Cosmo

Diary of a Shota Boy

Chapters 20-22

"Chip was my friend!" I shouted.

"I know," said Matti, calmly, "But there's nothing I can do about it now."

"Where did you send him?" I demanded, angrily.

"He's on a bus bound for Zachyna," Matti explained, slightly taken aback by my anger.

"Why?"

"This is only a transit camp," Matti went on, trying hard to retain his composure, "Eventually everybody gets transferred to Zachyna. Neutral territory is always safer."

"I never got a chance to say goodbye!" I snapped, "I might never see him again!"

"We tried to find you. We didn't know where you were. The bus couldn't wait."

"He was my FRIEND!"

Matti looked across at me from his desk and flashed me a smile of regret, genuinely sympathetic, but clearly unable to ease my plight.

"Look Cloud, once he gets sent to Zachyna there's a good chance that he'll be adopted. There's a good family who want to adopt Chip. You wouldn't want to deny him that would you?"

I couldn't think of a suitable reply to that, at any rate one that would not sound overly selfish. Suddenly, the cool shadiness of Matti's office depressed me. I found myself lapsing into self pity. I tried appealing to him, for what it was worth.

"Couldn't I go to Zachyna too?" I asked, seeking some ray of hope.

"No," said Matti categorically.

"Why?" I demanded, vexed and frustrated.

"Because we're not a travel bureau," he countered, clearly losing patience with me, "You don't get to choose the destination. We send you wherever we have capacity."

So that was it. Chip was gone. He was on his way to the UNHCR camp at Zachyna. At least I knew he was safe. He was in neutral territory now, away from the hellhole that was Verolino. And if he was going to be adopted, that was even better. But it was little consolation to me. I was angry. Angry and frustrated. I was disappointed that my reunion with Chip had been so brief, and angry that I never had a chance to say goodbye. I knew Chip wouldn't have chosen to go without saying goodbye to me. They had tried to find me, Matti said. No wonder they couldn't find me. I knew exactly why. Because at the time I was back in that plant room again, fucking about with River. We had returned to the scene of our initial encounter and were probably lasciviously locked together in a sixty-nine, me lying on River, thrusting my hardened dick into his mouth at one end, as I suckled on his rather large boydick at the other. And boy, could he suck. His potent gob swallowed my fuckstick so completely and sucked me so hard it was like he was trying to suck my balls off. Cumming into his powerful suctioning mouth was fantastic. That boy was sure heavy handed, manipulating my little organ with such a strong grip, but oh fuck, the cums that River gave me. His deft fists were so expert, so sexually astute, his nimble fingers around my hot, hard little rod were able to usher my dick into paradise with such paucity. I swear, that boy was born for sex. He did everything, and with such skill and authority, I think I had probably met my match. Yup. In the realms of shotadom, I had finally met my Waterloo. Or if not my Waterloo, at any rate my Blenheim. So that was it. My antics with River had precluded any proper farewell with Chip. It was too late now. Chip was gone. Another good friend and fuckbuddy gone west.

The news of Chip's departure left me with an unwelcome sentiment of doom and despondency and I left Matti's office feeling lower than I had in days. I had already said that my first impressions of Kolina conveyed something forbidding and harsh and austere. With Chip's departure, I was already starting to feel the consequences of that. This news reassured me that Chip was probably lucky to get out when he did, but the bleak and prospectless outlook was not so good for those of us left behind. So I resolved to do something about it.

I had always wondered about the guards at Kolina. Surprisingly little was known about them, except that they were all highly paid volunteers, recruited by some privately run concern that was contracted to the UNHCR to provide security and control access to the camp. I had had very little to do with them, other than seeing them patrolling the camp in their black uniforms and caps, looking like members of some kind of paramilitary faction. But they were supposed to be politically neutral, and were supposed to refrain from fraternizing with the camp residents. Except that they didn't refrain. I soon discovered that a good many of them had learned who all the former shota boys in the camp were, and had established a nice little rapport with the more prolific ones in exchange for contraband. Unbeknown to the UNHCR, all manner of furtive activities were being perpetrated. Little luxuries and illicit substances were being brought into the camp, and traded by the camp guards in exchange for sexual favors. A quick hand job or blowjob by one of the shota boy residents was highly sought after, since many of the boys were renowned for it. If they were lucky, the guards got a full blown fuck – but that would be in exchange for smuggling a high value item like a cell-phone or a stash of opium sticks or, in one case, a laptop.

So it was that the opportunity afforded itself for me to use my wily shota boy charms. A few days later, under cover of darkness, one of the guards met me, as we had arranged, in the little compound behind the guardhouse. There was a gated enclosure that was out of sight of the guards" accommodation. No windows overlooked it, and only one guard had the key to the gate at any one time. He happened to be the one on patrol this particular evening. It was a cold, clear night. Really too chilly to be fumbling around outside, and yet Little Cloud was as hard as steel in anticipation, irrepressible as always by the prospect of a good hard rooting. My dick was stiff, but hurting. After all my fucking and sucking and rough sex with River, my little dick had taken such a battering lately, it was actually feeling tender and sore. Even after all my exploits in boyfuckdom, Little Cloud had never hurt this much. But despite that, it was still straining with hardness in the presence of this guard. He was young, only about 18 or 19. The same age as Ciggy probably. Young, physically fit, raging with hormones, and full of hot teen spunk. I wondered why such a young man would want to do a job like this. Although he had his black baseball-type cap pulled down over his eyes, I could see he was blond, with his hair shorn fairly closely. But he was really not bad looking, and quite handsome in his own way.

Saying nothing, he led me out into the little grassy compound behind the guardhouse that was surrounded on three sides by a high mesh fence. It would have been ideal for ball games. But we had an entirely different type of game in the offing. He locked the gate behind us, fiddling away in the darkness with a heavy bunch of keys that he had suspended from a chain attached to his belt. Sometimes it really did feel like we were in prison. There was a single floodlight high above the compound, which illuminated only half of it, so that the other half was permanently in shadow. I went and stood over by the far fence, shivering slightly in the evening chill, feeling quite anonymous in the half-light. Still saying nothing, this young guard came over to me, and stood very close to me. He looked me up and down and gave me a sheepish smile. What I liked best was that he openly squeezed his crotch through the front of his black jumpsuit. He was already hard. In sympathy, Little Cloud pulsed with pleasure. The young guard reached out and took me by the elbow gently, and led me over to a rectangular concrete vent that was embedded in the ground. It looked something like a stone sarcophagus, about three feet [90 cm] high, with a flat surface and slatted vents in the sides. It was probably a vent for an underground chamber, buried somewhere beneath the compound. The gray concrete was covered in places with a coating of green moss. He placed his hands on my shoulders and pushed me down, as if to indicate that I should lie down on the concrete slab. I had no hesitation in lying down for him. He stood back and watched as I sat down on the shallow structure, and then laid back, spreading myself out on the cold, hard concrete. He had that look of longing, that hungry, haunted look that so many of the young conscripts had. I knew what he wanted. He needed relief, and he knew that a prodigious little shota boy like me would be willing to give it to him.

Leaning over me, he reached down and stripped me, impetuously but expertly unfastening my pants and pulling them down. I raised my butt so he could pull my pants down to my knees and he ran a hand over my exposed crotch. His fingers were cold around my boyshit, and seemed to leave icy imprints where he grabbed my hot little rod. Little Cloud sprang up, begging for attention. The guard stuck his hand between my legs and felt for my snatch, giving a cursory squeeze to my little hairless balls. My little star was burning hot, smoldering for a good hard rooting. He fished about in his crotch unbuttoning the fly of his jumpsuit, and he managed to free his stiff teen cock from the folds of his clothing. It poked out through the opening in his jumpsuit, pink and proud. His all-in-one jumpsuit made it impossible for him to take anything off. It wasn't ideal, and generally I didn't like what I called 'flyhole fucks' because you could never get the full effect of a fully exposed dick or the guy's balls. But then, as I knew from experience, some guys actually found that more arousing. Personally, I thought the clothing got in the way, but some guys found it an enormous turn on.

This young guard then turned me over, indicating that he wanted to fuck me from behind. I preferred face to face, because I liked to look at the guy who was fucking me, especially to admire their expression as they sank their dick into me, and especially when they cummed in me. But doggy-style was just fine. I understood that some guys preferred to watch their cock disappearing between the rounded cheeks of a tight young boy butt. It meant turning my chest and tummy towards the dirty concrete. I turned over for him, my butt exposed, and laid my cheek against the cold, hard concrete. Gently mounting me, he closed in to fuck me. He took a moment to appreciate the little boy he was about to fuck. He seemed to want to take in my appearance, as though to get the full effect of what he was about to do. I liked that, because I knew that he was grateful for this. It wasn't just a quick fuck – a hasty, furtive fumble in the dark – it was a rich and beautiful encounter that needed to be savored. He spread his arms and propped himself above me, considerate enough not to put his full weight on me. I was only small in comparison, and my tiny frame beneath the weight of a fully grown man could be uncomfortable. Moving only his hips, he entered me, with a firm, decisive thrust. He was very strong. There was a murmur of approval and appreciation from him as his dick glided up inside me, and he exhaled deeply with the pleasure. His dick bottomed out fully into my little cunt and the ecstasy was apparent in the way he froze momentarily, almost incapacitated with the sheer warmth and tightness that enveloped his big, thick fuckstick. I loved having that effect on guys. I laid there beneath him, impaled on his stiffness, and I squirmed about a little, affirming my little boy helplessness at the hands of this virile young male, openly demonstrating the pleasure his dick was driving into me.

When he was fully inside me, he paused momentarily, and then powerfucked me with quick, short strokes, hammering into my butt with great precision and force. He cummed very quickly, probably only after just a few minutes. No man lasted too long in my veteran little cunt. He spunked with good vigor too, the squirts of his jizz tangible inside my snatch, and he even had the presence of mind to pull out, spreading the cheeks of my butt in his big palms, and watched his thick spunkwad trickle back out. He pressed his fingertips into the sensitive skin around my little star, coaxing his cum to squeeze back out in a little boy creampie. That was nice. I looked at him over my shoulder and I could see him watching that with a crooked little smile of fascination, then he looked up at me and winked. He was pleased with me, and clearly satisfied with our encounter. In turn, I was happy that I had pleased him. It was always inordinately thrilling for me to know that a guy had derived such pleasure from me. Then, when it was over, he tucked his wet dick back into his jumpsuit, buttoned his flies and silently turned to leave. As he did so, he purposefully left the gate to the compound unlocked. I got up, my chest and tummy chilled from the cold concrete, and pulled my pants back up. My snatch was still hurting from the guard's hard rooting. His jizz, now turning cool, was trickling down my thighs. But it didn't matter. I got what I wanted. That night, under cover of darkness, we slipped out through the unlocked gate. I summoned River, who in turn woke up Tallin. We hastily gathered up what we could of our belongings, and we simply walked away. We were finally out of Kolina. We were free.

* * * * * *

That night, it rained heavily. It was just our luck to find ourselves out in the Verolino countryside, wandering the narrow lanes that connected the villages in this region, with no adequate shoes or clothing. River led the way, all the time holding onto Tallin's little hand. I followed on behind, braving the spray that was pelting hard against our faces, and resigning ourselves to getting drenched. The rain saturated my hair and was running down the back of my neck. But we trudged on regardless, determined to get as far away from Kolina as possible.

We kept to the lesser used roads, the ones that were too narrow for trucks or tanks, in order to minimize the probability of encountering any military. Three young boys out in the countryside alone, especially during curfew, was guaranteed to get us all arrested. If we thought we saw any vehicle lights approaching, we hid in the drainage gullies at the side of the road, though it did mean standing in several inches of filthy rainwater. The result of that was the inordinately undesirable sensation of getting our shoes wet through, so that they squelched when we walked.

Through the deluge, we started to cut across open country, negotiating the hilly, rocky terrain of the Verolino countryside. It was certainly remote, which removed the possibility of encountering any patrols, but the drawback was that the crosswinds added a chill factor to our exposure, so now we were not only wet, we were freezing cold as well. After walking for most of the night, the undulating ground beneath us was turning into a quagmire that simply made it too difficult to walk. We were slipping and sliding around in the mud so much that we could barely make any headway. We started to reach a point of cold and exhaustion where we almost did not have the energy nor the impetus to continue. It got late, and we were all starting to tire. We had walked for so long we were convinced that we must have put a fair distance between us and the UNHCR camp at Kolina. River led the way, as though he knew exactly what direction we had to head in. Though I wasn't at all sure if he was just following his instincts. We certainly had no means by which to navigate.

Eventually, clambering up a steep hillside, so we could get a good view of the valley below, we came across the entrance to an old cave, well hidden behind trees and thick vegetation. The cave was quite shallow, no more than an indentation in the rock, and didn't penetrate too far into the hillside, but it was perfect for our needs. Standing there on the hillside in the rain, we simultaneously stopped and looked at each other, all probably thinking the same thing. The cave was isolated enough to afford us a safe haven for the night, and high enough on the hillside to ensure that we could not be ambushed or attacked as we slept. The vegetation provided some cover to the low, open front of the cave. It was perfect. We had to duck down to get inside, because the mouth of the cave was quite low, but inside the chamber of the cave widened a little, so that it was possible for us to hide unseen and away from the lashing gale of the rain that swept across the open mouth of the cave. We were protected from the elements, though it was dark and still a little damp inside, and our high-pitched voices echoed eerily off the bare rock. We excitedly began to unload the light provisions we had brought with us, and took off our sodden jackets and coats.

The first thing I noticed was that the temperature inside the cave was fairly constant – neither too cold nor too warm. We spread out and made ourselves at home, resigned to making this our abode at least for tonight. Once we were out of the rain and able to dry off, we were finally able to rest. I sensed our spirits lifting as we did so. Tallin took off all his clothes, thinking it quite amusing that he was able to amble around the cave naked and set about exploring our surroundings with boyish curiosity. Meanwhile, River laid out Tallin's saturated schoolboy uniform on the rocks to dry. There was a small outcrop of higher rock towards the back of the cave, where it was possible to clamber up and look down on the main floor of the cave, like it was a pit overlooked by a natural walkway. Tallin was the first to clamber up there using his bare little feet to ascend like a little monkey. I quite enjoyed looking at his perfect little body, the first time I had seen him totally naked. I had seen glimpses of his body, of course, but now, seeing him totally unclothed, I was in awe of his beauty. His physique was perfect, with faultless proportions and that tanned, olive skin, with the cute peach fuzz on his forearms. I watching his olive-skinned little bubble butt as he negotiated the climb and sat up there on the higher rocks, clearly pleased with his progress, looking down at us with those beautiful almond-shaped cobalt blue eyes. I swear Tallin was one of the most beautiful little creatures I had ever seen.

River was unusually resourceful, I discovered. He had had the foresight to bring some food with him – some fruit, a pack of cookies, and even a few cans of soda which he had probably purloined from the canteen at Kolina, and stuffed into his little backpack before leaving. He had even thought to bring matches, and confidently set about building a fire. Somehow, he knew to collect kindling from near the cave entrance, where there was plenty of dead wood that was not too wet. He built the fire so that it was out of sight of the entrance to the cave. He got a good little fire going, and we all huddled around it as we ate the spoils he had brought. At that moment, I was grateful for River. I wasn't an outdoor type at all and wouldn't have known where to start. I realized I would have been totally lost without him.

