that were well down on his hips, held up with a broad belt. The tongue of his belt was unsecured and so long that it flopped about waywardly as he walked, dangling across his crotch in a sexy, metaphorical way. He stepped up to my table and he grasped the back of the chair opposite, leaning towards me. I steeled myself for a confrontation.

"Hey," he said, more by way of greeting than anything else.

I looked up.

"Yeh?"

"Can I sit with you?" he asked, brightly.

I was momentarily stunned. It was a friendly remark. I was slightly taken aback that he was actually asking permission to join me and that he wasn't intending to remonstrate with me.

"Sure," I replied, gladly acceding to his request.

He grabbed the chair opposite me to sit down. I liked the way he turned the chair around and sat on it back to front, so that his chest was leaning over the back of the chair, facing me with a friendly grin.

"You're new here aren't you?"

He was very open and polite and his tone was overly friendly and gregarious. I looked at his hopeful, affable expression and saw how inclusive this boy was, and how warm and inviting his hazel eyes were.

"Is it that obvious?" I replied, sheepishly.

He giggled.

"Just a bit," he said.

I smiled modestly.

"You bin lookin' at me," he went on, in a tone tinged with such certainty that it came out as a statement of fact.

"Yeh, so?" I replied, fully prepared to admit my attraction to him.

"I charge for that y' know," he said.

I was momentarily thrown because it was a humorous remark, delivered with an absolutely straight face. I couldn't help eliciting a little laugh because it sounded like something I might have said.

"No free previews?" I asked, playfully.

Now it was his turn to laugh.

"Oh, wise guy eh?" he said, giggling.

"I try," I replied, laconically.

He chuckled, rocking backwards slightly, and as he did so I could see he had perfect white teeth and little braces in his mouth which I thought were cute. It was all lighthearted banter and I sensed both of us relaxing.

"What's your name?" he enquired, indicating that he wanted to make friends.

"Cloud," I said, "What's yours?"

"River," he replied.

There was split second of silence as the irony of it took hold, and then we both burst into splutters of laughter, guffawing loudly.

"You serious?" he asked, still laughing.

"Yeah, you?"

"Yeah."

And we both laughed some more.

After a few moments, when the initial novelty had passed, we were able to compose ourselves, and he straightened up.

"Hey Cloud," he said brightly, by way of greeting, and held out his fist to formally acknowledge me.

"Hey," I reciprocated, and bumped fists with him across the table.

"So, what's your story Cloud?"

He wasted no time in seeking some background information. Because he was around the same age as me, I trusted him. He was devilishly handsome too, with that immaculate golden blond hair, so unlike my dirty-blond mop, and those cute braces in his mouth. He looked so sweet and innocent with his pretty, choirboy looks. His braces added a touch of vulnerability to his aura, as though to emphasize that he was still a young boy and not quite finished growing. I was sure that was just a façade though. I had the impression that underneath he was not as innocent as he looked, and that his butter-wouldn't-melt visage belied something more rebellious, something unorthodox, dangerous and exciting. And because of that, I was very drawn to him, so I had no hesitation in investing time in conversation with him. I wanted to get to know him.

"I'm a shota boy," I explained.

"No!" River exclaimed, his mouth dropping open in a big O, "Seriously? What club?"

"The Saxon Club."

"The Saxon Club? You're shittin' me!"

I shook my head.

"You know it?" I asked.

"Sure I know it," he asserted, "It's the best shota club around."

"How do YOU know?" I demanded, suddenly curious.

"I'm a shota boy too!" he announced, his tone rising by a couple of octaves, as though to emphasize the coincidence.

"Really? What club?"

"The Tip Top Club," he replied.

We both laughed at that, acknowledging the slightly comical nature of some of the club names, and the pseudo-respectability that some of them pretended to allude to. But we both knew the tongue-in-cheek humor that was behind some of the names, The Cotton Club, The Kit Kat Club, what a joke it all was.

I knew The Tip Top Club very well. At any rate I knew its reputation. It was known for being a high-end establishment, and it was renowned not just for the beauty of its boys, but also for their friendliness and extroversion. I had met tricks who had been around all the shota clubs, indeed some of them made a career of hanging out on the shota club circuit, so I knew what reputations they all had. At The Tip Top Club, the boys were not just good-looking – pretty boys were a dime a dozen, after all – but they were also genuinely warm and friendly. The boys approached the clients, stopped and took time to chat, and seemed to have a real affinity for what they were doing. It wasn't just for the money either. The consensus was that the boys really were friendly and open and were willing to invest time with clients just chatting, sharing a drink, sitting on their laps, maybe even snogging. At The Tip Top Club the boys were all prodigious strippers. They were real performers and were all quite supple and athletic. They were famous for their naked lap dances, but they were more well known for their naked gymnastics. Those legendary shows were daring and adventurous displays of naked boys enduring the most extreme and sometimes painful acts. I had seen it once, during an exchange visit, and it was quite a sight to behold. It was the place to go if you wanted to see naked little boys performing risky and physically demanding feats – indeed some tricks got off on that, as Guus's famous New Years Eve Bacchanal would testify – but beyond that The Tip Top Club always guaranteed a plentiful supply of precocious little boys showing their shit. There was no limit to the range of naked little boydicks on display, most of them beautifully erect. The Tip Top Club had a reputation for boys who could keep wood – that is they could sustain erections for inordinate periods of time, and without resorting to Viagra. The Tip Top Club had stiff boycock as far as the eye could see, more than even the most prolific boyfucker could ever hope to suck or grope during the course of a single evening.

"So what happened to you?" River asked, determined to get some background on me, "How did you end up here?"

"I ran off when UNVERO pulled out," I explained, "I didn't want to stick around when the fighting started."

He nodded slowly, assimilating my story. He seemed in complete sympathy with my motives.

"What about you?" I asked.

"Our handler was arrested," said River, "we were captured by the VLA."

That struck a chord with me instantly. It was exactly what had happened to Chip. The news of his handler being arrested only consolidated what we had started to hear about the new provisional government and the changes that were taking place in Verolino.

"How did you get away?" I asked.

"We were released in exchange for VLA prisoners."

This time it was me nodding in sympathy. We all had our stories to tell.

Just then, River got up and came around the table to where I was sitting.

"C'mon," he said, holding out an arm as though ready to place it around my shoulders.

"Where are we going?" I asked, looking up at him.

"I'm going to introduce you to the rest of the escape committee," he said, with a cryptic tone.

I let out a little laugh, assuming that the escape committee was some sort of nickname for the group of boys he hung around with, like some collective noun for the in-crowd of boys at the camp, of which he was undoubtedly the leader.