Later, after we had eaten, and were reasonably rested, River and I sat across from each other, warming ourselves in the glow of the fire, which cast eerie shadows onto the walls of the cave around us. Like Tallin, we were both naked, relying on the fire to keep us warm. Darkness enveloped the valley beyond the entrance to the cave, and we felt warm and safe. Tallin, his tummy now full, had fallen asleep just next to River, stretched out on his thick, fleece coat. River thoughtfully draped the little boy's school blazer over his naked little frame as he slept. Then, in the silence, broken only by the odd crackle from the fire, River looked over and saw me deep in thought.

"Thinking about that boy of yours?" he asked, taking a guess at what was occupying my mind.

"Who Ciggy?" I asked, a little wrongfooted by his description.

"Yeah, the American?"

I nodded. He was very astute. River was still the only one I had told about Ciggy. Now that we were out of Kolina, I was obliged to think about where we were going and what I was going to do next, and inevitably, Ciggy was now my priority. I guess River knew that.

"Yeh, I miss him," I said, "As much as you can miss someone you hardly know."

"The heart knows what it needs," River replied, "Even if you don't."

It was another very profound remark, and yet further evidence of River's depth and perceptiveness.

"Do you think I'll ever see him again?" I asked, searching for reassurance.

"Yup," he replied, emphatically, "I'm sure of it."

Suddenly, sitting over there on my own, I shivered. A chill spread through me, not because I was cold, but because I wasn't convinced. Perhaps it was sparked by the vague concept that I might never see Ciggy again. It was a horrible thought. That was when River shifted towards me. He noted my sudden discomfort and came over to sit next to me, affectionately putting an arm around me. His naked body next to mine was very reassuring. By now, we were both comfortable in our nakedness. I smiled at him as he did so, instantly warmed by his proximity. He was not only perceptive, he was a very loving and tactile boy, and was naturally attuned to other people's feelings. He had an emotional maturity that was quite unusual for a boy of his age, and certainly rare for a shota boy who was as sexy and handsome as him. He was very beautiful, but he was not vain and conceited. In fact he was humble and very down to earth.

"I've got to find him," I said.

He gave a series of nods, acknowledging my response, fully in agreement, like he already knew that that was really the only option for me.

"Tomorrow we'll make contact with the Resistance," he said, "They'll help us."

I turned and looked at him, because this was the first time he had openly acknowledged that he knew where we were going.

"Really?" I asked him, "Do you know how to find them?"

He nodded confidently, without a hint of doubt.

"Yup," he said, "I've got it all worked out."

"I'll be so glad to get out of this hellhole," I added.

"You and me both," he replied.

Reassured, I settled down to sleep, leaving River to tend the fire. I wrapped myself up in my jacket, which was still a little damp, and leaned back against the rocks to doze off. But I couldn't really sleep. Finding ourselves alone in this darkened, ancient space, I was a little alienated. But I was also horny and frustrated. My libido was so irrepressible that sometimes it felt like I needed to be sucking and fucking all the time. I was already horned up from all the sex with River, but frustrated that my earlier encounter with the guard at Kolina had not afforded the opportunity for me to cum. It was simply a utilitarian transaction, not for my benefit at all. And yet, throughout the whole thing, Little Cloud had been horned up, stiffly doing his duty like a loyal soldier, ready to perform and spit out a reciprocal little boy load. But sadly, he went unrewarded. That encounter with the young guard seemed so long ago now, like it was yesterday, though in reality it was only several hours ago. I had no doubt that my horniness was bolstered by the sight of Tallin lying there asleep, his trim, tight olive-skinned little body partially exposed, and his little boy cuteness, along with that magical little bobble deep inside his boysnatch which made him infinitely attractive to me. I wanted to fuck that bobble. I wanted to stick my dick into him, suck his pretty little cocklet and cum all over him. Shit, I wanted to do stuff with him real bad. He was infinitely attractive to me. Of course I fancied him. But then, that had always been my problem – I fancied everybody. Every older guy represented a good stiff rooting and every younger boy was an inordinately pleasurable fuck. I had been highly sexualized from as far back as I could remember. It was all I knew. I just couldn't help it.

At that moment, the sleeping figure of Tallin stirred a little, throwing off the blazer that River had draped over him as a makeshift blanket. He was lying there with his head turned to one side, one leg bent up at the knee, his hairless crotch on display, and Tallin's floppy little boydick was nestling there, fully exposed. River saw that and he looked over at me.

"Isn't he beautiful?" said River.

And at that moment I knew that River had the same appreciation of him as me. What he saw was the very same beauty and allure that I saw, and I knew that his desires were fuelled by the very same primal instincts as me. For a few moments, we both gazed at him, admiring this boy's beauty, and a sardonic smile spread across River's face.

"I'm gonna bonerize him," said River, "Watch this."

I was rather amused by his terminology, and I quite liked River's distinctive parlance. I had never heard the word bonerize before, and yet I knew exactly what it meant. Sure enough, he leaned over the sleeping little boy, and reached for the exposed boyshit that was nestling there, innocent and untouched. Tallin had a beautiful little todger, curled up and retracted like a juicy little worm.

"Watch," River said again.

It was clear that River probably did this on a regular basis. Shit, if I had a premium little shota boy fuckbuddy like that, I think I would too. Indeed, how could I ever resist? I watched as River gently took the fat, floppy little worm between his thumb and finger, and massaged it up and down. At first it seemed that all he was doing was manipulating Tallin's foreskin, making the pale pink little cockhead peek out of the end. But very soon, sure enough with a little perseverance, River managed to get the boy's tiny dick to stiffen, even as he slept, and then went on stroking it up and down until it was fully engorged and straining stiffly to attention. Yup, that little boy was well and truly bonerized. Then, when it was standing up at full mast, River gently lowered his face down to Tallin's crotch and sucked the erect little dick into his mouth. It was very erotic to see that hardened little todger fully enveloped in River's pursed lips, buried completely into his mouth, and he gently bobbed his blond head up and down on it, clearly relishing the sensation of having that stiff little cocklet penetrating into his mouth, his proficient tongue slathering the little pole with saliva until it was shiny and wet.

When he had finished, he raised his head and looked at me with the most perverse grin. River beckoned me closer, as though to share some thought that had just occurred to him. I leaned towards him to hear what he had to tell me.

"Let's do him together," he whispered, in hushed tones, holding up a palm to one side of his lips as though to save Tallin from hearing.

I hesitated a moment – not because I was in any way shocked by River's proposition, but because I didn't expect River would ever willingly share Tallin with me.

"Go on," he urged me, "I've always wanted to see him take two cocks."

River was so perverse. That was what I liked about him. Little Cloud started to stiffen even more in my crotch. The prospect was just too good to be true. To get to fuck little Tallin AND with River joining in? Both of us ravaging his little body, feeding off that magical little cunt? Oh fuck, the concept was mindblowingly fantastic.

I had a go at Tallin's little dick too. We both took turns on the bonerized little boy as though we were engaged in a concerted effort to make him cum. It was strange, but he seemed to go into orgasm even while he was asleep. I didn't even know that was possible, but judging by the look on his face, he must have been having the most beautiful erotic dream. Sure enough, his little peg seemed to pulse a couple of times and he trembled a little even as he slept. Then, only when it was over, did he open his eyes.

Tallin looked up at me and whispered plaintively, as though he had been awake all the time and knew exactly what was going on.

"Fuck my hiney," he said, quite distinctly.

And with that he turned over, getting up on all fours, and stuck his butt up in the air, purring away with need.

"Please fuck my hiney."

He was cutely squirming around on his hands and knees as he said it, and waggling his little butt. His little high pitched moans were so cute and incredibly arousing. Right now his hiney looked damn good. His butt was so small and cute and round, it looked like it needed a good pummeling. It was the type of pert little bubble butt that was just made to be fucked hard, or at least spattered with a liberal helping of boyspunk.

I looked at River, as though to seek permission. Tallin was his boy, after all.

"Well? Go on," he said, as though this was some kind of routine chore that had to be accomplished, "He wants his hiney fucked."

I scooted up and closed in with my dick pointing straight out, hot and hard and begging to be buried hilt deep into a welcoming little boy cunt. I had heard so much about this boy Tallin – this special little shota boy, with the magical implant which made his little cunt so heavenly. At last, my dick was going to get to sample that legendary little orifice. Tallin was tight, but easy to penetrate. When I entered him, his little tunnel was smooth and snug. It opened up to my dick, his little muscle yielding to its girth as it forced its way inside him, and my cockhead felt like it was gripped in a glove of warm velvet. It bottomed out in him, sinking into his creamy warmth as far as it would go, and I suddenly felt a tangible pressure on the underside of my dick. Something semi-rigid was digging into my frenulum, and it was so good it sent a ripple of intense ecstasy all through me, which made me moan out loud with pleasure. I could feel his bobble! River saw that and gave a perverse and knowing smile, and he looked at me with a stare that said he knew exactly what that felt like, and perhaps even remembered the very first time he had sampled that particular sensation.

"Oh yeah!" he said, with a challenging, almost mocking tone, asserting that he knew exactly what I was feeling right now.

I didn't say anything. It felt so good, I thrust into Tallin one more time. I stabbed my dick into him even harder, so his bobble once again stimulated my dick just at the most sensitive and pleasurable part. It sent volts of electricity all through my balls and down the insides of my thighs, making my legs tremble and my knees weaken, and I nearly doubled up it was so intense. Every time I thrust into him, Tallin's prostate implant dug into the underside of my dick. I discovered that if I altered the angle slightly, I could strike his little bobble with small variations in the point of contact with my dick, and by varying my speed and the depth at which I fucked into him, I could control the amount of pleasure his implant afforded me. I had never felt anything so pleasurable in all my life. I went on, fucking my little hairless dickie in and out, totally overwhelmed by the utter bliss that was infusing into me from that prepubescent little snatch.

Whilst I fucked Tallin's butt, River scooted over to fuck Tallin's face. He took up position on his knees, and fed that rather large and already erect boydick of his into Tallin's mouth. Tallin liked that, and seemed to settle quite comfortably into being spit roasted by both of us. At that moment I admired Tallin's prodigiousness. He was bobbing his head on River's cock at one end while thrusting backwards to meet my cock at the other. These were little nuances which cannot be taught. Tallin was a natural, and for such a young and relatively inexperienced shota boy, he was damn good.

River smiled at me, himself lost in the pleasure of fucking his stiffened dick into Tallin's pursed lips. I held onto Tallin's slim hips, pulling his tiny pelvis onto my cock, thrusting into his magical little snatch. I smiled back, feeling utter gratitude towards the man who had taken the trouble to insert that implant, and a deep appreciation for his astuteness in locating it in just the right spot, for he must have known the rudiments of boyfucking extremely well, in addition to knowing what stimulates a cock in exactly the right place. I knew from experience that the frenulum and corona were the most sensitive part of a boydick, and the bobble had been placed to strike at the most sensitive part – oh how that dirty fucker must have known when he put that bobble there. I couldn't help wondering whether he had ever been tempted to try out the results of his endeavors, and whether he had himself actually sampled the delights of his own handiwork.

The sensation afforded by Tallin's bobble hitting my cockhead inflated it to near-bursting point, so much so that the sheer pleasure intensified in my brain where I couldn't fuck it into him quickly enough or hard enough. I thoroughly pummeled Tallin's magical little butt until I had forced him down onto the ground. He collapsed onto River's thick fleece coat and was lying flat by now, with me astride his little butt, still hammering into him from above. River was now kneeling back on his haunches, his dick still hard, just watching. And he jacked his dick with long, firm strokes as he watched us, no doubt appreciating the sight of his little "brother" being thoroughly pounded into submission by another shota boy.

I cummed in no time. When I reached nirvana, my dick exploded in pleasurable delight deep inside Tallin's butt. I cried out loudly, so tangible was the impending pleasure. I was always in the habit of vocalizing my orgasms anyway. I was a very vociferous cummer. Indeed, I couldn't stand silent cummers, those who gave a few muted puffs and barely twitched a muscle when they cummed. A good hard cum needed to be proclaimed, and this one was perhaps most deserving of all, so I cried out fairly loudly. My cry echoed off the walls of the cave. It was a desperate, helpless, childish vocalization, annunciating the sheer delight of that little bobble digging into my cockhead, intensifying the high of my orgasm beyond anything I had ever felt before. When my orgasm took hold, it was almost as though I had been punched in the stomach. It was like a damburst of pure pleasure, my dick feeling like it had literally ripped open. The powerful yet pleasurable spasms in my abdomen made me double up violently, as though my whole crotch was contracting in ecstasy. It was the most delicious orgasm and it went on for a few prolonged seconds, so that I was lost in a seizure of deep sexual bliss as my kidspunk filled Tallin's little cunt, pumping in flowing waves deep inside his veteran little snatch. It felt like I had spunked a whole gallon of cum inside him. I hadn't of course, just my usual three little kiddie-sized squirts.

When it was over, I was so incapacitated that I didn't even have the presence of mind to pull out. I was lying on top of Tallin, his naked little boy body pinioned underneath me. My still hard dick stayed lodged in Tallin's butt, so that he was still fucking himself on my spent organ, thrusting backwards into me, still soaking up the pleasure of my cockhead hitting his bobble. I looked at River, still gently maneuvering his own dick in his fist. He saw me looking somewhat dazed and for the first time in my life rendered totally speechless. He smiled a crooked little smile when he saw my incredulity.

"See," he said smugly, "I told you."

It wasn't easy to pull my dick out of Tallin's little cunt. Tell the truth, it was an effort to withdraw my boycock from such a pleasurable place, reluctant to forsake the inordinate stimulation that Tallin's little cunt had afforded me. But I had to. I pulled out my wet dick, and left Tallin lying there on the coat. I collapsed down next to him, trying to get my breath back. My breathing was shallow and ragged, more from surprise than exhaustion.

Tallin felt his snatch being vacated, and he curled around with a mischievous grin. As he turned over, I noticed that even his little boydick was still hard. Then I saw that when Tallin lifted his butt up, there was a pool of wetness left behind, that was soaking a big stain into River's fleece coat.

River saw me looking at it. I looked up at him, with a "what the fuck" expression, wondering what was going on.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," said River, casually, "Fucking his bobble too hard makes him pee."

It was quite a big stain. Tallin had peed all over River's coat. I was incredulous. And at that point, Tallin was lying on his side grinning sheepishly, still manipulating his turgid little organ, and he gave a cute, bashful little giggle, apparently unperturbed by the little pool of pee, maybe even perversely pleased by it. But River was smiling.

"Looks like you hammered his prostate a bit too hard," he observed, "I've never seen him pee that much."

My cock hardened even more. To think I had fucked Tallin's bobble so hard that it had made his bladder release! I had literally fucked the pee out of him! River said it so nonchalantly that it was almost as though he considered it a triviality, a regular occurrence that was in no way remarkable. Oh fuck, these were quite the most perverse shota boys I had ever met.

Ignoring the pee stain, Tallin got back up on all fours, squirming playfully. He reached down between his legs and played with his stiffie, pulling it roughly, squeezing the head and tugging it all over the place, desperate to cum himself. He cried out, plaintively.

"Make it cum," he pleaded urgently, "please make it cum."

I like the way he referred to his dickie as 'it', as though it was somehow disembodied from him.

River hastily scooted around on his knees, his dick still hard, and he took up position behind Tallin. He simply switched from his mouth to his butt, and River pushed it into him in one smooth motion, sinking his big dick into Tallin's cum-filled little fanny all the way. It sank inside him with consummate ease. You could tell that River's dick was familiar with Tallin's little cunt. The slickness of his motions indicated that he had probably done this many times before. He then started thrusting into Tallin, filling the vacancy that my dick had created.

"Take this," he called out, as he fucked away, his dick buried completely inside Tallin's narrow little pelvis, "Fuck you!"