I got up and he moved towards me so that we were standing quite close together, and I noticed that he was quite a tall boy, compared to me. He towered over me by a good few inches. His shoulder was at eye level to me. But he was slim and nicely proportioned and his trim, well-toned chest and tummy were clearly visible beneath his tight t-shirt. I had no doubt he had a beautiful body under there. He placed his arm gingerly around my shoulders and guided me over to the door. I could feel his strong arm around me, and his grip was firm and reassuring around my shoulders. As we went, I could already feel Little Cloud horning up in my pants, at once excited by this beautiful boy and his sexual allure. See, my instincts had been correct. Not only was River infinitely good looking, he was a shota boy too. He must have been a very popular and prolific shota boy, sexy and dirty, and highly experienced, with a loyal following of regular clients. Boys of such quality were always held in very high esteem. And now this beautiful flaxen-haired youth – this godling, this Ganymede – was walking with me, his arm around my shoulder. Inside, my heart soared. As I crossed the room with River, I felt I had pretty much hit the jackpot.

We stepped outside the dining hall and River escorted me through the camp, walking shoulder to shoulder at a good fast clip. I didn't know where he was taking me, but as we walked, River introduced me to a whole series of boys. If any boy passed us, they acknowledged River, either with a sharp nod or an enthusiastic greeting. The boys he knew well would bump fists with him. They would stop momentarily to exchange salutations and, in doing so, would take a cursory look at me, casting curious and admiring looks in my direction, simply by virtue of the fact that I was walking with him. It made me quite proud to be seen with him.

We crossed the main thoroughfare of the camp where there was a series of UNHCR vehicles abandoned haphazardly. Then we were suddenly assailed by the deafening, whistling roar of supersonic jets. We heard them before we could see them. They flashed by very low in the sky above the camp, causing both River and I to stop dead in our tracks. They were so close it almost made us feel like ducking down. No sooner were they upon us, they were gone. There were three of them, military aircraft, zipping fast across our vista in a V formation. They were Russian-built SU30 fighters, nationalist aircraft with VLA markings, bristling with an array of missiles and bombs tucked under their wings. They were sleek, dart-like aircraft with twin tail fins and canards – frighteningly quick, highly maneuverable and deadly, no doubt enforcing the no-fly zone.

"See that?" said River, as we watched them disappear into the distance, his hand shading his eyes from the glare of the sun.

"They're SU30s," I said, reciting from memory.

"They're VLA," River countered, "letting us know who's really in charge."

There was a tinge of bitterness in his tone. He clearly resented the VLA, which was not surprising since it was they who raided his club, arrested his handler and took him and his fellow shota boys prisoner.

We continued on our way and River led me to a little field, where the camp buildings gave way to a grassy area adjacent to the rear fence of the camp. I hadn't realized there was actually open space within the camp perimeter. It looked out over the woods beyond the barbed wire fence. The fence was quite high, and the uppermost edge was lined with double rows of razor wire. I couldn't work out if the fence was to stop anyone getting in, or to prevent us from getting out. There was a group of younger boys scampering around playing football with a scuffed-looking ball, using their sweaters as goal markers. Their high-pitched shouts and squeals echoed into the morning sunshine. River cut a path straight across the boys playing football, for the most part ignoring them. Strangely, they didn't seem to mind. They seemed to know him and just carried on playing as we walked straight across their impromptu pitch. Clearly River was very popular. But not just popular, he seemed to command universal authority over all the boys that crossed our path. I started to realize River's importance. He was some kind of daddy in this place, an alpha male, someone who had obviously carved a niche for himself, with his very own band of loyal cohorts, and had a good deal of clout.

What I didn't know then was that River was taking me to his room on the other side of the camp. The black-clad security guards eyed us as we walked. They patrolled the camp in pairs, but they rarely interfered, unless you were clearly up to no good. River urged me to ignore them and to just keep walking. He showed me to a block that was somewhat more salubrious than the one I was in, more modern and a lot larger. River explained that these had been the quarters of the commissioned officers when the camp had been an army barracks, so the rooms were slightly more luxurious than the ones for the enlisted men.

No sooner had River opened the door to what was clearly a bigger and better appointed room than the one I had, a much smaller, younger boy, ran up to him and hugged him desperately as he stepped across the threshold.

"Where did you go?" the little boy demanded, tearfully.

The little boy was clearly distraught. River seemed overwhelmed by this reaction. The little boy was hugging him and clawing at him and trying to hide himself in the folds of his clothes, sobbing pitifully. I noticed that, curiously, this little boy was wearing school uniform.

"I went to breakfast," River explained, trying to prize the boy off him.

"You left me alone!" the little boy shouted, reproachfully.

River smiled adoringly at him.

"You were still asleep," he tried to explain, "I didn't want to wake you."

"You left me alone!" the little boy shouted back at him, repeating his accusation.

"I'm sorry little buddy," said River, in conciliatory tones.

River was quite tall for his age, so the little boy seemed all the more diminutive standing next to him. River was stroking the little boy's black hair and comforting him as he reciprocated by hugging River's waist. It was clear that there was a lot of affection between them.

The little boy was much younger than River, maybe the same age as Simon-Peter, certainly one of the youngest and smallest boys I had seen in the camp, with quite dark olive skin, not unlike Ten. What struck me about him was that he had the most incredible eyes. I was always a sucker for blue eyes, that was a little fetish of mine, but I swear this little boy had the bluest eyes I had ever seen – like two almost translucent little cobalt crystals. He was unusually pretty, with that thick, black, wavy hair that was almost too long and half covered his ears and was sprouting unruly little tails which were threatening to curl upwards at the back. He had a very clear complexion and an oval face with aquiline features, and small round ruby lips. But most of all, beneath that floppy curtain of black wavy hair that tumbled down over his forehead, was that pair of piercingly blue, almond-shaped eyes. Those eyes were certainly distinctive, and the first thing you noticed about him, not only because they were an almost supernatural shade of blue, but were all the more beautiful because they were vaguely oriental in shape. It was difficult not to be struck by his beauty.

When the little boy had finished sniffling and crying, he finally noticed me standing hesitantly by the door. He slowly looked up from where he had his face buried in the unfastened front of River's hoodie.

"Who are YOU?" he demanded, with a slight tone of resentment.

Clearly he was not enamored with the prospect of River bringing someone back to their room.

"This is Cloud," said River, introducing me.

I turned to the little boy and held out my fist in greeting. He hid his face back in River's hoodie, either too shy or too reluctant to acknowledge me. River seemed to find that quaint, like he was used to this kind of behavior.

"This is Tallin," said River, "he's my brother."

I knew immediately what River alluded to. Tallin wasn't really his brother. For one thing Tallin looked nothing like River. Appearance wise they were almost diametric opposites. No, Tallin wasn't his real brother. He was his fuckbuddy. His apprentice. It wasn't unusual for an experienced shota boy to take on a younger protégé, just as I had done once with Chip. An accomplished shota boy had an obligation to take a younger acolyte under his wing, to indoctrinate him into the ways of boysex and impart the pleasures of cock and ass play, with a view to grooming him to be a fully-fledged shota boy. But when a shota boy referred to his little playmate as his brother, that implied they were also fuckbuddies. Tallin was River's little adopted brother, just as Simon-Peter had been mine.

Eventually Tallin let go of River and moved over to the back of the room. The room was two or three times the size of mine, and they didn't have bunk beds but twin cots. There was even room for a couple of armchairs and a small sofa bed which still had the impression on the seat cushion from where Tallin's little frame must have been lying just before we walked in. Over by the window was something else I didn't have in my room – a TV – at that moment tuned to the satellite news station, flashing live pictures of the peace talks but with the sound turned down.

River dried the little boy's tears, affectionately wiping them away with his thumbs. Then Tallin went and sat quietly on the sofa bed, his tears now momentarily forgotten, and was soon engrossed in watching the TV. He sat well back on the broad seat so that his little boyfeet were jutting out over the edge. He was so cute, in his little gray schoolboy shorts and starched white shirt, with a perfectly knotted little tie that had diagonal stripes of red, gold and black. Laid carefully on the edge of the sofa was a little gray blazer, complete with the school's crest on the breast pocket.

"Sit down," said River, gesturing towards the sofa bed.

I tentatively sat down close to Tallin, though not right up next to him. He flashed me a wary glance as I did so, then went back to watching the TV. I was curious about this little boy Tallin.

River told me that Tallin's father was Australian and his mother was Thai, which accounted for his reminiscently oriental features. He was lucky. His looks were an attractive fusion of the best of the exotic elements of his mother, so that his pretty face was the privileged end product of his parents" merged genes, complete with the epicanthic folds of his mother's eyes, though somewhat softened by his father's more European looks. Of course he also had an extraordinarily unique eye color, with that piercing hue of cobalt blue, and he had a cheeky, mischievous expression on his cute little oval face. He had quite high eyebrows, which gave the impression they were permanently raised, so that his expression was always one of surprise. He was such a pretty little thing. The kind of boy that was blessed with smoldering good looks and a perfect physique. He seemed to have this visage of dazed innocence about him – a kind of sultry guilelessness that begged to be expunged. I made a good mental map of his little body, helped by the fact that he was wearing shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. His legs were trim and shapely. The skin on his calves and forearms was brown and silky and had a warm healthy glow to it. The tanned olive skin was accentuated by his white ankle sox and his little boyfeet were encased in an expensive pair of limited-edition sneakers that made his feet look almost too big for his body. On his forearms was a fine dusting of peach fuzz. He was indescribably cute.

River caught me looking at him.

"You like my boy?" he asked, raising his eyebrows in query, at the same time openly enunciating that he knew what was on my mind and had no qualms about making me admit it.

The fact that he referred to Tallin as 'his' boy, was enough to confirm my speculations: that Tallin was to River what Simon-Peter was to me.

"You DO don't you?" he teased.

I nodded, smiling guiltily. River was shockingly perceptive.

"Very much," I confessed.

He elicited a good-natured laugh, almost flattered that I fancied his little buddy.

"Why is he in his school clothes?" I deigned to ask.

"These are the only clothes we have," River explained, "It was what we were wearing when we were captured."

That sounded quite sad. I flashed him a look of pity.

"You both look very smart," I said, hoping he would appreciate the compliment.

"Thanks," said River, genuinely chuffed, "We like to keep ourselves clean."

"Is he a shota boy too?" I asked, nodding towards Tallin.

River nodded affirmatively.

"A shota boy in the making," he offered knowingly, "And a damn good one too."

I stared at Tallin, mesmerized by his beauty. He seemed uninterested, probably aware that we were talking about him, but at that moment focused on the TV.

"You wanna know summat about him?" River offered, coming to sit down on one of the low armchairs next to the sofa bed.

He leaned towards me confidentially. I nodded enthusiastically and leaned over, closing the gap between us, anxious to hear his revelation.

"Tallin is a very special shota boy. You know what's so special bout him?"

I shook my head, fascinated.

"He's a bobble boy," River announced, as though it was some big revelation.

"A what?"

"A bobble boy," River went on, "YOU know – he's got an implant."

"An implant?"

"Yeah," River nodded, "A prostate implant."

"What's that?" I asked, totally flummoxed.

River was nodding knowingly.

"Oh yeah," he enthused, "Tallin's little butt is the best."

Then, when he saw that I genuinely didn't know what he was talking about, he seemed surprised.

"You don't know about prostate implants?"

I shrugged and shook my head, mystified.

"He's the youngest boy ever to have one, far as I know," River went on.

"What is it exactly?" I wondered.

"It's relatively new," said River, "It's when they surgically insert an implant into the wall of the prostate."

I stared at River, dumbfounded. I was incredulous to the very idea, and suddenly felt quite abashed at my ignorance. I had never heard of such a thing.

River spoke quietly and confidentially.

"It's a little titanium bobble which is attached to the wall of his prostate. You can feel it when you fuck him. It enhances the pleasure for you and for him."

And with that, River sat back in the armchair with a self-satisfied grin, having let me in on the revelation about Tallin.

"Like an internal piercing?" I concluded, finally making sense of it.

River nodded approvingly.

"Exactly," he affirmed, "and when you fuck into him, it'll stroke your dick in just the right place."

Little Cloud pulsed perceptibly in my pants, hardened by River's invaluable insights.

"Oh fuck!" I gasped, not intending to actually say that out loud.

River was smiling perversely, apparently pleased that I was so aroused by these revelations.

"Isn't it risky?" I asked, "Having that implanted?"

"No more than a regular piercing or a tattoo," said River, apparently unconcerned.

"Does it work?" I ventured, almost challenging him, at the same time I couldn't help grabbing at my crotch and absent-mindedly squeezing Little Cloud.

River smiled knowingly and nodded, fully aware of my arousal, and he seemed to have this little evil glint in his eye as he noted my discomfort.

"Oh yeah!" he enthused, "You've never felt anything like it in your life."

Which pretty much confirmed my hypothesis. That particular piece of information gave me an incredibly stiff hard-on. My dick pulsed tangibly in my pants, hardened beyond belief. To think that someone had actually taken the trouble of surgically implanting a titanium bobble inside Tallin for the sole purpose of buttfucking. That little boy had actually consented to having his little butt artificially modified, to enhance the pleasure for the tricks who would pay to fuck him. And he could no doubt charge premium rates for the select band of pedos and boyfuckers who would get to sample that magical little chute, who would experience the intense pleasure of burning their throbbing adult fucksticks up his little boy cunt and savor the ecstasy of pulsing out their copious loads deep inside his fledgling butt. My little dick was deliciously hard. If Tallin really was a shota boy, he'd be up for almost anything, and if he had this implant that River was telling me about, the prospect of fucking him had just become infinitely more attractive. As with Simon-Peter, I knew I was going to have to sample Tallin's magical little cunt.