Tallin seemed to respond to River's calls, so much so that the louder and more obscene his language, the more Tallin was turned on.

"Ooh, harder," Tallin was begging, "harder!"

"Yeah, fuck you, you little cunt!" River was calling out, "You want your little hiney filled?"

Tallin was nodding, his eyes closed, his expression fixed in a desperate pursuit of his little boy cum.

"I'm gonna fuckin' break you!" River went on.

River was thrusting into him quite violently, rocking Tallin real hard. It actually made me recoil slightly, repulsed by the brutality of River's fucking. River was powerfucking in quick, rhythmic thrusts, expertly rooting Tallin's little cunt. It was quite the most oppressive boyfucking I had ever seen, and it was all the more shocking and raunchy because River was so innocent looking, with his golden blond locks and wholesome choirboy looks, and yet he was thrusting that oversized boydick so aggressively into that little boy, calling out these obscenities. It just looked so good, so sexy, so erotic. Fuck, it was fantastic.

"Feel my cock you little cunt!"

And Tallin was taking it. He was taking River's cock like a seasoned shota boy – just like a boy who had so much more experience. And as River powerfucked Tallin, he was making the boy rock violently, building to a shattering crescendo. River cummed very quickly, and his sudden effusion of short, sharp breaths signaled his own orgasm approaching.

"Take my steaming seed you little cunt!"

At which point River groaned loudly and thrust extra hard, extra deep, and stopped, with his dick firmly embedded inside Tallin. Tallin let go of his own little dick at the same time, apparently also cumming. He had timed his orgasm with River's, and just at the right moment released his grip and allowed his little peg to pulse away completely unassisted. He squealed, his mouth agape with pleasure, and I could actually see his little dick cumming between his legs. It waggled about in mid-air, jerking up and down violently in the throes of ecstasy, desperately trying to eject the kiddiecum that he didn't yet have. It emitted one or two little drops of stray pee that were flung onto the ground, but his little dick went right on pulsing redundantly. His little ball sac seemed to contract so that his tiny balls almost disappeared right up into his crotch, even with his young snatch distended by River's big dick. To see this beautiful, prodigious little boy, this inordinately sexualized little boy, impaled on River's boydick, in the throes of orgasm, was fantastic. He was such a sexy, horny little tyke. Why couldn't all little boys be like Tallin? Fuck, it was so erotic.

* * * * * *

We stayed in the cave throughout the next day, sheltering from the weather. It rained all day, and we were hemmed in. We didn't venture to try and continue our journey whilst the atrocious weather persisted. Instead, we decided to ride it out, and wait until the skies cleared. We preferred to travel at night anyway, to avoid being seen. Finally, that night, the rain eased off, and we emerged from the relative safety and shelter of the cave that had been our home for the night, and we clambered back down the hillside to continue our trek.

On our journey, we passed the endless wrecks of military hardware, some of which were still smoldering. The burned out wrecks of trucks, tanks and SPGs were testimony to the ferocity of the battle that must have taken place. Huge howitzers lay abandoned by the roadside, their barrels pointed accusingly at the sky, nestling amongst piles of spent shell cases. The extent of the destruction was frightening. Sometimes River and I exchanged concerned looks, but none of us dared vocalize our thoughts. In all the time we were walking, and observing this destruction around us, I couldn't help but to wonder why the fighting was continuing. There was supposed to be a truce whilst the peace talks were in progress. Where was VFOR? What had happened to the NATO coalition that had been sent in to police the ceasefire? It appeared to have all been in vain because, whether it was known to the peacekeeping forces or not, the VLA nationalists and the KAPO rebels were still fighting.

Inevitably, the rain returned, and once again we knew we had to seek shelter. Once again, our clothes were wet through. Once again, our spirits hit rock bottom. But we walked on, through the rain, simply not knowing what else to do. We walked for many hours, once again reaching the limits of our endurance. We could travel no further than Tallin could manage, and he tired before the rest of us. He was very brave though. I admired his fortitude. Tell the truth, I was amazed he could walk at all after the punishment that River and I gave his little butt last night. We had both rooted our dicks deep and hard into his little abdomen. And River and I both had larger than average dicks for our age, we must have thoroughly savaged his little star. A lesser boy would have never been able to accommodate such deep intrusion and such rough treatment. But Tallin did. He walked as far as his already abused little body could endure. He walked until he was exhausted. But he never grumbled, not once.

Eventually we saw the lights of a remote village up ahead. We had walked a vast distance and this was the first sign of human habitation that we had come across. River said this may be where we might make contact with the Resistance, although even he was not too sure what we might find there. He seemed to harbor this vague notion that the Resistance would find us, rather than the other way around. I hoped he was right. At any rate, I had to trust him. His instincts had been pretty spot on so far.

As we entered the village, we could see that there was no one around. It was all very ghostly. Most of the houses were shell damaged. There were signs of heavy fighting everywhere. The houses that were not completely burned out, had tell-tale pockmarks in their brickwork, or whole rafts of chipped plaster where the armor-piercing rounds of small arms fire had ricocheted off them in the fighting. There were no high explosive rounds, mortars or artillery, so it was clear to me that the fighting here was almost certainly hand-to-hand. Armor-piercing rounds like these came from light weapons used by mobile troops, probably infantry, and were usually intended to penetrate body-armor. The unusual thing was that every now and then we came across a house that was completely untouched, so there was this strange juxtaposition of a pristine, well-kept dwelling, that was clearly still occupied, standing between two burned-out and abandoned ones. It was a sure sign that the residents of those houses had been targeted, whilst others had been spared. It was no coincidence, and I knew that the destruction was not random, nor sheer luck. No. It was a sign of the ethnic cleansing that was now going on in Verolino, and probably meant that the VLA had swept through here very recently.

Towards the centre of the village there was a short parade of shops. Except that the shops were all boarded up and looked like they hadn't been open for months. But, encouragingly, there was an inn – a very old beer house that seemed to be at the centre of the village. It looked like it could once have been a staging post. It was situated on the corner of a crossroads and had its own walled yard. What was not so encouraging was that there were military vehicles parked in the yard. There was a staff car, a black Mercedes with VLA pennants on the grille, as well as two APCs and an open truck. They all sported the familiar VLA insignia – the two-headed skulking bear on a background of blue and white. The inn itself was the only building that had its lights blazing, and there was loud music and the hubbub of many voices emanating from inside. It was welcoming, though forbidding at the same time. We really didn't know where else to go, what direction to head in, and where else we might seek refuge. We were tired, hungry and wet, so we decided to go in, even at the risk of encountering the VLA.

We gathered ourselves together at the porch of the inn, at last out of the rain, and pushed our way in through the heavy double doors. The blast of music and voices and general merriment hit us as soon as we entered the inn. The atmosphere was heavy with smoke. We stood at the doorway, glad to be out of the rain, but wet and bedraggled and looking distinctly out of place. The room was filled to the gunwales with drinkers. Despite the cacophony, the inn was warm and inviting. It had stone walls and a stone floor that looked like it had been there since the beginning of time. There was a big fireplace, roaring with an animated, crackling fire. Dotted around were long tables with VLA soldiers, all the worse for drink, shouting and cursing and raising their voices in a rousing song – it was the VLA soldiers' political anthem. And as they sang, they spilt copious slops of beer all over the tables and the stone floor. They were oblivious to us three bedraggled shota boys as we sidled inside, instinctively closing ranks, but for the moment unnoticed by the rowdy, drunken revelers.

Suddenly, from an open doorway to one side of the room, a man appeared, and beckoned us towards him.

"This way!" he called out harshly, it seemed immediately understanding our predicament and anxious to shelter us from the attentions of the VLA soldiers.

His tone was slightly subdued, I guess because he didn't want the soldiers to pay too much attention to us. We looked over, hesitating for a moment, but only long enough to decide if we could trust him. There was no time for considered approximations – we only had a split second before the soldiers noticed us. He gestured towards the room behind him and stepped aside, as if inviting us to go in. So we did.

Without saying anything, the man led us through the doorway to the side of the inn. We all shuffled meekly into a side room leaving a trail of muddy footprints on the stone floor. The room was a type of kitchen, with cooking utensils hanging on the walls, a big rack of pots and pans suspended from the ceiling above a large wooden butchers block. There was a deep white porcelain sink in one corner, and a large wooden table at the other. At the center of the room was a tall wood-burning stove, with a flue that went up towards the low ceiling and disappeared through a hole in the wall. The stove radiated a welcome haze of heat so that the room positively glowed with warmth. The man was careful to check that we had not been seen and closed the wooden batten door behind us. The general noise and commotion from the inn was instantly reduced to just a background noise filtering through the batten door. He put on a harsh bare light bulb and stood by the doorway studying us with some curiosity.

"You can warm up in here," he said curtly.

We all looked at each other clearly not expecting that we would be welcomed quite so readily.

"You should have come in the back way," said the man, "The VLA might have seen you."

"We didn't know," River explained.

"No matter," said the man, "you're here now."

"You sound like you were expecting us," I said, suspicious.

"I was," he replied, "Aren't you the boys from Kolina?"

"How do you know who we are?" I asked, a little aggressively and with a note of mistrust.

"Other boys have come this way too," he told us.

River and I exchanged glances again, perhaps this time pleased to know that some of the other boys had also escaped from Kolina, just as River had planned.

"Stay here and get dry," said the man, "there are towels by the sink."

He seemed very calm, very focused and very much in control. We didn't know him, but his presence was very reassuring. His tone was measured and authoritative, and his countenance was quite imposing. I assumed he was the innkeeper. He was tall, well over six feet [1.80 m], I guessed, and probably in his mid to late 40s. He had long, bushy sideburns and was slightly balding, with a high forehead that had very deep wrinkles across it. But he had very bright, kindly eyes that seemed to sparkle with empathy and compassion. There was something very warm and comforting about his demeanor and I was instantly at ease in his presence.

We did as he asked. River was the first to start removing his clothes. Taking off our saturated jackets and coats, it was apparent that we were soaked through to the skin, so that our undershirts had to be peeled off our clammy backs. Tallin's schoolboy uniform was clinging to him like a second skin. I helped River to strip off his wet shirt and he helped me to pull mine off. We tossed our wet, heavy clothes into a big heap on the stone floor and moved over to the big porcelain sink. River handed out a towel to each of us. It was a relief to discard our sodden garments and feel the soft, fluffy towels on our skin as we toweled ourselves dry. The towels were soft and clean and smelled of some mildly scented detergent. I watched the way that River helped Tallin to get dry, toweling the little boy's thick black hair into a halo of damp spikes. He also toweled in between his shapely little legs and around his floppy little boydick. And Tallin just stood there, braving the rough toweling, those almond-shaped cobalt blue eyes sparkling cutely. Like the rest of us, he had no qualms about being naked, and he spotted me openly ogling him as River dried him off. It was quite nice to see how River did things for him and it reminded me so much of how I was with Simon-Peter. We wrapped the big soft towels around us and gathered around the stove, warming our backs and our hands.

"May I ask who you are?" I ventured.

"My name is Altair," said the man, and then almost in the same sentence he asked, "Are you the one they call Cloud?"

I was momentarily confused and alerted by this question.

"How do you know my name?" I asked, mystified.

"I have news for you," Altair went on.

I instantly dropped my guardedness and listened to him.

"What news?" I asked, ameliorating my tones a little.

"News of your friend, the one they call Ciggy."

I stepped towards him, bolstered by this news.

"You know Ciggy?" I asked, enthused, "Have you seen him? Is he okay?"

"Please sit down," said Altair, gesturing towards some wooden stools that were scattered randomly around the stove.

I stopped, hovering close to him, hesitating. I didn't like the sound of that. I looked at him, searching for signs that he wasn't about to tell me anything horrible. But I took a deep breath and sat down, resigned to doing as he instructed. I wrapped the big towel around my shoulders and looked up at him meekly. Altair stood over me, his tall frame towering there, authoritative and commanding.

"He is alive," Altair explained, "But he has been wounded. He is being cared for at a Red Cross field hospital."

It was not good news. It was shocking, in fact.

"How… how bad is it?" I stammered.

"He has head injuries," said Altair, looking earnestly into my eyes, "But he will recover."

All my internal organs instantly turned to jelly, and a small charge went off in my head, like a miniscule explosion touched off by the shock. I felt sick. River edged closer to me, dragging one of the wooden stools closer to mine, and put an arm around my shoulders, squeezing me affectionately as I assimilated this news.

"He was caught in the artillery bombardment," Altair continued, "And shrapnel pierced his skull. He was in a coma. When he came round, he asked for you."

"He asked for me?"

"Yes. He said we must find you at all costs. You've no idea how relieved I am to have found you."

"Can I see him?" was all I could think to ask.

"Not yet," said Altair, "First you must hide out here. You can see him when it is safe."

"But I need to go to him," I insisted.

"That is not possible. You must wait until it is safe."

"How do you know all this?" I asked him, astonished.

"There will be time for questions later," Altair replied, mysteriously, and moved towards the doorway, "But now I must go. I must attend to my customers. Please excuse me."

Then he turned once more, before he left the room and looked around at us gravely.

"I will send in some hot drinks for you," he said, and then added, almost as an afterthought, "Don't leave this room. You must not let the VLA soldiers see you."

We all nodded, eager to comply. We could see the inn was busy, crammed with VLA soldiers all drinking and, ominously, armed with automatic pistols, carbines and sub-machine guns. We had no intention of letting them see us. We understood that our presence might elicit some unwelcome questions from the VLA, but at this point we were just happy to be out of the rain. The clean towels and the hot stove were a bonus. Anything beyond that was just good fortune.

The most important thing was that Ciggy had been found. Altair knew where he was. But Ciggy had been wounded. He was recovering in a Red Cross field hospital. And he had asked for me! I had to go to him, although even the prospect of seeing him again, wonderful though it was going to be, filled me with a strange mingling of fear and trepidation. Did he still want me? Would he be able to function normally? Or was he going to be just another statistic of this horrible conflict? Of course I wanted to see Ciggy again, wanted to see that handsome baby face with the tight black curls and warm brown eyes. But I was apprehensive and hesitant. I couldn't forget that I had broken my promise to him. I had failed to get on that transporter. He must have thought I had changed my mind, or worse still, deceived him, that I never had any intention of escaping Verolino with him. Maybe he was disillusioned and disappointed in me because he thought I had broken my promise. Maybe he thought I had abandoned him and forgotten about him. Maybe he had assumed that I no longer wanted him, that my feelings about him were somehow different. It had been so long since we had seen each other, it was even conceivable that he too had changed his mind. Whatever he felt right now, I only hoped he wasn't going to be angry with me and that he still loved me.

Chapter 21
The Inn – I

We did as Altair had instructed and stayed in the kitchen, out of sight of the VLA soldiers that were in the main saloon of the inn. They were all still in full song, in the throes of drunken revelry. A short while later, a small boy came into the kitchen, walking in backwards, carefully negotiating the wooden batten door, carrying a big metal tray of hot drinks. He was quite diminutive, a mere slip of a boy, a slim, slight, frail-looking waif of about 7 or 8 years old, with short, spiky, light brown hair. Significantly, he was shirtless and barefoot, and all he had on was a pair of knee-length cutoff shorts of frayed denim that were stained and wet. His shirtless body had almost no definition to it and looked a little underdeveloped. Something told me that he was actually older than he appeared. His pale little frame was wet here and there, and his chest and arms glistened where little splashes of a brownish liquid were drying on his skin. He was quite a good looking boy, with disarmingly pretty features, a narrow nose with a perfectly angled tip, full, pink lips with a cute little overbite, and a chin that had a dimple in it. But most of all he had very large, round, appealing eyes, that sparkled with curiosity. He had this very unassuming, modest demeanor. He didn't look at any of us as we sat there warming ourselves by the stove. He merely brought the tray of hot drinks over to us and offered them subserviently. There were three glasses of translucent reddish brown liquid, steaming away in metal glass holders with handles.