I imagined what it might be like to fuck Tallin. I tried to picture what his quite sturdy, shapely little legs would look like with his knees pinned back against his shoulders, his little boy shit fully exposed and ready for a profound pummeling. I imagined his hairless little sac and turgid little cocklet nestling between his slender thighs, his little boypussy tantalizingly dilated, inviting a thoroughly hard rooting from an older boy, stuffed full of a dick that was much bigger than his and was going to pump his hairless little snatch full to bursting with unripe boyjizz. Oh fuck, Little Cloud was as hard an iron rod in my pants, begging to be rammed into Tallin's little fanny. I wanted to see that little boy's tiny hairless body impaled on the end of my dick, squirming on my pistoning fuckstick, crying out from my hardness as it tunneled deep into his narrow pelvis, seeking to deposit my meager little load right up into the pit of his tummy. I wanted to burn my turgid hairless fuckstick deep and hard into his magical little fuckbox. I wanted to sample the delights of his modified little pleasureport and experience that inordinate ecstasy for myself. Oh yeah, I wanted to have that little boy. I wanted to have him real bad. I just had to experience the satisfaction of emphatically jamming my boydick so deep inside him until it was encased hilt deep in his sweet little honeypot.

Unfortunately, I didn't get the opportunity to pursue those erotic thoughts any further because River turned his attention to what was on the TV.

"You see that?" said River, jerking his head at the TV screen.

It was a news report about the peace talks taking place in Reykjavik. VFOR had brought together the KAPO and VLA leaders and they were negotiating a ceasefire. The talks were being brokered by the Americans, and there was news footage of the leaders all sitting in armchairs, chatting genially, then shaking hands as they stopped for a photo opportunity, and later being chauffeured away in big black limousines and presidential style motorcades with motorcycle escorts.

"What?" I asked, "The peace talks?"

"Yeah," said River, with a note of contempt.

"That's good isn't it?"

"No," said River emphatically, "It's not good. It's very bad."

"It means the war will soon be over," I said, brightly.

"It means a new regime and a new government," River explained, with a tone of misgiving, "A VLA backed fundamentalist government that will dismantle the old Verolino."

River went on to explain how the new provisional government was chasing respectability by shutting down the shota clubs and deporting the handlers. The shota boys were all being sent to camps like this one with a view to disseminating them throughout other parts of Europe. The worst thing of all, was that the new government was seeking integrity by putting the handlers on trial. Right now there were trials going on as the fabric of the old Verolino was dismantled in favor of this new, religious fundamentalist military government. The first thing they had done was to declare martial law, which gave them carte blanche to do pretty much as they pleased. And all this was being endorsed by VFOR and the Americans. River warned me right then that they would be coming after us. He believed that incarcerating us like this, under the guise of humanitarianism, in a UNHCR camp, was just a ruse.

"But Matti told me we could be adopted," I said.

River huffed contemptuously.

"You don't believe that do you?" River hissed with derision, "They have no intention of finding families for any of us. They want to get rid of us. Shota clubs and shota boys are an embarrassment to them. Unless you know someone on the outside who's gonna take you, we're all screwed."

It was a frightening prospect – a nightmare scenario that left me with a deep sense of foreboding. What was worse, the evidence bore out his testimony. The shota clubs were being closed down and the handlers arrested – it had already happened to both our clubs.

"That's why we need to get away from here," said River, with a grave expression.

"How?" I asked, not quite able to see how we could determine what was going to happen to us.

River turned his head slowly towards me, quite purposefully and deliberately.

"Simple," he said curtly, "Escape is the only option."

At this point I realized that when River had alluded to his friends as 'the escape committee' he was not being facetious. They were actually quite serious about getting out of Kolina.

* * * * * *

I led Chip to a very indistinct and quite ugly-looking building. It was a small, squat, cube-shaped building that was almost at the center of the camp. It stood out amongst the other buildings at Kolina because it had no windows, only ventilation grilles. Inside, I discovered it was a type of boiler room, with plant machinery and generators. I guessed this was the power plant of the whole camp. Inside, it was very dark and oppressively hot. There was only emergency lighting, in the form of light fittings every few meters that were affixed to the bare concrete walls. The atmosphere inside hummed from the enormous generators and there was a constant throbbing in the air, accompanied by the lingering stench of diesel oil.

As we ventured further inside, deeper into the usually uninhabited recesses of the machinery and pipe-work, there was evidence secreted amongst the installations that this was where the shota boys at Kolina preferred to hang out. River told me that all the former shota boys in the camp had made this their secret hidey-hole, where they all surreptitiously congregated away from the observations of the UNHCR and out of sight from the prying eyes of the camp security guards. This evening, River had invited me to a secret meeting, and he had been quite insistent that I should bring all the other shota boys I knew.

Chip and I worked our way through the maze of machinery and pipework and behind a series of enormous generators. You could feel the heat coming off them. Behind the generators, there was a hidden space, a void that seemed to serve no purpose other than to provide ventilation for the generators. We halted just at the point where a six foot [1.8 m] diameter pipe ran horizontally the entire length of the room, and disappeared through one of the steel bulkheads in the wall. And there, behind the generators, in that oppressively confined space, we found twenty or thirty other boys all congregating in hushed silence. Some were sat cross-legged on the floor in little clusters, others had perched up onto the pipes and were variously lying down or hanging off them, or had sat with their legs dangling. Yet others had secreted themselves into the alcoves and were nonchalantly slouching in the corners of the grimy concrete walls.

River had been sat back against an enormous wheel valve that was quite low down and off to one side of the room. But clearly he was at the centre of the little throng of boys around him, naturally the focus of this little assembly, and quite obviously in charge. The boys immediately close to him got up to welcome us. They all gathered around us and escorted me and Chip over to the corner where there were some rather threadbare blankets on the concrete floor. There was also a dilapidated sofa pushed up against the wall. The sofa had obviously seen better days, probably an abandoned accoutrement from one of the accommodation blocks, brought in here to provide some semblance of comfort to what was otherwise a bare and forbidding environment. The dark red fabric of the sofa was soiled and holey, so that the yellow foam padding of the upholstery was showing through in places. About five boys had squeezed onto the sofa. Other boys were sitting way up on the back of the sofa, propped up against the wall, while others perched on the arms at each end. Yet more boys were using the seat cushions which had been removed and were variously lying around on the floor, providing additional seating. Those boys who had no seat just sat on the blankets, which were equally as dirty. There were signs of where successive boys had been sitting and smoking. There were cigarette butts, ash trays, empty cigarette packets and spent matches. It was like they had set up a little chill-out area to hang out in. It was funny, I thought, that whenever boys get together, they seemed to have a preference for subterranean places like boiler rooms and cellars, and their set-up reminded me very much of Spider and Kenni and the other boys we had met hiding in that bombed-out cellar. Left to their own devices, all boys gravitated towards dens, hideouts, tree-houses and forts. Tribalism and belligerence came so naturally to them. Conflict and the struggle for dominance was inherent in all boys. 'Lord of the Flies' was testament to that.

"Everyone, this is Cloud," River announced, as he saw us come in.

River introduced me to his friends, and I introduced Chip, and then we had all bumped fists, we nodded our acknowledgements and I sat down with them. River gave me a cursory but affectionate slap on the shoulder, as if to demonstrate that I was a friend and should be welcomed.

"They're from The Saxon Club," River added.

This revelation seemed to draw admiring grins from the other boys, and there was a subdued little gasp of deference. They were clearly impressed. They cleared a little space for us on the sofa, spreading themselves out and enthusiastically surrounding us with a warm glow of friendliness and affection, and they all looked at me with admiring grins, smiling and giggling. I felt instantly accepted by them. They seemed to be very interested in me because they said I had a funny accent which they thought was quaint. It was clear that I was not Verolene in origin. But they lavished me with compliments about my cute accent, and how they liked my pretty face and shaggy blond hair. I knew straight away that these were my kind of boys. I looked about me and saw the approving, longing, affectionate look in River's hazel eyes as he stood in the center of the room, and my dickie hardened ever more stiffly in my pants. I could feel the mutual attraction between us. I knew then, even amidst the exuberant yammering of the other boys, as I stared right back at him, that I was falling for this boy in a quite emphatic and unexpected way.

"Okay, listen up," said River, raising his voice above the general hubbub of the assembled boys.

There was an instant hush, the atmosphere only pervaded by the sound of the generators, and all the eyes in the room were on River. The boys in the alcoves, the boys perched up on the pipes, the boys squeezed onto the sofa, and the boys spread out on the floor, all turned towards him.

What followed was a rather inspiring and revealing insight into just how organized this group of boys were. River talked of their plans to escape and how they had formed themselves into a series of small teams. Each team consisted of four or five boys, and each had their own individual destinations. It was felt too risky and unwieldy to all try to flee the camp at once, or to try and travel together. So they were going to do it in stages. They had worked out exactly how to get out of the camp, and they had contacts on the outside that were going to help them. Their objective was to get across the border into Zachyna – neutral territory. They had worked out routes, hideouts, resting places, everything. They were extremely organized and detail oriented. The plan wasn't foolproof, but it was ingenious, and listening to River briefing this rag-tag group of boys on what they had to do had overtones of some secret military operation. I admired their dedication to their mission, and their focus was quite impressive. I had no doubt that River's universally acknowledged authority was what was keeping this whole motley collection of boys motivated and unified. He was a natural born leader.

When the meeting broke up, everyone was sworn to secrecy. Then, with a minimum of fuss, the bare, dimly-lit room slowly emptied, and the boys all slinked off back to their individual rooms. They went a few at a time, staggering their departures and spreading themselves out so that the security guards didn't get suspicious. It was beyond me that they had managed to keep their little gatherings secret at all.

River himself stayed behind until all the boys had left. By then Tallin had fallen asleep face down on the large horizontal pipe. The pipe was probably twice as wide in diameter as he was tall, and it was warm to the touch. The little boy was stretched out on the top with his head turned to one side and his cheek cutely pressed against the hard, painted metal. His eyes were innocently closed. His white school shirt had separated from his gray school shorts, and the shorts had slipped down his butt a little as he stretched out, so that the waistband of his tighty-whiteys was clearly visible. His hip was exposed where his shirt had ridden up, and you could see part of the smooth, tanned skin of his back and little ribs. His olive skin tone contrasted nicely with the whiteness of his shirt and underwear. He looked very cute.

As the last of the boys took their leave, and the room slowly emptied, River saw me looking at Tallin, probably noting the longing way I regarded the little boy's pretty body where his shirt had exposed his young skin so tantalizingly. And of course I couldn't help thinking about that implant – that magical little bobble that Tallin had inside him, which River had described as like nothing you had ever felt before. He stepped closer to me and leaned in confidentially, as was his style.

"He's VERY spunkable no?"

I liked River's terminology. Where did he get words like that from? He was just like me, using his own particular brand of shota boy parlance. What was more, he seemed to have complete sympathy with my sentiments and understood exactly what was in my heart. Of course, he was right. Tallin was very spunkable.

"Tell you what," he suggested, "why don't we swap?"

"Swap? What do you mean?"

He nodded towards Chip, who was at that moment hovering by the exitway waiting for me.

"Your fuckbuddy for my fuckbuddy," River explained.

"Oh he's not…" I started to say.

I was about to explain that Chip was not my fuckbuddy, at least not officially, but then thought the better of it. If he wanted to trade fuckbuddies that was fine by me. I had no reason to expect that Chip would be averse to that proposal. On the contrary – Chip was so entrenched in his perversity that he would probably welcome the idea. River was gorgeous, and Chip would relish a good rooting from such a good looking boy. Hell, knowing Chip, he'd give River the works. He'd service River's virile little fuckstick with relish and gusto, and take River's cock every which way, in his sexy little butt, in his expert little mouth, and take River's spunk in his ass, down his throat or anywhere River chose to squirt it. Knowing Chip, he would elicit at least two or three good cums out of River. That was what I liked about Chip. Chip had a predilection for spunk. He was a true spunkboy – loved playing with other boy's cocks and eating their spunkloads. He was quite accomplished at felching, cumswapping and snowballing. The dirty little tyke was addicted to it.

I didn't reply to River's proposal, but I knew that a kind of deal had been struck between us. I told Chip to go back to our room without me and not to wait – I wanted to talk to River some more. Then River gently roused Tallin, helping him slide down off the pipe and had one of the other boys escort the sleepy boy back to their room.

That left River and I alone. We both knew it was deliberate. We each individually contrived to be the last to leave in the hope that we might be left alone. It worked. After everyone had left, and the last footsteps echoed from the exitway and eventually petered out altogether, we found ourselves alone in that dingy, smelly plant room, with the generators throbbing away manically in the background.

River looked over at me from the other side of the room. I was standing by a solitary pipe near the wall. The pipe ran vertically from the floor all the way up, disappearing into the ceiling. River stepped up to me with a quite affectionate, intimate kind of expression. He pushed me up against the pipe, looking as though there was something confidential he wanted to share. He stretched out his arms, one either side of me, pinning me against the pipe, trapping me between them. Then he looked at me earnestly, his face only inches from mine. He had such clear, unblemished skin, and a very healthy, youthful complexion, crowned with that long, golden blond hair. Once again, I marveled at how beautiful he was. I looked back into his hazel eyes. His expression was flushed, but full of longing, and I knew what he wanted.

Then he kissed me. I let him. He leaned in and insinuated his tongue deep into my mouth, gently but inadvertently knocking the back of my head against the pipe. He pressed into my lips quite hard and I could feel the little braces on his teeth. Surprisingly, they did not get in the way at all. In fact it made his kiss all the more erotic. He was good. I felt every pout and twitch of his lips. His experience was tangible. The way his proficient little tongue explored my mouth smacked of knowingness and sexual promise.

Coming up for air, he broke the kiss and pulled back a little.