"My name is Milo," he said, in the cutest little high-pitched voice, "Welcome to our home."

He took one of the drinks and passed it to me, carefully holding the glass by the rim and with the handle turned thoughtfully towards me.

"Here, drink this," he said.

I smiled at him and accepted it gratefully. As he leaned towards me, I caught the strong whiff of stale beer, and I realized that the wet splashes on his skin and clothing were from spilt beer. I was instantly fascinated by this boy Milo.

"What is it?" I asked, cupping my palms around the warm glass.

"Hot toddy," said the boy, with only a momentary glance at me.

He looked up at me meekly and gave a faint glimmer of a smile. Close up, I saw his big round eyes were strikingly green in color, as his gaze was drawn to our nakedness. River, Tallin and I had largely cast our towels aside by now and were sitting there almost naked – three pretty little shota boys all in a row, toasting our bare flesh in front of the stove. Of course the other boys didn't bat an eyelid – nakedness was second nature to us. River and Tallin paid Milo no notice. They were too preoccupied enjoying their hot drinks. But Milo quickly turned away, not allowing himself any more than a cursory glance at our nakedness. I sensed an air of approval from him, even though he tried not to stare at us for too long. But it was long enough for me to know that he liked what he saw.

"Thank you," I said, "You're very kind."

"It was nothing," said Milo, bowing his head humbly.

I looked into this boy's pretty green eyes and smiled, hoping he would smile back. It seemed an effort for him to smile, and his body language oozed docility and servitude, as though he was resigned to that being his only purpose in life. Something told me that this boy was inherently sad. As usual I found myself feeling sorry for him. I felt sorry for any boy who wasn't a shota boy, probably because I couldn't envisage that any way of life that didn't revolve around cock and ass play could be in the least bit tolerable.

I took a big reviving gulp of the hot drink and was pleasantly surprised. It was very sweet, with tones of cinnamon and honey. But there was also the mild sting of something distinctly alcoholic. It was a delicious cocktail of flavors. Milo saw my delight and seemed pleased by that.

"What's in this?" I asked him.

At last Milo smiled, exposing two neat little rows of teeth, and causing cute little dimples to form in his cheeks, complementing the little dimple in his chin. He had a very beautiful smile.

"It's a secret," he chuckled, and I liked the way he scrunched his little face, wrinkling his nose for emphasis. He really was very cute.

When he chuckled, I noticed the way the abs on his belly tightened, causing a beautiful little dip to appear down the centre of his tummy. His physique was very boyish, but he had perfect proportions and I couldn't help thinking that he had a beautifully flat tummy and how nice it would look with my kidspunk sprayed across it. I briefly imagined letting my load out all over it. Perhaps after fucking my cock into his little cunt and pulling out at the last minute, pumping kiddiespunk all over his tight little belly, my warm boysperm soiling his hairless skin with translucent droplets, maybe even pooling in his pretty little innie belly button. Fuck, I wanted to spunk that tummy real bad. I beamed at him, immediately aroused by his trim little body, disarmed by his coyness and drawn to his pretty face.

"Please excuse me," he said, "I have work to do."

Both he and his father – at least I assumed that the innkeeper was his father – were extremely polite.

Milo turned to go as the other boys were savoring their drinks. They didn't seem interested in Milo at all, but I felt a stab of disappointment when he turned to go. I longingly watched him cross the room, his bare feet padding softly on the flagstone floor, and his diminutive shirtless body disappeared back through the batten door.

Whilst the other boys were talking and finishing their drinks, I crept over to the door, opening it by just a few inches. I peered through the gap into the open saloon of the inn where the VLA soldiers were drinking. Milo disappeared amongst the rowdy soldiers, who were all sitting there with their gray tunics undone and their kepis on the tables, guzzling vast quantities of beer. Their guns were variously positioned on the tables, or on the floor by their feet, or were slung by their straps across the backs of their chairs. I watched Milo. He was playing the role of beer monkey – scuttling from table to table topping up the soldier's beer mugs. Beer monkeys were generally considered worthless urchins who earned their keep from the scraps and leftovers the drunken revelers chose to thrust in their direction. It was something of a step down from being a bar boy. Bar boys like Ten at least had an air of respectability, but beer monkeys were generally there to be mistreated, and were usually manhandled and ridiculed during the course of a typical evening. Such was a beer monkey's lot – they were not respected in their servitude like shota boys were. Except that this beer monkey was exceptionally cute, and as I watched through the crack in the door, I caught a glimpse of Milo's bright eyes and alert expression. I saw the way he simply resigned himself to the demands of the high-spirited guests, and my heart went out to him. Being barefoot and shirtless was not unusual for a beer monkey. Since he was stained with spilt beer, it was probably more conducive to wear as little as possible. He was invariably groped and kissed if he was lucky, or had his butt slapped if he was not. Sure enough, even as I was watching, one of the soldiers grabbed his tiny frame as he passed by, hooking his arm around the boy's narrow waist and drawing him onto his lap. He kissed Milo roughly, on his face, his neck, his shoulders, sucking so hard on the boy's young flesh it was almost as though he was trying to take a bite out of him. I could tell from Milo's expression that these advances were unwelcome, but he tolerated it. Another soldier reached out and grabbed Milo, his fist easily encircling the little boy's thin bicep, and he drew Milo into a bear hug, holding the boy from behind in a tight body-lock, and he cruelly pinched one of Milo's nipples. Milo winced. Then another of the soldiers, an officer, roughly grabbed Milo's crotch through his cutoff shorts. Milo grimaced, but did not struggle. The officer pulled Milo across his lap and gave his little rounded butt a sharp slap through the thin denim shorts, causing the boy to elicit a plaintive yelp. The soldiers all laughed at that, clearly amused by their antics. They invariably did as they liked with him, passing him around as though he was some kind of novelty toy. They enjoyed his nakedness and were partial to kissing him, feeling him up and smacking him around. They were generally reckless and menacing in their treatment of him. And Milo seemed to soak it all up without protest, simply scurrying from table to table with his flagon, bravely continuing to refill the VLA soldiers' steins. I don't know why, but I felt an incredible sadness for that sweet boy, as well as falling instantly in love with him.

* * * * * *

That night, we slept in one of the upstairs bedrooms at the inn. After the trauma of running away, and the exhaustion of our trek, and the stress of hiding from the VLA, it was a welcome salvation to sleep in a proper bed. In the morning, for the first time in a long while, I woke up feeling rested. I was able to yawn and stretch and snuggled back under the bedclothes feeling refreshed. It was such a rare pleasure to find myself nestling in crisp, clean sheets. The bed was warm and comfortable, and the room was homely and safe. The room had a little window, with rustic curtains, which were already opened to reveal the vista of fallow fields that stretched out into the distance behind the inn. The rainstorm from last night had cleared, and the sun was already shining into the room. The surrounding countryside was very picturesque. It was a scene of utter majesty and serenity which had not been apparent in the darkness last night when we arrived. Looking around the room, bathed in golden sunlight, I saw that there was a wooden dresser and a single closet. It was very basic. There were two other beds where River and Tallin had slept. The rumpled bedclothes had been pulled back and the beds were empty. As I surveyed the empty room, I realized that I must have been very deeply asleep to have not been disturbed by the other boys when they got up. In a way I was grateful that they had let me sleep. My exhaustion of last night was now thoroughly quashed.

Not long afterwards, the wooden batten door of the room creaked open. To my pleasure and delight, it was Milo. He padded softly into the room and stood at the foot of the bed, silhouetted against the window. I squinted against the sunlight to distinguish his face.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, "did I wake you?"

"No," I replied, "I think the sunlight did that."

"I hope you slept well," he said.

"Very well," I replied, smiling gratefully.

"I've brought your clothes," he announced, "I have washed and pressed them."

And as he said that, he placed the neatly folded bundle of clothes on the end of the bed. I wondered what time he must have got up this morning to have had time to do all that.

"Thank you," I said, "You didn't have to do that."

"It was no trouble," he said.

"Where are the others?"

"They are downstairs with my father," said Milo, "Don't worry, they are safe."

"What time is it?" I asked him, realizing that I had no inkling of how long I had slept.

"Gone ten," Milo replied.

And then, in a quite sudden change of mood, he sat down on the end of the bed. His light frame barely made an impression on the mattress. I noticed that he was wearing the same dirty cutoff shorts from last night, the tight knee-length denim clearly defining his upper thighs. He had incredibly long, slender legs, with perfect knees and the cutest rounded little toes. He folded one leg up on the bed, and I could see the dirt on the sole of his bare little foot. For some reason I found that incredibly arousing. He was also wearing a grubby singlet which was quite loose and baggy, obviously too big for him. It hung well down on his diminutive little body, exhibiting his boyish characteristics, his rounded shoulders, his armpits and the little groove at the centre of his tight little chest.

"My father asked me to wake you and invite you to join us for breakfast," he said.

Again I smiled at him. He was very reassuring. He sat there for a few moments longer, not really saying anything, but clearly studying my body. I was naked in the bed and my top half was exposed where I had raised myself up and the bedclothes had rolled off me just enough for him to get a good eyeful of my physique. I could see his big green eyes looking at my chest and tummy in a very longing, approving way, and I knew straight way he was both attracted to me and curious about me. At that moment I wondered if he had any idea how much I was also attracted to him.

"What's your name?" he asked, as though suddenly remembering that we had not properly exchanged introductions from last night.

"My name is Cloud," I said.

"Oh," he said, nodding in acknowledgement, "You are not Verolene."

It was a statement of fact rather than a question. He was very astute and I surmised that he was probably as curious about me as I was about him.

"No," I confirmed, although I thought it was already pretty obvious from my accent and blond hair.

"Why were you in Kolina?" he asked, with empathic curiosity.

He clearly already had some background information on us, which could only have come from his father.

"I ran away and was picked up by VFOR."

"Ran away from where?"

"I was a shota boy," I explained.

"What's a shota boy?"

The extent of his unworldliness was just becoming clear, and the question itself was quite innocent. I found it very endearing that he had to ask.

"I'll tell you later," I said, with a smile, simultaneously assuring that I was going to get this boy on his own at some stage and show him exactly what shota boys do.

He smiled nervously, perhaps sensing that it was a slightly sordid and sensitive subject, but he nodded affirmatively, eager that we should continue this discussion later.

"Okay," he said, thus confirming our tryst, and then got up and headed for the door.

Before he left, he stopped, holding onto the door handle, and turned to me meaningfully.

"It's nice having you here," he said, with a smile, and then turned and disappeared back down the stairs.

It was a lovely sentiment, delivered with genuine grace and amity, and left me with a heartening feeling of empathy and warmth. Both Milo and his father were very nice people. They were good people, kind and compassionate and very down to earth, and once again I couldn't help wondering if they were really working for the Resistance.

I got up and got dressed, and joined the others in the kitchen downstairs. It was a lot more welcoming in the daytime, with sunshine streaming through the window. The back door was propped open and gave onto the rear yard of the inn. The other boys were already seated around the broad wooden table, which was made of a dull unvarnished wood. On the table was a little pot of coffee and a motley collection of mugs. I sat down opposite Tallin and River. They were busily chattering away, bright and chirpy, obviously rested and in good spirits. It was good to see that our exhaustion of the last two days had now dissipated.

Altair had come in from the back yard with his sleeves rolled up. He was busily washing his hands over by the big porcelain sink, fastidiously scrubbing all the way up to his elbows. It appeared he had already been busy this morning, probably attending to the myriad of chores that were necessary in running the inn. Turning away from the sink, he dried his hands, then sat down at the table with us. He took the seat at the head of the table, thus denoting that he was in charge here. Then he picked up a very distinctive briar pipe which he clutched in his palm, and focused on packing the bowl with tobacco. As he did so, Milo came into the kitchen, once again carrying a tray, this time a wooden one, with handles carved into it, and on it was a little wicker basket of croissants and brioche which he put down in front of us.

"Help yourselves," said Altair, inviting us to share their food, "No formalities, please."

"Thanks," said River, "But I'm not sure what we've done to deserve this."

"We do what we can," said Altair, cryptically, still pushing little wads of tobacco into his pipe.

"Why?" I asked, skeptically, "You don't owe us anything."

"That is not important," Altair replied, still focused on his pipe, and apparently unflappable.

"We appreciate your hospitality, but we really want to get out of Verolino," River explained, eager to get down to business, and sounding very articulate in his braces.

Actually, River was only enunciating what was on all our minds.

"I know," said Altair, tersely.

"And I need to go and find Ciggy," I put in, reminding him that I had a slightly different agenda from the others.

Altair nodded.

"I know," he said again.

River and I exchanged glances across the table. Tallin looked at each of us. Milo put a jug of milk down and turned away. We were all incredulous. Altair knew almost everything about us. He already knew we had escaped from Kolina. Indeed, it was he who had given me the news about Ciggy last night, when we first arrived, and told me that Ciggy had been wounded and was in a Red Cross field hospital, and that he had asked for me. It was almost as though there was something psychic going on here. How could Altair possibly know all that?

"Will you help us?" River asked him.

"Yes," said Altair, emphatically, "When it is safe, I will help you to get out. But for now, you will stay here. Today you will help ME."

"What do you mean?" I asked, not sure if I liked the sound of it.

"There is work to do around here. Many jobs that need doing," said Altair, "We will look after you if you agree to help us. Then I will make arrangements for you."

He was totally confident and totally in control, and seemed to have it all worked out.

"It's a deal," said River, speaking for all of us, "How long will we have to stay for?"

"A day or two. Maybe more," said Altair, vaguely.

"How are you going to get us out?" I asked.

"I cannot tell you that," Altair replied.

"Are you working for the Resistance?" I asked, with a note of trepidation, "Is that why you hid us from the VLA?"

"No more questions," said Altair.

For the moment we didn't pursue the conversation any further. Milo finished bringing things to the table, and then finally sat down himself, pulling up a chair next to me. Altair finished packing his pipe, and then picked out a single match from a box of extra long matches. Cupping the match in his palm, he expertly flicked it towards him. The long match flared and hissed into life, and he drew the flame into the bowl with a series of powerful, audible puffs. You could tell it was a ritual he was very comfortable and familiar with.

The rest of us helped ourselves to the croissants and brioche whilst Milo poured the coffee. Thoughtfully, he also poured Tallin a little tumbler of milk.

Altair started puffing contentedly on his pipe, filling the room with a delicious, spicy aroma, and turned enquiringly to Milo.

"Did you hear the news report this morning?" he asked.

"Yes father," said Milo.

"And?"

"The VLA offensive is continuing," Milo explained, gravely, "There are heavy casualties reported."

Altair nodded concurringly, still puffing on his pipe.

"As I expected."

"But what about the ceasefire?" River asked, somewhat perplexed.

"Have you not heard?" said Altair, taking the pipe out of his mouth, "There is no ceasefire. The Reykjavik talks have broken down. They were unable to reach agreement."

Tallin looked frightened.

"What's going to happen?" he asked.

"Exactly what VFOR tried to avoid," Altair went on, "All out war."

It was a revelation of the greatest magnitude, with the disturbing prospect that we might soon be overwhelmed by the warring factions. Verolino was up for the taking, and yet Altair seemed implacable.

"Doesn't it bother you?" I asked, anxious to know what he was thinking.