"That feel okay?" he asked, almost in a whisper, as though to enquire how I liked it.

"It feels great," I replied, "Why?"

"Some of my tricks like to joke about my braces," he explained, "They say kissing me feels like kissing a cheese grater."

I laughed.

"What's so funny?" he asked, on the verge of being offended.

"Nothing," I replied, still giggling, and closed in for another kiss, "All I can say is I love cheese."

He giggled, flattered and relieved, as we kissed again. I quite enjoyed kissing his braced mouth. I let my tongue explore the articulated cavity of his mouth, roving slickly over his scaffolded teeth and dueling with the tip of his tongue. He was quite an accomplished kisser. Again, it was him that broke the kiss.

"So whadya think?" he asked, looking me straight in the eye, "You wanna fuck around for a bit?"

It was a bit gauche, but I quite admired his no-nonsense approach and the way he made it sound so inconsequential, a mere trifle, as though he was inviting me round for coffee. I nodded emphatically. Of course I wanted to fuck around with him. Like he even needed to ask.

My answer was to kiss him again, this time with more passion. I leaned forward and met his lips with mine. As he stood there, pinning me against the pipe, I could feel Little Cloud horning up again. There was something very arousing about the way River restrained me there, against that metal pipe, with that slightly threatening, dominating stance.

Breaking the kiss once more, he flashed me a sly smile, exposing his braced teeth, which looked so white and slick and clean. I wondered what it was like to have that sweet mouth wrapped around my dick and what his blowjobs were like. Just as that thought went through my mind, he reached down between us and took my hand and placed it firmly on his crotch. He held it there, using my palm to press into the front of his low slung jeans. At first I thought all I could feel was a handful of bunched up fabric, but as I squeezed, I realized it was not fabric at all. What I was feeling was a handful of quite substantial boy meat. It was his cock, and it was rock hard in his pants, firm and long. Its dimensions were tangible enough to confirm that his dick was certainly on the large side. I almost gasped with delight. He must have been a very popular shota boy, I thought, with a boydick like that. Oh fuck, I almost envied the tricks that had enjoyed that cock. I bet it was beautiful and spunked good and hard. I couldn't wait to play with it.

"Is that all yours?" I asked, digging my fingertips hard into his package.

"You like that?" he replied, challengingly, almost in a whisper.

I nodded, almost panting with anticipation, and kissed him again lightly on the lips, by way of acquiescence. He closed his eyes in pleasure and drew his blond head back slightly, clearly aroused. Then he opened his hazel eyes and looked me up and down. He did it so deliberately, so obviously and so suggestively, I could tell he must be very experienced.

"I knew you liked me," he muttered, "I like you too."

He had no idea how much I liked him. I had to hug him, almost throwing myself against him, still squeezing his crotch with one hand and wrapping the other around his tall, slim, youthful frame. He went on kissing me, moving down the side of my neck.

"You spunk?" he asked, almost as an afterthought.

I nodded eagerly.

"Can't wait to taste it," he said.

I realized from the way that River was talking that he was a boy after my own heart – sexy and dirty; a hot and horny little shota boy, just like me, who could suck and fuck with consummate ease and wasn't fazed by anything sexual. And he liked to talk dirty. He had a filthy mind, just like me, and wasn't afraid to express it – just like me. And even as he said that, Little Cloud was pulsing against the front of my pants, straining to be released.

I went to unbutton my shirt, but River stopped me.

"No, let me," he insisted.

So I did. I put my hands down and he took over undressing me. It was infinitely more arousing for both of us that way, and he knew it. He pulled my shirt out of the waist of my pants first, then one by one, his tactile little fingers loosened my buttons. Taking a deep breath, he paused before opening my shirt, ratcheting up the frisson until it was in the red. Then he quite deliberately peeled open my shirt, exposing my chest and tummy. He gasped.

"Oh fuck, Cloud," he exclaimed, "You're fuckin' gorgeous."

His phraseology was just like mine.

His eyes roved all over my body approvingly, and then he looked me straight in the eye.

"Shit! I need to suck you off right now," he said, breathless with impatience.

He carried on kissing me, his hands warmly feeling my exposed chest and tummy, stroking me up and down. He was kneading little handfuls of my flesh as he felt me up, almost as though he was gauging the substance of my slim, hairless frame.

"I wanted to fuck around with you the first moment I saw you," he murmured.

"You're making my cock so hard," I said, showing him that his dirty talk was working.

"I'm gonna make it so hard it's gonna fuckin' burst," he replied.

Oh fuck, this boy was so dirty. He was even dirtier than me, if that was possible.

"Let me suck you," he said, like there was no time to lose.

I nodded enthusiastically.

He sank to his knees and loosened my belt, stripping open the front of my pants, then he dug his eager fingers into my underwear, and lowered the front of my boxer briefs. Little Cloud fell out, stiff and pulsing, already at full mast. River pulled my jeans and boxers right down to my knees to get better access, at the same time exposing my body almost completely. My opened shirt was already thrown back over my shoulders, so he had a good view of my physique. He seemed to like it. He knelt there for a few moments, holding me in place with his arms wrapped around me, his palms resting warmly on my naked butt. He was just looking at my stiffie, but he was looking at it so closely that his eyes had nearly crossed. Then he closed in and took the head of my stiffie between his sweet rosebud lips, pulling my butt forward so that he could take the full length into his mouth. His braces scraped gently against the sensitive skin of my shaft as it sank into his wet little cavity. It was heavenly!

I looked down. River's gorgeous blond head set to work on my stiffness, his long mane of golden hair brushing against my thighs as he gnawed eagerly on my hardened boycock. It occurred to me, even as I threw my head back in ecstasy, that this was the second time today that I had my cock in another boy's mouth. Not that it bothered me. I knew I was good for another cum – maybe two – given the right motivation. It was as though I could never get enough. No matter how many times my little dick spunked, I could always go back for more. I could never get enough of this – the unbridled pleasures of cock play; the unparalleled ecstasy of a boy's hot, wet lips around my hardened shaft, the thrill of ejaculating my meager little spunkwad into his suctioning orifice; that pretty head impaled on my hairless fuckstick. How could I ever tire of such immeasurable rapture? This beautiful boy, whom I had met only a matter of a few hours ago, this flaxen-haired boy-god, was making me feel so good, it was clear to me that blowjobs were his specialty. I only hoped mine felt as good as that – alas I couldn't self-suck like some boys I had known. I had seen them do it. Some boys could contort their bodies in such a way that they could get their dicks into their own mouth. But I couldn't do that. Don't think I hadn't tried. It was probably just as well, since I would be most likely sucking my own dick so compulsively I would have no kidspunk left for my tricks to suckle on.

As River sucked, he was salivating so copiously that his spit was soon running down my shaft and dripping off my hairless balls. His mouth sure was sopping with saliva, which helped to lubricate the sensation of his braces grazing my cockhead. It was almost unbearably pleasurable. The roughness of his braces on my hot, hard little column of boyflesh ratcheted up the sensitivity so much that little volts of electricity were radiating from my balls and shooting down the insides of my thighs and up into my tummy. In no time at all, he inflated my dick to such a point of expectation that I knew I couldn't delay it any more. The rising pleasure was quite insistent – relentlessly approaching with a ferocity that I hadn't felt in a good long time – one of those orgasms that is so powerful that it was going to make my hairless little body quake to the very core. River knew when I was gonna cum. He was quite clearly a prodigious and accomplished cocksucker and detected my imminent orgasm with stunning accuracy.

Suddenly, River pulled back, quickly replacing his mouth by grabbing my aching shaft in his fist. He jacked it frenetically, determined not to lose the momentum, expertly rubbing across the exposed head on the downstroke to ensure maximum stimulation. It was the technique of a master cockboy who clearly knew how to manipulate a turgid cock – even if it was only my little boycock. As he worked it between his expert fist and tactile little fingers, he looked up at me, grinning a forced smile.

"Cum on my braces," he urged, and bared his teeth for me.

I could hardly believe it. He was knelt there before me, still jacking my dick frantically with his powerful grip, and he tilted his head back with his teeth bared, his braces exposed.

Oh fuck! I was gonna fill his pretty mouth, braces and all, and his expectant grin, and the sheer perversity of what he was doing just made my orgasm arrive all the sooner. This dirty, sexy, precocious boy was coaxing a powerful orgasm out of me, and I knew I was gonna spunk real hard over his opened lips and glaze his braced teeth real good. The pleasure so overwhelmed me that I cried out – letting out a desperate little moan of urgency and expectation – almost a cry of panic because this scale of pleasure was quite unfamiliar to me. My cry echoed off the bare concrete walls. River closed in, jacking my dick with a firm, tight grip and I couldn't help putting my hands on his head – somehow holding that beautiful blond head in my hands was a way of steadying myself before allowing the blind rapture of my approaching orgasm to overwhelm me. The pleasure was so profound that my tummy muscles started to spasm and my little star was going into fibrillation in sympathy with the unbridled trauma they knew was coming. My vision became cloudy and opaque and I lost myself in the warm, unquantifiable bliss that gripped my entire body. The intensity of the moment was focused entirely on my cock, which exploded in a big damburst of boycum that came out in one big spurt. It was as though all my boyspunk was ejected at once, and one big splat of almost transparent kidspunk came out with such force that it splashed into River's opened mouth, drenching his braces and teeth in watery kiddiecum, running in little rivulets down his chin and dripping onto his chest and tummy. My little dick tightened up and seemed to pulse so tangibly that I didn't think it could get any stiffer – but it did, at the same time trying to eject a few more tiny jets of whatever remaining kidspunk my little hairless balls could muster. The last few muted pulses were barely more than a dribble as my orgasm tailed off, and I suddenly felt so weak and unsteady that I had to hold onto River's head until I had regained my senses. River meanwhile swallowed my boyjizz, greedily gulping down every last drop.

When he was done, River got up off his knees and took my hand, gently guiding me over to the dilapidated sofa. I half hopped and half shuffled over to the other side of the room, since my pants were still pulled down around my ankles. Spent and still reeling from the intensity of my cum, River laid me down on the grimy, derelict sofa. The contractions of my cum had been so powerful, I felt like my whole midriff had been wrenched violently. It was almost like recovering from cramp. For a few moments I reclined on the sofa with an arm draped over my face, my chest and tummy rising and falling as I hyperventilated. My dick was still pulsing gently, as though trying to assimilate the intensity of that orgasm, and struggling to regain its equilibrium. My cockhead was still drizzled with kidspunk, and my balls were still drenched in River's spit. I laid there recovering, my dick hurting slightly, my whole hairless crotch wet, with my pants still around my ankles and my shirt hanging open.

Without saying anything, River got up and started getting undressed. He stripped quickly, as though anxious to seize the moment, and I liked the way he unfastened his long belt and the way he adroitly discarded his trendy t-shirt and low-slung jeans. River had a smooth, silky little body that was svelte and well defined. He had a beautiful physique. His proportions were perfect. He was lean and tight, with not a trace of fat, just the outline of his muscled thighs and calves, the unmistakable signature of his boyishness. And he was quite boyish in the true sense – a perfect example of delayed adolescence. He was actually quite underdeveloped, as yet unspoiled by the ravages of adolescence, which told me that puberty was still a little way off for him. It was a nice thought that the boyfuckers could go on enjoying that pretty little body for a while longer. His balls were small and tight, almost indistinct in their tiny little dome of skin, barely discernible at the base of his good sized dick. Sure, his dick was big for his age. It was long, just like his limbs, very straight, but firm and perky, pointing upwards nicely at a perfect angle, the pinkish head just peeking out of the tight foreskin. He had prominent shoulders which accentuated the way his torso tapered down towards his waist. His tummy was as tight as a drum, with a slight groove down the center, forming a little dip where his innie belly button was. His chest had beautiful pecs which were clearly defined, the flat little nipples perfectly placed on the apex of the slightly convex muscles, sheathed under that flawless young skin. It was so smooth and creamy, clear and unblemished, almost translucent, so that you could see the bluish veins beneath, and it had a matt texture to it, like alabaster. He was like some proverbial mythical youth, straight out of some ancient Greek fable. Fuck, he was beautiful. His body was just like his face: utterly perfect. He was the quintessential shota boy, with a body to die for.

River climbed up on the sofa and straddled me, sitting astride my hips, looking down into my eyes. It was lovely to feel his body on top of me. I smiled up at him submissively and waited to see what he was going to do. My dick was spent, and it would be a little while before I could cum again. Strangely, he didn't demand anything from me. All he did was thrust his hips forward. He threw himself over me, lowering his pelvis so that his erection was digging into my tummy. Then he rubbed the underside of his pretty dick on my belly. He leaned forward, adjusting his knees slightly, and pressed the burning mass of his hardened boycock into the yielding softness of my tummy. I was quite sensitive there, ordinarily quite ticklish, but the feeling was exquisite. If he was gonna frot his dick to orgasm like that, I knew that pressing hard into another boy's tummy as you cum was almost as good as fucking his butt, but visually much more spectacular. One way of showing respect and admiration towards another boy was to anoint him with your cum, just as I had done that first time with Simon-Peter. Smearing your kiddiecum on another boy's hairless body denoted an act of veneration. It was very erotic for the boy being spunked on too. River just seemed to know all the most erotic things, and he must have done this before. In fact, I wondered if this was what he did with Tallin. Maybe when he wasn't fucking that little boy's magical little cunt, he was frotting his dick on Tallin's tight little tummy and smearing his boycum all over Tallin's olive-skinned little body. River was certainly familiar with the technique, thrusting his hips down expertly into the dip of my tummy, warmly burying his hardened boyshit into the natural cradle of tight young muscle. When River started thrusting forwards, I knew it was to stimulate his frenulum. The warmth of my belly on the underside of his dick was definitely doing it for him. He said nothing the whole time, just looked into my eyes every now and then, smiling affectionately, and intermittently lowering his chin so that he could look down at the head of his dick peeking up from my tummy on the upstroke. Feeling his hot, hard dick on my sensitive tummy was one of the nicest feelings, and pretty soon I knew my flat little tummy was gonna be glazed with his jizz. I couldn't wait to see that beautiful cock spunk up for me. I wanted River's hot, creamy, gooey kidspunk all over me.