Altair didn't answer, as though he felt no obligation to reply. At that moment, watching this imposing man sitting there, with those distinctive bushy sideburns, ruminating over his pipe, I realized how much awe and respect I had for him. But I was still curious.

"You ARE working for the Resistance, aren't you?" I pressed him.

Altair calmly took the pipe out of his mouth once more and turned to me very slowly.

"You ask too many questions," he said, admonishing me, but apparently not in the least perturbed.

* * * * * *

We spent the day helping Milo and his father. After breakfast Altair allocated the tasks. He took River and Tallin with him to do some repairs around the inn. There were some fences that needed mending and he needed the boys to help him fetch and carry stuff. He started by fixing some loose slates on the roof. He clambered up onto the sloping roof with his hammer in hand. He used Tallin to bring things up to him, whilst River steadied the ladder and passed things up. Tallin was unusually adept at climbing, as he had proved when we were hiding out in the cave and he was able to negotiate his way up onto the higher rocks. He certainly had no fear of heights and neither rocks nor ladders seemed to pose a challenge for him.

Meanwhile, Altair asked me to help Milo and told me to do whatever Milo asked of me. Clearly, he trusted Milo, and Milo was very faithful and obedient towards his father. I actually quite envied their relationship. They were close, had a good rapport, and there was a mutual respect and adoration there. I had never had a father, and I wondered if that is what my relationship with my father might have been like.

Milo and I were left to tidy up inside the inn and to clean out the adjoining outbuilding. There was a stable attached to the inn, which gave onto the walled yard. It was only small, with room for only two horses. It was probably a throwback to when this was a staging post, where fresh horses would be substituted for the tired ones. Of course there were no horses now. Since the onset of the war, livestock of any kind was rare, and yet there was still straw in the stalls, almost as though the horses were expected to return at any time. Milo told me he often went to hide in there when the inn was quiet and he needed to be on his own. He said he would take a nap on the straw bedding. The stable was now only used for storage, so he knew he would never be disturbed.

Milo and I started off by sweeping out the stable, he at one end and me at the other. He handed me a long broom and showed me what to do. It was quite cool and shady in there, so at least we were out of the glare of the sun. While we worked, I noticed how we would pause intermittently and glance over at each other, as if to check in with each other and confirm that all was okay. A couple of times I saw him glance up as he was sweeping and he would smile at me. I smiled back, warmed and delighted to be in his company. Every time he looked at me, this little waif of a boy made my heart flutter, with his spiky light brown hair and his green eyes, and I knew I was developing a special kind of fondness towards this little boy.

After that, we moved out to sweep the yard itself. It looked very different without the VLA vehicles that were parked there last night. By now, the sun was at its hottest, right overhead, and I reflected on what a stark contrast it was to the cold and rain of the past few days. It became so hot, and I was sweating so much, I decided to take my shirt off. I pulled my polo shirt over my head and slung it on the fencepost. Then I smoothed my shaggy blond mop back down and carried on sweeping. A few moments later, I was delighted that Milo copied me. He took off his little singlet, and slung it on the fencepost as well, next to my shirt, and then carried on sweeping. He gave me a cursory smile as he did so, openly acknowledging that he wanted to copy me. I took it as a great compliment.

I worked hard that afternoon. I helped Milo with all the fetching and carrying and did as he asked. I wanted to be of utility to him, because I liked him and hoped that my contribution would ease his workload. I admired his energy and the silent, obedient way he went about his chores. As we worked outside in the afternoon heat, I could see the thin sheen of little boy sweat that glistened on Milo's little body, and I swear it made him all the more attractive to me. In turn, I saw him steal little glances at me, admiring my physique much as he had done when I was naked in bed that morning, and last night when we were drying off in front of the stove. Every time I caught him looking at me, Little Cloud pulsed away in my pants, hardening at the sight of him. All day long, my little dick stiffened for this little boy, eager to sex him up, and as usual begging to fill his rounded little butt or spunk my boyjizz over that tight little belly. Oh fuck, he was so beautiful to me, I was aching to fuck around with him and spew my little boy load all over him.

When we had finished the yard, we swept and mopped the main saloon of the inn where last night the VLA soldiers had been drinking. The flagstone floor was thick with the sticky brown strains of spilt beer, so Milo and I mopped it from end to end, being sure to shift the chairs and tables. It was arduous, physical, backbreaking work, not at all what I was used to. The work of a shota boy had its challenges too, but at least most of it was done lying down, which certainly made me appreciate the effort that went into manual labor.

At the end of our travails, we both sat down waiting for the floor to dry. There was a short bar at one end of the saloon where Altair dispensed the drinks. We sat on two stools, hot, sweaty, slightly breathless, totally exhausted and very dehydrated. Still shirtless, I had slung my limp shirt over my shoulder, and I noticed that Milo had done the same with his singlet. We smiled at each other, clearly pleased with our efforts. Milo scuttled around the back of the bar and took two bottles of lemonade from the chiller. Expertly levering off the caps, he handed me one, and then came and sat down next to me on the stool. He proffered his bottle of lemonade as if proposing a toast, and we clinked bottles in a good natured toast, acknowledging our efforts. Then he tilted his head back with the bottle upended, and I watched his little throat swallowing eagerly as he gulped down the contents. I did the same. I swear I have never glugged a bottle of cool lemonade quite so quickly, nor with as much relish.

It was getting late, and soon they had to prepare for the inn to open in the evening. Before that, Milo had to help prepare dinner. I offered to help him. But first, he said he wanted to get cleaned up and asked if I would like to get cleaned up too. I was sweaty and smelly and really wanted to wash away the dirt of the day, so I agreed. I asked if it was possible to take a shower. Milo said they had no showers at the inn, but I could have a bath instead. I accepted his offer. It was better than nothing.

I sat in the kitchen as Milo went to prepare the bath. There was a utility room just next to the kitchen where all the washing and bathing was done, and I could hear Milo running the bath. After a while, Milo came back into the kitchen.

"I have filled the bath," he said, "Do you want to go before me or after?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, mystified.

"Water is in short supply," he explained, "So we have to use the same bath water."

"Oh," I said, only just realizing the extent of the hardships these poor people faced.

Then I was struck by a better alternative. Like a true shota boy, I never missed an opportunity.

"I have a better idea," I suggested, "How about we share the bath?"

Milo looked at me blankly, not immediately understanding what I was postulating. Then his expression brightened, and he smiled mischievously, shocked and delighted at the same time.

"You mean, get in together?"

I nodded, beaming gleefully. To my relief, he let out a little chuckle. Once again I saw the little dip in his abs as his tummy tightened. His high-pitched chuckles were extremely cute.

Minutes later, we were alone in the utility room. It was a small space, with whitewashed walls, bare stone floor and an old enamel bath in the corner. The bath was barely half full, expectantly steaming away with just a few inches of hot water. Milo stood by the door as though he was waiting for me to show him what to do. At this point he knew that something sexual was going to happen. He had that half-scared half-fascinated look that all innocent boys have when they know something dirty is in the offing. Milo had been waiting for this, inviting it, and expecting it. Indeed, we had mutually agreed that there would be such a secret tryst between us at some point. That had already been established that morning when he asked me what a shota boy was.

Standing there in only his cutoff denim shorts, Milo watched me as I approached and knelt down in front of him. What I liked was that he raised his arms slightly away from his sides, as though to give me free reign on his body. It was an unequivocal indication that he trusted me and was inviting me to do whatever I wanted. His amenability was inordinately arousing.

I smiled into his pretty green eyes as I popped the button on his cutoffs, digging my fingers under the waistband and for the first time feeling the smooth, firm muscle of his little tummy. I opened the front of his little shorts and was delighted to see that he had no underwear on. I pulled his tight little denim shorts down his thighs, and his little cocklet popped out, already primed, already cocked for action, hardened by his innocent arousal. I stripped him. He let me. He seemed a little lost and confused as I took the shorts off him, but he was compliant and uncomplaining. It was a pleasure to strip him like that, with the growing anticipation that his little body was going to afford me so much pleasure. When I had removed his shorts, Milo's slender, perfect, hairless little body was revealed, until he was standing there cutely with not a stitch on him. Like I said, he was very underdeveloped. He was small for his age. He told me he was actually 9 years old, although his body looked more like that of a 7 or 8 year old. But his composition was perfect in every way. He was very lean, with not a trace of baby fat, and his frame was tight and nicely proportioned. It was clear that he was growing into a very cute boy, and probably thereafter a very handsome young man. He was so beautiful, I just had to kiss him. Still on my knees, he let out a cute little giggle as I kissed that pretty tummy, and he even held onto my head as I did it. He was quite an affectionate little boy. For the moment I left his little dickie alone. It was straining with hardness at full elevation, so that it was almost right up against his abdomen. I wondered if my little cock ever used to stick up that far.

I stood up and took a step back, admiring his naked body. Milo reciprocally reached out and attempted to unbutton my pants, indicating that I too should get undressed. That was so cute and erotic. He was standing there innocently, looking up at me, and then his little hand almost subconsciously reached for his dickie and started fiddling with the pencil-thin little stiffie in his crotch. As I undressed, he squeezed his stiff little cocklet even harder. He clearly enjoyed watching me. I slipped off my pants, revealing my hardened boycock to him for the first time. His eyes roved all over me, taking in my proportions with an almost sycophantic fascination. He was gasping inwardly as he reached up and stroked my chest with his fingertips, his mouth slightly agape, as though he was observing something beautiful and precious and fragile.

"Cool!" he whispered under his breath, wide eyed with wonder, almost an expression of disbelief.

I let him explore my body. I figured this must be the first time Milo had ever had the opportunity to touch another boy's body like this. He carried on stroking me, his fingers skimming my chest and tummy, perhaps lingering for too long on my nipple, sensuously running a finger down the shallow groove of my breastbone, and finally the centre of my tummy, and around the rim of my belly button. His warm little fingers on my skin were very arousing.

"Oh cool," he went on, like this was the culmination of his fantasies, a realization of his most secret desires which he couldn't quite believe was really happening.

I got into the bathtub first, and left him standing forlornly by the door. By now he had both hands on his todger and was roughly pulling and squeezing the wayward little rod. When I was in the bathtub, I gave him precise instructions on what to do. I told him to come and sit between my legs. He padded over and carefully put one leg over the side of the bath. I had full view of Milo's little butt and his tiny undercarriage suspended there in his crotch as he got in. He lowered himself into the water between my legs so that he was able to lean back against my chest. The warm water lapped around us gently. I put my arms around him and embraced his naked little body, stroking his chest and tummy.

As I was gently stroking him, he sort of glanced back at me uncertainly, as if to check that he was doing okay. Under the water, my hard dick was pressed right into the groove of his little butt, his rounded little ass cheeks tight against my balls. I reached around with my other hand and massaged his little erection, at the same time feeling him up with my other hand. For a while, he was quiet. I couldn't see his face, but he was very still, and his arms were quiescently laid on the rim of the bath, giving me free reign on his little jewels. The feel of an older boy's body against his had the desired effect, and he slowly closed his eyes and laid his head back against my chest. I laid my cheek against the top of his head. His spiky, light brown hair was soft and downy against my skin. For a while, nothing happened. He was clearly enjoying my ministrations, and I just carried on rubbing his tiny pole up and down. It was small, but hard as wood, irrepressibly poking up under the bathwater as though by electrification.

Looking over his shoulder, down into his crotch, I noticed that when I pulled back on his foreskin, it didn't retract very far. It barely allowed the hidden head of his little dicklet to peek through, and when I first tried to pull it right back, he winced. It was very tight, so that when I pulled it towards the base of his little shaft, it barely moved. The wrinkled end of his foreskin smoothened out, but went no further. I had come across this before – usually in virgin boys who had never masturbated. I realized that it was likely he had never pulled his foreskin back completely, a sure sign that he had probably never played with his little todger, probably never wrapped a sweaty little fist around his little pole and jacked his dickie until it went out of its head. A foreskin that had never been retracted probably meant his little dick cherry had never been popped. I knew that the right thing to do was to keep working it and slowly stretch it, loosen the tight skin and finally expose the ultra-sensitive head of his little cock. He quiescently kept his arms up on the sides of the tub, allowing me to work his boyshit with both hands. I kept working it and working it, pulling it down gently as far as it would go and no further. I knew this had to be done slowly. The trick was to draw the elastic skin down firmly, but without forcing it past the point of resistance. Milo's little body sat between my legs, breathing evenly, looking down at what I was doing, fascinated and aroused at the same time by having another boy's hands on his boyshit.

As I worked it, his little prepuce started to loosen, and I could see even more of his little cockhead starting to show. Eventually, with one final effort, I pulled the little ruffle down quite hard and amazingly, it slid right down below the corona. Milo squealed a little, and drew his head back quite sharply, into my chest, but he didn't attempt to stop me. His little ring of skin was tight, and stayed peeled down, forming a little collar around the rim of his little cockhead. The pale pink tip of his dickie was now completely exposed for the very first time, pointed and shiny, slippery and moist. I squeezed his sensitive little glans between my wet fingers. The surface was tacky to the touch, so that my fingertips stuck slightly. He exhaled sharply, never having felt such sensations before. I still remembered the first time I touched the glans of my little dick, having succeeded in pulling my foreskin down for the first time, and the feeling of my fingertips on the sticky, sensitive head, was exquisite. Sometimes I just wanted to press my fingertips on it so I could feel the pleasurable sensation.

When I tried to work his foreskin back up again, I noticed there was blood on my fingers. There was a smear of bright red, and I saw, as I studied the underside of his exposed cockhead, that the frenulum was ripped. The thin little chord that attached the foreskin to the underside of his glans was torn. This really was the first time his foreskin had been retracted, and I knew that in some boys the frenulum was tight and maybe even fused. I had torn his foreskin by forcing it like that. Milo saw the blood on my fingertips, but didn't react. He just turned around and inquisitively shot me a sidelong glance, not knowing if that was normal. I quietly asked if I had hurt him. He shook his head, no. So I just pulled his foreskin back even further, forcing it way down his little shaft as far as it would go, and I felt the skin tear some more. Again he flinched, and let out a quick gasp of pain. But at least it was done. His foreskin was now fully retracted, so that it was way down his shaft. The reverse hidden side of his foreskin was now showing, paler in color than the outer skin, and his pink cockhead was fully exposed. This was almost the equivalent of tearing a girl's hymen when taking her virginity. I almost cummed with exhilaration. I noticed that his little erection had deflated slightly. Pain sometimes does that. So I washed off the blood in the warm bathwater and gently massaged his little dickie to assuage the pain.

I carried on manipulating his little organ after that. He let me. Having worked on his little dickie, Milo seemed fascinated to let me continue and see what else I could make it do. I masturbated that little cocklet with studious application. I sat behind him in the water, slightly hunched over him, his diminutive little body pulsing with silent little breaths between my legs, both of us enjoying the magnificent intimacy of our private little cockgames, and lost in the inordinate pleasure of sexual exploration. For him, this was all new and wonderful. For me, the focus on Milo's pretty little virgin dickie was exquisite. I worked on it for a very long time. For a while, it appeared as though nothing was happening. Then, out of nowhere, he started to breathe loudly, slowly launching into some very deep breaths. He was starting to cum. As his little orgasm took hold, he held his breath. His little body tightened and shuddered slightly in my embrace, suffering a few gentle tremors. Then he exhaled sharply and his little dick cummed in my hand. It waggled about mutedly in my clutches, and he raised his butt out of the water a little, no doubt overcome by the ecstasy of his first boycum. I made sure I roughly scrunched his little cockhead as well, just to heighten his pleasure, and he flinched from the unbridled ecstasy. But he didn't fight it. He rode it out bravely, clearly savoring this new and unfamiliar pleasure. His orgasm was dry, but went on for a good long time, affording him a few prolonged seconds of boybliss. When it receded, he relaxed completely in the bath, lowering himself into the shallow water so that he was reclining between my legs with his head way down against my tummy. It was almost as though he wanted to go to sleep. He was spent, but sated and had clearly enjoyed it.

When I let go of his wilting little todger, Milo slowly twisted around to look up at me, and he flashed me a cute, knowing little smile. It was a smile of gratitude and complicity, the look of a boy who had just crossed that crucial threshold of discovering what his little fuckstick was really for, and had reached the all important watershed of sexual awakening.

Saying nothing, I took Milo by his lean shoulders and made him turn around. He gathered up his legs and pivoted around in the bath so that he was facing me. I stretched my legs out either side of him, so that he was sitting between them, and I took his ankles and pulled him towards me. His butt slid forward, causing a minor tidal wave in the bath. He was confused for a moment, not immediately understanding what I wanted, but he didn't protest. Instead, he willingly threaded his slender legs around my hips, so that our crotches were touching under the water. He laid back slightly, quiescent and somewhat curious. He watched me as I played with both our dickies, and he was able to compare his little boy shit with mine. His eyes widened at the difference in size. Now that our hairless cocks were pressed together, mine looked so much bigger – fatter, longer, harder, and so much more potent than his pencil-thin little appendage. Beneath the water, I reached out and stuck my hand under his tiny balls and felt for his little boycunt. I desperately wanted to fuck this boy. I wanted to lift him astride my lap and impale his frail little body on my stiffness. He giggled a little, evidently ticklish between his legs. His humility and submissiveness was cute, but also incredibly arousing. As I fingered his little pucker, I was massaging my dick with my other hand, fixing to connect the two together. He stopped giggling when he felt my fingers trying to penetrate his tight little boyhole. It was an altogether deeper and more profound sensation to feel his little snatch being played with for the first time. Most virgin boys have at least some inkling of the depth of pleasure their little dicks are capable of, but their little pussy was a completely different story. It was not until they had felt their little star being penetrated, and suffered the first intrusive sting of a couple of stiff little fingers stuffed up their snatch, that they knew anything of the exquisite pleasures that could be had from that particular endeavor.

Suddenly, Milo reached down and grabbed my wrist.

"No!" he whispered harshly, "You can't do that!"

I was momentarily confused, and slightly thrown by him suddenly taking control. That simply wasn't in the script. I was convinced that this boy wanted to be fucked. I looked at him, not understanding.

"That is for my father," he said, "I have promised it to him."

I withdrew my hand, disappointed.

"Oh," I said, downbeat, "You're a virgin?"

"Yes," he replied, "My father is waiting until my tenth birthday."

And with that single statement, Milo immediately and unequivocally put the whole scenario into context. It revealed, quite unexpectedly, that the issue of Milo getting fucked was certainly not unexplored territory for him, and moreover, that he had already assented to losing his virginity to his father. I stared into his pretty green eyes, quite astounded. Little Cloud pulsed with perversity in my crotch, waggling stiffly in the warm bathwater, ever hardened at the thought of this beautiful little boy, this perfect creature, undergoing that first painful initiation into the realms of boyfucking; this enchanting little beer monkey, being violated by his own father; this tight, youthful, hairless little entity suffering that first exquisite intrusion of his father's big adult dick.

"Oh," I said again, disappointed, and yet inordinately aroused by the whole scenario.

"I'm sorry," he said, guiltily averting his gaze, "When I am ten years old, my father said he will teach me everything."

Lucky daddy, I thought to myself. But Altair certainly knew what he was doing, saving his boy's virginity to be expressly forfeited on his tenth birthday. To think, they had the whole thing planned out. It was quite nice in a way, that Milo should be afforded the privilege of such a beautiful arrangement. He had had time to assimilate the idea and, cleverly, his father had told him exactly what they were going to do. It was lovely. If only I had had that opportunity, instead of being unceremoniously deflowered by the KAPO militiamen, when they had painfully forcefucked me, breaking my virgin butt and roughly ripping my skinny little ass when I was barely big enough to take an adult cock.

Of course I was slightly disappointed that I wasn't going to get to fuck Milo. But I had already popped his little dick cherry, and I had retracted his foreskin for the first time. That was enough firsts for one afternoon. But he was just too cute, so if I wasn't going to get to fuck him, then I was going to spunk him any old how. He didn't want to be fucked, but seemed willing to submit his little body to just about anything else. So he was going to get my kidspunk one way or another. I considered sticking my dick into his pretty mouth and teaching him the rudiments of cocksucking. It would have been nice to fuck his pretty little face, force my boydick into his cute little overbite and inject a good helping of warm boyspunk down his throat. He would at least have got to sample the taste of premium boyjizz, even if it was only the clear, watery kind. It would have been interesting to see whether he swallowed my little kiddie fuckslime as eagerly as he had guzzled the contents of that bottle of lemonade earlier. But right now, getting a little novice to deep-throat my rampant stiffie seemed like too much effort.

Instead, I focused on his chest and tummy. Milo's diminutive little body was shiny and wet from the bathwater. The pretty sight of his tight little belly, the hard muscles of his young abs tensing, was so beautiful, I so wanted to see my boyspunk sprayed across it. So that was what I was resigned to do. I pulled him up close, bringing his long, slender legs either side of me. He was slightly tilted back, propped up on his arms, so that his tummy was almost right up against my stiff dick. It was beautiful. Fuck, his little body was so perfect I wanted to cover him in spunk. He watched me, half fascinated, half curious, waiting to see what I was going to do. I scooted closer, so that our crotches were touching, and my dick was sticking out of the water. Then I jacked it off over him, focusing completely on the tight, yielding flesh of his tummy. I used my other hand to feel him up, appreciating his little boy composition, stroking the smooth, baby soft skin on his chest and tummy, now turning slightly clammy as the bathwater cooled off. My hand splashed about down in my lap, this time working on my own little organ, in pursuit of my own orgasm. It only took a few seconds. I had been so close to orgasm all day long that it really only took a few hard yanks to bring on the full blown cum.

When I felt my orgasm approaching, I quickly took Milo's little hand and put it on my dick, inviting him to finish me off. Amazingly, he knew immediately what I intended, and he clutched my stiff little rod in both his innocent little paws. The clumsiness and inexperience of his hands around my fuckstick made me cum even harder. His grip was rather too firm and his yanking a little too rough. It hurt, but it also made my dick explode in an exquisite eruption. In no time at all, my dick was in seizure, gripped by that unencumbered pleasure that was so familiar to all boys, that ephemeral state of boysex nirvana that we sought with such fervor and enjoyed with such gusto, the little death we punished our dicks with, the sheer joy of which never diminished. When I cummed, Milo went right on jacking my dick even as it was squirting. He didn't let go, like some uninitiated boys do when they see a dick spunk for the first time. No. Like a true spunkboy, he seemed loath to let go, gripping it with great tenacity, eager to milk it of as much spunk as possible even as it spat out my little jets of clear kiddiecum over his little knuckles and over his smooth little belly. The strongest little jet of cum even ricocheted up from the sheer force, splashing back down on his tummy in smaller droplets. What intensified my cum was that when the first little jet of boyjizz hit his tummy, he inhaled sharply, tensing those tight little abs, and a cute little crease appeared across his belly. I swear that was worth a few more prolonged seconds of ecstasy. The image of his tummy reacting to being pelted by warm boysperm only intensified the high in my brain so that I managed at least two more squirts, not as powerful as the others, but still ejected with enough force to land on his little tummy, and I watched that tummy being thoroughly rained on by my unripe boyjuice. It even fell onto his hairless dickie, which was sticking up out of the water just beneath mine. I was amazed, when it was over, to see that one of the little jets of my kidspunk had gone up as far as his shoulder, and there was a little streak of clear boyspooge spattered over the dip of his collar bone, and was trickling down his chest onto his nipple. Fuck, it was fantastic. For me, that was one of the most beautiful sights in the whole world – one of the most potent images – a pretty little boy lying there naked with boyspunk on his tummy – my spunk – drizzled across his pink little nipple and pooling in his little innie belly button. Milo looked at me with that first, knowing stare of perved-out delight, the kind of perved-out delight that comes from discovering that dicks could emit something more than just pee. I could tell that he was slightly mindblown by the whole thing. It was an inordinate pleasure to see a little boy's mind blown so irredeemably with that beautiful initiation into the art of cock play; that first innocent foray into the inexorable pleasures of boysex.

It was only when our libidos had been satisfied, and both our todgers had cummed, that we got any bathing done. Remembering what we had got into the bath for, I scooped up handfuls of warm water and started bathing Milo's little body, eventually washing away the sticky residue of my essence, the boyspunk I had anointed him with that was already liquefying on his young skin. Sharing a bath with this wonderful little boy was deeply arousing and gratifying, and after having spent the day with him, I was absolutely hopelessly infatuated with him.

That night, I slept with Milo in his little bed. Instead of sharing the room with River and Tallin, Milo did not mind when I pushed his bedroom door open and he saw me standing on the threshold enquiringly. He knew my purpose immediately. He said nothing, just turned down a corner of his bedclothes as though inviting me to share his bed. And that is what I did. I wanted him to experience the inordinate pleasure of waking up next to another boy, savoring the memory of this special day by drawing out the encounter until morning, and to sleep wrapped up with another warm young boy body, something that all boys should experience. I slipped into bed beside him. He settled himself readily enough next to me and didn't protest at all when I cuddled him. He turned his back to me, and I dug one hand underneath him so that I could pull his body into mine. His little butt was nestled against my tummy. I could see his eyes blinking just over the line of his cheek as his little head lay on the pillow, and he whispered to me in the semi-darkness.

"Cloud?"

"Yeh?"

"Thank you for today."

It was a very real token of his gratitude, spoken with genuine appreciation, all the more gratifying to me because there were so many different ways I could interpret it. Was he thanking me for my efforts in helping him with his chores? Or was he thanking me for helping him to finally pull his foreskin back, showing him how to jack his dickie and demonstrating how to achieve a boycum? Or perhaps for the insight into the satisfaction that could be had from spunking up on another boy's body? Maybe it was an all-encompassing thanks for all the valuable lessons I had taught him today.

"It was my pleasure," I whispered back, and couldn't resist kissing him on the back of the head.

He liked that, and snuggled into my embrace. And that was how we slept, with me protectively hugging him, and we both fell asleep with me spooning him.

For three days we were holed up with Milo and his father. We sat tight and waited while the VLA offensive intensified. It was clear that hostilities were building and we were frightened because we didn't know which way the fighting was going to go. VLA aircraft ruled the skies, so that several times a day, a formation of SU30s would streak overhead, thundering by in a flash of jagged silhouettes, characterized by nose cones and wingtips. They flew very low, hugging the terrain to avoid enemy radar. Sometimes they were so low, you could see the pilot through the glass canopy, complete with mirrored visor. The aircraft were always bristling with armaments, missiles and bombs, seeking to unleash their deadly cargoes on the enemy. We were not affected by the fighting. We were in VLA held territory, well behind the front line, but we could hear the constant shelling to the north. The distant boom of unseen artillery was unceasing. At night, if you looked north across the fields, you could see an orange hue in the distance, a fiery glow in the sky just beyond the horizon, where the KAPO rebel positions were being mercilessly pounded, and I wondered what horrors were being perpetrated there as the pointless slaughter continued. For the time being, no VLA soldiers visited the inn. They were probably all at the front. In the meantime, we were effectively grounded. It was not safe to go anywhere, so I knew that going to see Ciggy was still out of the question. Our anticipated reunion was on hold. I eagerly looked forward to Altair's go-ahead, but for the moment, it never materialized. All I could do was wait. While the offensive continued, I could only be patient and bide my time. This strange hiatus at least allowed us to rest and recharge, during which we had plenty to eat and nothing to relieve the boredom at the inn but to fuck around, read books and play card games.

One of the things I most enjoyed during my brief stay at the inn was spending time with Milo. He was my constant companion during those few days. He would follow me around, yammering away in that absent way that little boys have, talking about everything and nothing. He also asked a lot of questions. He was a naturally curious little boy. When we were not doing chores together, he would come to me with some question or other, designed to engage my interest, or perhaps stimulate some kind of activity. It was clear he enjoyed my company.

Milo particularly liked reading with me. Because Milo didn't go to school anymore, Altair was concerned that Milo might fall behind in his education. I didn't think there was any chance of that. Milo may not have been very worldly, but I had no doubt he was a very bright kid. I took the initiative to listen to Milo read, and sat patiently coaching him, correcting him and encouraging him. That of course met with Altair's approval. When he saw me sitting at the kitchen table, listening to Milo read, Altair stood at the back of the room by the wooden batten door, silently puffing away on that distinctive pipe which he always had habitually clenched between his teeth.

"He used to go to school in the next village," said Altair, hovering by the door, "There was even a school bus that would pick up all the children from the surrounding villages. But there is no school now. Since the war started, the school has been bombed and all the teachers either killed or taken prisoner."

He said it with such regret, it was easy to see their lives had been blighted by this war. They were simple people, leading a simple existence. The good times they had enjoyed before the war were long gone, perhaps never to be regained.

"Thank you for helping him with his reading," said Altair, clutching his pipe, "I appreciate it very much."

Both Altair and Milo were always so polite and thankful.

"It's the least I can do," I replied.

Which was true. After all Altair had done for us, helping Milo with his reading was one of the very few ways I could really reciprocate. Which was just as well since, apart from sex, reading was my next favorite activity and, other than sex, the only other thing I was ever really any good at.

Leaving me with that thought, Altair turned and left the kitchen, still ruminating on his pipe. I turned my attention back to Milo, who was sitting on my lap at the big wooden kitchen table, holding the large format book in his little hands, studiously focused on the big black text on the page. As he was reading aloud to me, I had my arms around his waist to steady him, with my palms resting on his little tummy, and I could feel the little boy softness of his belly even beneath the thin cotton of his grubby little singlet. Tell the truth, I felt he was a little too old for lap-sitting, especially as he wasn't that much smaller than me, but like I said, he was small for his age, and he seemed to like it. I knew it was deliberate, because he would squirm about on my lap quite precociously, as though he was trying to get a feel of my cock. And when he was perched there, his light frame ensconced on my lap, Little Cloud pulsed with hardness in my crotch. Sometimes it was difficult to concentrate on the reading. I wondered if our proximity ever distracted him. After all, Milo must have been able to feel my hard little pole trapped beneath his squishy butt cheeks. Sometimes it felt like the pressure of Milo's little butt, if he bounced up and down enough, would stimulate my little dick enough to make me cum in my pants. For sure, there was a constant blob of wetness oozing from my stiff cockhead, leaking slimy precum which felt somewhat slick in my boxer briefs. At that moment, feeling Milo's little butt bearing down on my cock, I couldn't work out if it was hurting from Milo's weight or because of the awkward way my stiffie was trapped in the folds of my jeans. Fuck. He was so precocious. So sexy. So cute. I so wanted to stuff his little butt. I desperately wanted to stick my little cock in him. I wanted to burn my stiffness deep into his virgin boyhole. What a shame that that particular little snatch was off limits to me.

At this point, Milo got stuck on a word and started to falter.

"En… en… en…" he hesitated.

"Go on," I said, encouraging him, "you can do it."

It was another of those quirks of the English language that always seemed to trip him up.

"En… en… en…" he stammered.

"Enough," I said, completing the word for him.

"Enough," he said, repeating the word to ensure that he memorized it.

"Good job," I said, in a bright and supportive tone, "I think you're getting the hang of this."