When he felt his cum approach, he let out a series of hard breaths and groaned quietly, and he quickly altered the angle of his thrusting into my tummy. It suddenly became more acute, urgent, faster and more pronounced – the urgency to shoot his spunk took over, and he seemed to hover above me for a moment, his thrusting temporarily halted, and we both looked down at the pink head of his dick resting warmly on my tummy. Then, his turgid little fuckstick duly delivered his meager little load all over my tummy, and he commenced thrusting even as his dick was squirting. He was quite underdeveloped, as I said, so his little boy spunkload was barely a couple of spoonfuls, and it didn't come out with any force, merely a tiny spurt, which flowed from his piss-slit like a leaking tube of gel. But it was a lovely orgasm, quite clearly a hard and intense one, which left River sitting astride me looking slightly shaken. And he was smiling manically, his little braced teeth peeking from between his contented lips. Fuck, he was good.

When he had finished spunking, River thrust into my tummy quite hard a couple more times, smearing the underside of his still stiff dick in his own spunkwad. Then he lifted his boyshit off me and used his cock to rub it all over me. It was a lovely gesture, which made it more messy and sloppy and all the more erotic for me. He rubbed his kiddiecum all over my tummy and even up as far as the groove in my chest. I loved it when spunk was deposited there. His kidcum had a lovely whitish gloss to it, and a velvety consistency that was quite thick and sticky. He knew I wanted to taste it, so he dipped a couple of fingers in the sticky little puddle and, still straddled above me on all fours, stuck them into my mouth. I giggled, sealing my lips around his fingers, sucking them clean, and relishing the opportunity to taste his spunk, thus reciprocating the honor he had shown me. River's boyspunk tasted very neutral, mostly salty with just a hint of sweetness to it. It tasted just like he looked: pleasant and very inoffensive. I treated his spunk with the deference it deserved and made sure I licked up every drop, using my own fingers to wipe his greasy jizz off my skin. Meanwhile, he lowered his head and moved down so that he could kiss my tummy and lick my abdomen where his kiddiespunk had trickled out. He sure knew his spunkgames, which was confirmed all the more emphatically when he came back up and kissed me while he still had some of it on his tongue. I attached my lips to his and he willingly tongued it into my mouth. I licked eagerly, poking my tongue into his mouth and sucking it off his braces. I sucked in what I could of his cumwad, then spat it back into his mouth, just for good measure. He liked that. I think I had accumulated a big enough gobful of cumspit for him to get a good taste of his own boyspunk. He thanked me for it later.

* * * * * *

River quickly became someone I liked and trusted very much. He was very special to me. And because he was so special, he was the only person I ever told about Ciggy. He was the only one I ever felt would be remotely interested, and I probably would never have ever mentioned Ciggy had he not asked me straight out. Finding ourselves alone, having enjoyed each other's bodies, we entered a period of contemplative repose after our little cockgames, and we talked.

We were lying on that clapped out sofa in that dingy plant room, still secreted in that dimly lit space behind the generators, by now both sated and happy. But because the atmosphere was quite dry and humid, we hadn't bothered to get dressed. We were both still pretty much naked, lying there with all our hairless shit openly on display. I was lying down with my pants still around my ankles, the remnants of River's kidspunk still wet on my crotch and tummy. I loved the smell of sexual fluids mingling with my scent, drying on my skin. It was a nice counterpoint to the chemically oily smell of diesel that permeated the atmosphere. River was lying alongside me, stretched out on his side. He looked so slim and lithe, and his upper hip had a beautiful little dip in it from the curve of his torso as he was propped up on one elbow. His slender legs looked so long, stretched out like that, with his beautiful feet pointing away from his body. His large boydick, so tumescent and potent earlier, was now nestling floppily in his crotch, flecks of his kidspunk still encrusted around the wrinkled crown of his foreskin. His dickie was dangling downwards much like the unfastened tongue of his belt when he had walked towards me in the dining hall that very morning. I was actually quite enjoying looking at River's body. He was so utterly perfect. I only hoped he enjoyed looking at me equally as much.

"So, do you know anyone on the outside?" River asked me, "Someone who can smuggle you out of Verolino?"

I hesitated for a split second before answering. It had occurred to me to say nothing, but in that split second I decided I liked this boy enough to want to be frank with him. I trusted him, so I resolved to be honest with him. I decided to tell him everything about Ciggy. I told him how we had first met; how we had spent that first night together in my room at The Saxon Club; how we had showered together and about that golden afternoon when he had driven me out into the Verolino countryside just before UNVERO pulled out and the whole regime had gone to pieces. I told him how Ciggy did things for me; how he put his arm around me, was considerate and kind, bought me milkshakes and took me on that picnic where he had invited me to escape Verolino with him. I told him about Ciggy's plans to buy a seat on that transporter, to make his way to Turkey and then back to his home in America. I told him about Ciggy's dead brother, Allie, and how he had tragically drowned, and how Ciggy still suffered feelings of guilt and loss. I also told him how I thought Ciggy had been killed when the last transporter was shot down during the UNVERO withdrawal, and how I learned that Ciggy was alive when Chip told me that he had come looking for me at The Saxon Club after I had absconded with Simon-Peter. I told River everything.

When I had finished talking, River looked down at me earnestly, still propped up on one elbow, and he took a single little breath. I could see his tummy tighten as he inhaled.

"Do you love him?" he asked, plainly.

It was a simple, straightforward question, with a serious tone, and yet it took me by surprise. I didn't know how to answer it. I opened my mouth, but no words came to mind. I realized that it was the first time that question had even arisen. I'd never thought about it before – at least not to the extent that I had been obliged to vocalize my feelings. River waited, perhaps mindful that I might never even have considered that possibility.

I shrugged, looking around the room, as though searching the ceiling for inspiration. I must have hesitated for too long because River demanded an answer.

"Well? Do you?"

I looked him straight in the face and focused on his pretty hazel eyes.

"Yes," I said finally, after a prolonged pause, "I think I do."

River nodded, slowly and purposefully, as though that was exactly the answer he expected – at any rate the only one he considered appropriate. He seemed to understand exactly.

"Then you must go to him," he affirmed.

"But I don't know where he is."

"I'll help you find him," he said, benevolently, without a hint of doubt, not even acknowledging that it was in any way a challenge, "You must find him. It's your only hope."

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