Milo gave one of his rare smiles, chuffed with himself. Then he put the book down, for the moment done with reading. He fidgeted about on my lap a little. As his diminutive frame was perched there, he looked around at me enquiringly.

"Cloud?" he began, in a tone that signaled he was about to raise some curious subject.

"Yeh?"

"Who is Ciggy?"

"Ciggy is a very special friend of mine," I explained, "He is going to get me out of Verolino."

"Like…" and he hesitated for a moment, "like your lover?"

I thought that was a very mature presumption for a little boy like him.

I nodded.

"Yes," I replied, "I guess he is."

"Oh," he said, "that's nice."

And I could tell from his tone that he was slightly envious of that. Envious, but not grudging.

"Where will you go?" he asked.

"I dunno," I said, "America I hope."

"Oh," he said again, this time a little downbeat, "So that means I will never see you again."

That statement took me somewhat by surprise, because it showed just how astute this boy was. It demonstrated that he was clearly aware of the implications of my departure. I pursed my lips with regret, and flashed him a mournful look.

"I guess not," I said, regretfully.

And at that moment I could tell that the reality of the situation was just beginning to take hold in this little boy's mind. My impending departure was making him sad and despondent. Tell the truth, I felt it too. We had built up such a wonderful rapport in the brief time we had known each other. It always amazed me how sometimes in life you happen to chance upon certain individuals that you just hit it off with straight away, and even though you've only known them for a short time, you feel as though you've known them all your life. You may only encounter such individuals a handful of times in a lifetime, maybe only once. Milo was one such individual. It was amazing how this little 9 year old sprite had wormed his way so deeply into my affections in the brief time that we had known each other, and I knew that leaving him was going to be a real wrench.

"Cloud?" he began again, breaking the short silence that had elapsed between us.

"Yeh?"

He paused before continuing, and he turned to look at me with a curious tilt of his head and that characteristic wrinkling of his little nose.

"I wish you didn't have to go," he declared ardently, "I wish you could stay with us forever."

My heart absolutely melted. I was deeply moved by this little boy's eagerness to express his true feelings, and genuinely touched that he wasn't reticent in revealing his fondness for me. I was so overwhelmed by his candidness, that I leaned in and kissed him gently on the cheek.

"So do I," I murmured softly, "so do I."

He smiled at that, but didn't pursue it. I think he accepted that my objective to find Ciggy was paramount, and he wasn't expecting me to abandon that objective. He understood, as I did, that our little liaison was only temporary, and that we were going to have to say goodbye to each other fairly soon, which really made his declaration all the more poignant and meaningful.

When our reading session was over, Milo asked me if I would come out to the stable with him. I assumed he wanted me to help him clean it up, or something like that. I should have guessed he had other things on his mind by the way he simply marched out there, leading the way without even looking back to see if I was following him. He led me out of the front door of the inn and out into the sunlit yard, over to the stable. The door was unlocked, so that all he had to do was raise the catch, and let us in. I followed him inside. He left the top half of the stable door open, so that we weren't completely in the dark, and then slipped behind the partition of one of the stalls. I followed him, so that we were out of sight of the door, and now hidden in the shade of the stall. The light was quite dim and the air was musty and stagnant. There was no ventilation in there, but it was shady and cool. Milo stood there in amongst the straw bedding and turned to me purposefully.

"What are we doing in here?" I asked, wondering what this was all about.

To my astonishment, he stepped towards me and reached out, tugging at the button of my jeans. Then I instantly knew his purpose, inordinately aroused by him taking the initiative, which was so uncharacteristic of this usually reticent and unforthcoming little boy. Nevertheless, I helped him by popping the button, lowering my flies and opening the front of my jeans to expose my boxer briefs. As I was doing that, he studiously slipped off his singlet, raising his arms above his head and lifting the skimpy garment off, tossing it aside onto the straw-covered floor. It was an unequivocal gesture. By being the first to get naked, he made his intentions quite clear. This little boy wanted to fuck around with me! I secretly rejoiced at the prospect that my eternal stiffie was at last going to get some relief. How resourceful of him, I thought to myself, that he had obviously thought this through, and had brought me to the one place he often went when he wanted to be alone, and where he knew we were unlikely to be disturbed.

Following his lead, I slipped my boxer briefs down to my thighs, and took my stiff little dick out. He stared at it for a few moments. Maybe he was remembering our initial encounter in the bath the other day. Only this time, it was as though he was in control. Little Cloud was wavering in mid air, pointing straight at him, so he kinda stepped forward and put his little hand on my shaft, curling his fingers around my hot little pole. He stood so close that my cockhead was pressed gently against his tummy, and he levered it up and down so that the spongy head brushed against his belly. The little blob of wetness transferred onto his tight young skin, creating a greasy smear on his flat little abs. He must have been aware of it. Standing there so close, he looked up at me plaintively. It was quite unambiguous. He wanted me to spunk him! I must have sufficiently blown his little mind in the bath the other day that I had perhaps given him a fixation – he was going to turn into one of those little boys that liked taking other boys' spunkwads on his little body. I liked that too. There was nothing like the pleasure of warm boyjizz splattered on your skin. It was a rare pleasure to see pearly boyspooge drizzled over your chest and tummy. He grabbed my stiffie in his little fist and gave it a couple of token yanks, as if to say "cum on me… paint my little body… let your load out all over me". And as I took hold of my dick, he reached for his own todger that was already bulging fiercely in the crotch of his cutoffs.

It was a real thrill to have Milo standing there before me shirtless. He had discarded his grubby little singlet in the straw, exposing his boyish torso, and in the half-light his skin had a smooth matt texture to it. To fully appreciate his pleasing composition it seemed a better idea to get him to lie down. That way I could get astride him, look into his pretty green eyes and let my gaze rove all over his kidlike little body, those pink little nipples and that tight little tummy with the cutest little innie belly button I had ever seen. I took my jeans and underwear off completely, to make it easier to sit astride him, then took off my polo shirt so that I was completely naked. That way I could sex him up real good. He watched me strip, with a vague smirk on his face, clearly enjoying my little show. Once naked, I pushed him down. He willingly laid down in the straw, understanding immediately what I wanted. I knelt down and first kissed his little body all over, leaving a trail of gentle little kisses on his chest and tummy. I lingered especially on his little innie belly button, and poked my tongue into it just for good measure. His skin tasted slightly salty. He let out a subdued giggle because he was a little ticklish on his tummy. It was the first time I had really had the opportunity to show my affection in this way, since we didn't have a great deal of privacy most of the time.

After kissing him all over, Milo seemed quite relaxed and laid there patiently waiting to see what I was going to do next. I got astride him on my knees and straddled his thighs, so I could take in his boyshit. I made sure that his chest and tummy were within easy striking distance of my fuckstick. Almost automatically, he reached up and grasped my todger. He wanted to jack it for me too! I reciprocated by stripping open the front of his cutoffs as he was lying there, and peeled back the opening to expose his hairless little crotch. As usual, he wasn't wearing any underwear. His little cocklet was hard as hell, stiffly sprung into arousal by his anticipation of what was about to happen. I loved that about little boys. Even the most innocent and unknowing little boys could be bonerized by the merest whiff of sexual adventure, even when they didn't really understand the rudiments of what they were doing. But hey, you don't have to have experienced anything sexual to know that it was inordinately pleasurable to get a stiffie, and any boy, no matter how young and innocent, would know the exquisite pleasure of fingering, squeezing, rubbing, twiddling, twirling and stroking their stiff little rod, and the fun that was to be had in sending jolts of pleasure right through their little virgin bodies from that particular pursuit.

I let him jack my stiffie for me. He wanted to do it, so I just knelt there astride him and caressed his tender young skin while he played with my dick. He laid there quite comfortably, his sweet head nestled in the straw, and he was looking up at me along the line of his nose. I wondered if he noticed the clear, slimy gel that was again accumulating on the tip of my todger. He was a little rough and uncoordinated, with no clear rhythm and not enough grip on my stiffie. For jacking off, I preferred a more snug grasp, so I took his fingers gently and wrapped them around my dick much tighter, and I could feel his tiny digits squeezing. He had such beautiful fingers, with fingernails so clean and pink. The mere pleasure of his little hand around my boyshit made it ultra stiff. I regulated his strokes in my hand until he picked up the right rhythm, and then let him go. He learned fast. He continued at just the right pace. It was just the way I wanted it – fast and hard, just like my fucking. I could already feel the impending pleasure. I was gonna cum so hard. I just knew it was gonna be a good one.

When I felt my orgasm approach, the rising excitement caused me to moan quite loudly, more from anticipation than pleasure. When I cummed, like all powerful orgasms, it made my body rock violently to its very core. My whole body tightened up and my dick exploded in utter pleasure. I couldn't help rising up slightly, thrusting forward, as my kidspunk was ejected, attempting to glaze Milo's little face as well as his chest and tummy. I managed three or four powerful little jets of clear kiddiecum that got him on his face, neck and chest. Again, he wasn't fazed by it. He persevered with the mechanical jacking of my dick even as it was in the throes of ecstasy, and he continued even at the point where he took the initial blast over his lips and cheek. I aimed it square on his little overbite and that cute dimple on his chin. Fuck, what a pleasure it was to blast that pretty face. As my boyseed lashed his face and chest, he looked thrilled. He even carried on jacking my rapidly deflating and now spent fuckstick as though he was willing my cum to go on forever. And at that moment I wished that that was possible, for it had been a great orgasm. A powerful cum, no doubt facilitated by the cuteness of this very lovable little boy, and ever more explosive because of this horny, prodigious little beer monkey that was pinned between my knees.

Milo seemed to enjoy having his face spunked. Not all boys liked that, at any rate not the first time, but Milo had no hesitation in showing his approval. He shocked me slightly by sticking out his tongue and licking around his mouth, sampling his first ever taste of boyjizz. He liked it! He went on licking around his mouth, as far as his pink little tongue could reach, rather like he'd been eating a donut or something. You had to hand it to him, for such a relatively inexperienced little tyke, he was turning out to be a true spunkboy.

He laid in the straw looking up at me, looking slightly forlorn and discarded. He was still wet with my essence drizzled across his chest and smeared around his mouth. Tell the truth, I found that extremely arousing. It was always good to admire the recuperating body of a little boy you have just sexed up. I looked down at him and smiled in gratitude and admiration. Then I saw his little stiffie still poking up from his opened cutoffs, and I couldn't help reaching out and squeezing it for him. The jolt of pleasure was tangible in the way he squirmed around beneath me, emitting a little high-pitched moan, and his arms were thrown out to each side as though he was surrendering to me completely. He gently closed his eyes and I played with his hot, hard little rod for a while in silence. I jacked it, squeezed it and bent it in all directions, mildly punishing his little pole, wanting to get that little fuckstick to dry cum for me.

As I was playing with his boyshit, Milo opened his eyes and was first to break the silence. I realized they were the first words he had actually spoken since we started this encounter.

"Cloud?"

"Yeh?" I replied, still working away on his irrepressible little cocklet.

"I did it again last night," he confided, "Twice."

It was a confession of sorts. It seemed he couldn't leave his little todger alone since I had popped his little dick cherry for him the other day. I knew only too well that once a boy discovered what his little fuckstick was really for, the compulsion to jack it was irresistible.

"Did it feel good?" I asked, jacking his dicklet extra hard.

He blushed slightly and turned his head to one side in the straw, looking away bashfully.

"Yeh," he said, "but it's better when you do it."

"Thank you," I said, "I've had a lot more practice."

I went on manipulating his hardened little fuckstick for a few moments in silence, focused on making him cum.

"Cloud?" he began again, looking back up at me.

"Yeh?"

"Will I ever squirt sticky stuff?"

"Yes," I said, "when you are older."

"Will my father squirt sticky stuff?"

"Oh yes," I nodded, "probably a lot more than me."

"Really?" he exclaimed, his eyes widening with glee, "Oh, cool!"

And I could detect the little cogs of sexual scintillation revolving in his relatively naïve little mind. It was so erotic to see this pretty little thing so aroused by these dirty thoughts, especially as he was lying there with the remnants of my misappropriated fuckwad still smeared on his face.

I then turned my attention to making him cum. I so wanted to see this little boy in the throes of orgasm once again, and his confessions about his solitary jacking session, where he had jerked that wayward little fuckstick twice, only aroused me even further. As I jacked him, I could see his little todger had taken something of a battering. He must have jacked it quite hard because there was a trace of fresh blood under his foreskin. Clearly, the tear in his frenulum had not had time to heal, and because it was not exposed to the air, the blood had not clotted. It looked only partially encrusted, bright red and not fully congealed. He gasped a little as I pulled the skin right back, yet, perversely, his little dickie pulsed with pleasure, hardening in my fingers. I lowered my head, took his little fuckstick between my lips, and slathered it with my tongue, cleaning it and soothing it with my spit. He squirmed around a little, but I couldn't tell if it was from pleasure or sensitivity. I tightened my lips around his little tool and decided to go for orbit. This was as good a time as any for him to experience his first blowjob and get to know what it feels like to cum in another boy's mouth.

With a few well placed bobs of my head, and my lips still tight around his stiff little pole, I managed to get him aroused enough to make his still inexperienced little dickie go out of its head. Just like the first time I had brought him off, for a long time nothing happened, but then his orgasm arrived almost unexpectedly. When his orgasm hit, it consumed him with frightening suddenness. His little body trembled and he wriggled about beneath me. His little mouth was opening and closing as though he was gasping for breath, and his dicklet pulsed several times in my mouth. But of course, as before, it was a dry cum. His little balls had no juice to emit. They were still small and underdeveloped, in their tight little pouch at the base of his little cock. Alas, there is always something missing when a little cocklet dry cums in your mouth. I was not to be rewarded with the mouthful of salty, creamy spunk that I had come to expect as an experienced fellatrist.

As Milo's little boygasm subsided, and his little todger stopped pulsing away between my puckered lips, he rose up and held onto me, cradling my head in his lap. I went on sucking hard on his post-orgasmic little rod and he started to flinch a little. He held me there, his little body curled around me, with my head buried in his lap. I couldn't tell if he was holding my head in place to prolong the pleasure, or if it was just a response to the sensitivity of his now spent dick. After a few moments, I could feel him shuddering. I didn't know what was going on at first, but then I realized he was crying. I raised my head slowly, abandoning his wet little todger, and looked up. He had screwed up his eyes, hung his head down and was crying. He let out a plaintive little howl, sobbing gently.

"Hey, what's the matter?" I whispered solicitously, stroking his sweet, spiky-haired little head.

I hugged him, even as we were curled up there together in the straw, and he sobbed into my chest.

"I don't want you to go!" he wailed.

And he was crying real tears of hurt, his grief-stricken little face muffled against my nakedness. I could actually feel the hot, salty tears trail from his eyes, smearing wetness all over my bare chest.

I had only experienced this kind of thing a handful of times. I knew from some of my tricks that sometimes the sheer release of orgasm could result in tears of emotion in the resolution stage of sex, especially in cases where the guys had not had relief for many months. The feeling of release could be very profound. The elimination of physical tension was a powerful stress-reliever, and sometimes allowed deep seated emotions to rise to the surface. It was common in massage too, where it could be brought on by the feeling of relief resulting from the relaxing of the muscles. I was amazed to see this happening in a boy so young. I was also deeply touched that the prospect of me leaving should be so distressing for him. It was cute and poignant at the same time. Tell the truth, as we were both wrapped up like that, our hairless little bodies thrown together on the floor, in the dim light of that vacant stable, I had tears in my eyes too. It was going to be no easier for me to forsake this little boy, because I knew that in the short time that I had known him, we had developed an incredible fondness that I knew was mutual.

Gradually, Milo stopped crying, so for a while we just laid together in the straw, drawing out these special moments and appreciating the feeling of quiet togetherness. Our little reverie came to an end when we heard the voice of Altair out in the yard, calling him. We both looked at each other, both thinking that it was probably better not to be caught together like this. Not that I thought Altair would necessarily object – I knew instinctively that he wouldn't – but I thought discretion was the best approach in this instance. I didn't want to abuse Altair's hospitality. Whatever could be said about my values, I wasn't cavalier enough to blatantly flaunt the fact that I was fucking around with his little boy. I held Altair in very high esteem, and I didn't want to do anything disrespectful towards him.

I gently helped Milo to his feet. He quickly dried his eyes with the back of his hand, and fastened the front of his cutoffs. I slipped my jeans back on and, quick thinking as always, grabbed my abandoned shirt, bunched it up, and hastily wiped my fuckslime off Milo's face and chest. But we both still had a tell-tale dusting of straw all over us. Milo's bare back was caked with it, and he had it in his hair and on his butt. I had it all over my jeans and in my shaggy hair. It was everywhere. There would be no denying what we had been doing. We dusted ourselves off as best we could, picking off the errant straw from each other. When we were done, we both took a moment to compose ourselves, and then went to the stable door. We emerged from the dimness of the stable and out into the blinding sunlight of the yard, still shirtless and barefoot. I had my spunk-stained shirt tucked under my arm. As it happened, Altair was waiting for us on the front porch of the inn. He held the door open as we slipped inside. Milo sauntered inside, apparently oblivious. As I passed Altair, he reached out and retrieved a rather large stalk of straw from my hair, that must have been trapped somewhere in my thick blond mop. I stopped and glanced at it guiltily, but didn't say anything. As I went to step inside, Altair laid a hand on my bare shoulder and leaned towards me.

"You did look after him, didn't you?" he asked, very quietly.

I took that to mean that he was searching for my assurance that I had not done anything untoward with Milo. He probably knew we had fucked around – Altair was very astute, very worldly and very much attuned to what little boys were likely to get up to in private – but I assumed he wanted reassurance that Milo was okay with it.

"Yes," I said, nodding affirmatively, "You know I would never do anything to harm him."

Altair narrowed his eyes and grinned knowingly, apparently satisfied with my answer.

* * * * * *

The next day, very early in the morning, we were rudely awoken from our sleep by an infernal noise. We were drawn to a sudden commotion emanating from outside in the yard, prematurely roused from our peaceful slumbers and wrenched from our warm beds by the menacing buzz of engines. And it was more of a buzz than a roar, more reminiscent of smaller vehicles. Obviously not trucks, but something lighter. Sure enough, they were motorcycles.

I had been asleep with Milo. We were shocked back into the reality of the precarious existence that pervaded all civilians in Verolino these days. We jumped out of bed, probably more curious than scared. Milo hastily slipped on his cutoffs which had been discarded at the foot of the bed. I just had time to pull on a pair of boxer briefs, and we rushed downstairs. We got to the front door just as River and Tallin were mustering together, also in only their underwear, anxious to see what all the fuss was about. River was protectively holding Tallin back, as though not sure whether Tallin should really be allowed to witness whatever was about to transpire.

Clustering around the doorway, we all stared out into the yard and saw straight away the cause of this rude interruption. There were three motorcycles, their engines screaming, being ridden all over the yard. The tell-tale tracks clearly showed the arcs and donuts where they had ripped up the dusty soil of the yard. They were ridden by three young boys, all in uniform. Two remained on their bikes, by the gateway to the yard, and were sitting astride their bikes with machine-pistols pointed at us. The engines were still running, now turning over at a low growl. The third one had propped up his bike and was advancing towards us, purposefully striding closer with his machine-pistol strung across his belly.

I recognized the boys' uniforms straight away: blue pants and white shirts – the distinctive colors of the Halcyon League. The Halcyon League were the youth organization of the VLA. They were unmistakable with their color-coded neckerchiefs, the skulking bear motifs on their breast pockets and military style epaulettes on their shoulders. They wore side caps and black leather belts, and heavy ankle-length clodhopper boots. They looked like quasi-military boy scouts, something like a cross between the Young Pioneers and the Hitler Youth, and probably every bit as fanatical. The boys of the Halcyon League had a reputation for being fiercely loyal to the VLA. In some ways they were even more dangerous than the regular VLA soldiers. At least the adult soldiers had some life experience. They were seasoned warriors who could still retain a semblance of humanity and compassion. But the Halcyon League were all young boys, incontrovertibly indoctrinated to the VLA cause with a textbook obsession for obeying orders. They all possessed a ruthless and unsavory zeal that made them cold, cruel and unforgiving. It was said that the boys of the Halcyon League were the very antithesis of a shota boy. They were religious right-wing fundamentalists, every one of them raised as a model of propriety and morality, and blindly loyal to the VLA ideology. They were known for being capricious, arrogant, self-important little brats. Spoiled, extremist, fanatical little brats. Everyone's worst nightmare – brats with machineguns.

Altair appeared at the foot of the stairs and strode determinedly up to the door brandishing a double-barreled shotgun. He looked drawn and pale, and was wearing a bathrobe, clearly also prematurely roused from his bed. We parted to make way for him, and he pushed his way to the front of the porch with the shotgun slung over his arm, evidently resolved to confront these boys. The shotgun was broken open, but I could see there were cartridges in the breech.

"What do you want?" Altair demanded, stepping out of the porch with his shotgun slung over his forearm.

One of the boys, the one that had dismounted, approached Altair. His submachine-gun was for the moment safely slung by its strap so that it rested diagonally across his tummy, pointing at the ground. However, the other two behind him still had theirs pointed straight at us. Their weapons were small and compact – German made Heckler & Koch MP7s, ideal for these not yet fully grown novices. They had suppressors fitted to their barrels, clearly prepared for close combat. This boy looked older than the others, maybe 13 or 14. He was certainly taller – a slim, well groomed, healthy-looking specimen. He was wearing a purple neckerchief, thus denoting his rank as the patrol leader. The others wore yellow and green respectively, so this boy was clearly in charge.

"We're searching for fugitives," he said, looking Altair straight in the eyes.

I noticed that, despite the patrol leader's apparent maturity, his voice was still unbroken. He was haughty, but devilishly handsome, with dark hair that was thick and fuzzy, but shorn fairly closely. He had quite thick eyebrows too, with dark eyes and a wide mouth, and fairly high cheekbones. He also had great teeth. They were very white and well aligned – almost as perfect as Ciggy's. It was a shame that this boy was so steeped in politics and religion, for he was very good looking. He was the type of boy who would have been a natural leader amongst his peers, a real studmuffin had he been just a regular teenager – popular, likeable, sexy and athletic. He could have had the world at his feet had he not chosen to immerse himself in dogma and armed struggle. It was a real shame, but then, that's the way it was in Verolino. The war had affected everybody, even those who were not aligned with any of the warring factions. It was impossible to remain untouched by it.

"What fugitives?" Altair demanded.

"Escapees, defectors, traitors, deserters…" the boy reeled off.

"You will find no one like that here."

"Really?" the boy queried, menacingly stepping closer, "Only we have been told that there may be shota boys on the run."

"Being a shota boy is not a crime," Altair replied, casually.

"Shota clubs are now illegal," said the boy, "We will eliminate any such activities."

"You have no jurisdiction here," Altair protested, staying calm.

The patrol leader stepped even closer, so that he was almost confronting Altair to his face, even though Altair still towered above him in height.

"We represent the military government," the boy countered, raising his eyebrows defiantly, "I think you'll find we're in charge here."

Which was a pretty subjective statement really. Something told me that it was likely that in the KAPO-held areas, they would have claimed that KAPO were in charge. The truth is, the KAPOs and the VLA only had influence within their own enclaves and no one really had overall control in Verolino. At least not yet.

"Get off my property," Altair demanded, closing his shotgun by way of emphasis.

Altair was not at all cowed by this Halcyon League patrol. Something told me that he considered these boys to be nothing more than insolent whippersnappers. It was as if he was unable to take them seriously. The rest of us were not quite so complacent. The two boys at the back still had their machine-pistols pointed at us. There was a slight air of confrontation. The morning sun was still low in the sky, not very far above the horizon, and there was an eerie coolness to the morning air that somehow added to the tension.

The patrol leader was thrown slightly by Altair's rebuke. But he was not deterred. He looked towards us, huddled together on the porch.

"Who are THEY?" the boy demanded, jerking the muzzle of his machine-pistol towards us.

"They are my sons and nephews," Altair replied, coolly.

"What? ALL of them?" the boy queried, clearly unconvinced.

It was a legitimate question – after all River and I were blond and Tallin was half Thai. We were clearly not Verolene in origin, and that was inevitably going to raise doubts. But Altair remained perfectly cool.

"Yes. ALL of them," he mimicked, "What do you want DNA?"

I couldn't help laughing. River snickered, and even Milo let out a little high-pitched chuckle, which certainly eased the tension somewhat. But this boy didn't like that. He was clearly annoyed by our amusement and he shot us a hostile glance, which was enough to silence us all.

"Do you always let your boys walk around in their underwear?"

"No," said Altair, "The underwear is only for your benefit."

It was an ironic statement, barely disguised by Altair and clearly at this boy's expense. Whether he saw the irony of it or not was unclear, since the boy ignored the remark and continued with his own agenda.

"What's in there?" the boy asked, jerking his head at the stable door.

"Nothing," said Altair, "It's empty."

"Open it!" the patrol leader ordered, calling over his shoulder to the other boys.

The other two boys had no hesitation in dismounting. They propped up their motorbikes and came over to the stable door, still gingerly fingering their sub-machineguns.

We fully expected that they would soon realize they were wasting their time. They went blundering into the stable, and we heard a shrill, high-pitched scream. We were flabbergasted to discover there was actually someone in there.

Then the patrol leader turned to Altair, as if to question him about what they had found.

"What do you call this?" he asked, gesturing with his machinegun.

We all scrambled out into the yard, even though we were mostly in our underwear, and we shambled into the darkened stable to see for ourselves. We peered into the stall, only to discover two rather dejected looking boys cowering in the corner. They were curled up in the straw clutching each other, pretty much in the same place as where Milo and I had been fucking about only the day before. Ironically, they were around the same age too, one a few years older than the other.

"These your nephews too?" the patrol leader asked, sarcastically.

Altair stood there, still holding his shotgun, which was pointed to the ground, and he scratched his head, completely nonplussed. For the first time ever, he was speechless.

The two boys were clearly scared, wide eyed with angst, and were shaking, probably all the more fearful for having their cover blown so rudely and suddenly finding themselves with guns pointed at them and the rest of us gathered around ogling them. They looked pitiful: exhausted, malnourished, dirty and scared. Their clothes were so ragged they had more holes than fabric. Their feet were grubby and shoeless, with black dirt ingrained in their toenails. Their faces were grimy and their hair was greasy, straggly and unkempt. I felt so sorry for them.

"Get up!" the patrol leader ordered.

One of the boys, the younger one of the two, scrambled to his feet straight away. But the other couldn't get up. The younger boy stooped to help him. He fumbled about in the straw for a single underarm crutch that was lying next to him, and stood up on one leg. It was only then that I realized the older boy was crippled. And no wonder he needed the crutch – the lower half of one of his legs was missing. Boys like him, with limbs missing, maimed and mutilated beyond redemption, were sadly not unusual. He was a broken wreck of a boy – probably another unwitting victim of the many landmines that were still to be found all over Verolino.

The patrol leader used the barrel of his machinegun to gesture towards the door, indicating that the boys should get out. The smaller boy helped the bigger one to hobble towards the door. Then we all stood out in the yard in a little semicircle, looking at them.

"So now you're harboring fugitives," said the patrol leader, accusingly.

"They're not fugitives!" Altair replied, with a note of ridicule, "They're just refugees."

"Shut up old man," the patrol leader ordered, annoyed and impatient with Altair.

That remark was meant to demean him, because Altair really wasn't an old man. He was only in his 40s. He may have had bushy sideburns and was slightly balding, but he was physically very strong, tall and bull-chested. Luckily, Altair was not rebuffed by the boy's derogatory terms. You had to hand it to him – Altair always remained eternally calm and unruffled.

Then the patrol leader turned to the two frightened boys.

"We're going to take you in for questioning," he announced, with an air of satisfaction, "You're under arrest."

The other two Halcyon League boys closed in as though to apprehend them. The two terrified strays seemed to shrink back in horror. It wasn't clear if they even understood what was going on.

"There's no need for that," Altair reasoned, "Can't you see they're frightened?"

The patrol leader turned on Altair, stepping towards him with an angry snarl.

"I told you to shut up old man, or I'll arrest you too for lying to us!"

But Altair wasn't put off. He didn't even look scared. Just frustrated.

"You'll never get away with this," Altair went on, disparagingly, "The world will condemn you."

"The world isn't here, is it?" the boy retorted with an air of self-importance.

"But these boys are civilians!" Altair pleaded.

"And you, my friend, are starting to annoy me," the patrol leader muttered, agitatedly fingering his machine-pistol.

The patrol leader decided to ignore him. Altair's pleas were a cry in the wilderness, ineffectual and unlistened to. The Halcyon League boys were insistent on doing what they came here to do, and continued to focus on rounding up the refugee boys. Then one of the Halcyon League boys took out a cell phone from his back pocket and called in to report their arrests. He said something about suspected shota boys and requested transport to take the boys away. River and I instinctively looked at each other. This boy was so way off the mark, it was almost amusing. I think we were both tempted to laugh out loud. As if these timid, vagrant boys could ever be shota boys. It was a ridiculous notion, particularly given that one of them was a cripple. I couldn't decide if their arresting him was a result of their ignorance or their perversity. Certainly I knew from experience that there were tricks who were attracted to boys with missing or amputated limbs. In fact I was sure there was a term for that particular fetish – but I wondered if these dogmatic, religious fundamentalist Halcyon League boys were aware of that fetish, or whether it was just ignorance on their part that this poor boy on crutches should find himself suddenly accused of being a shota boy.

The Halcyon League boys apprehended the two refugee boys in a very businesslike manner, and you could tell from the way they went about their duties that this was just another assignment for them. They seemed to have no compunction about what they were doing, displaying no glimmer of humanity or compassion. It was just a task that they obediently and unquestioningly had to accomplish. Tell the truth, I never understood the mentality of these boys. The Halcyon League favored chastity and sexual abstinence, so the whole idea of shota clubs was anathema to them. In fact, so bent were they on the denial of any kind of sexual pleasure, they threatened extreme reprisals to anybody who dared exhibit even the most fundamental token of affection. The Halcyon League demanded celibacy. Sexual abstinence was at the root of their beliefs, so it was likely that these boys had never jacked off. Maybe they had never even spunked, with the exception of the odd nocturnal emission, of course. They were probably all virgins, with their dick cherries still intact. For some reason that made my little dick stiffen with perverse pleasure. Imagine, those poor neglected little stiffies, hot young dicks horning up with unrequited arousal, always to be left wanting, their hairless little erections ignored and unsatisfied. It was quite sad in a way.

Of course, that whole concept was incomprehensible to my horny shota boy way of thinking. It was so diametrically opposed to my particular cockcentric fuckology that my dirty, highly sexualized little mind was unable to conceive of such a state of affairs. It was beyond me how any boy could countenance such an existence, at the height of his sexual prowess, probably the horniest he will ever be in his life, brimming with seminal fluids, his balls churning with fresh young sperm begging to be ejected in the most oppressive of pleasures, his dick horning up several times a day, sometimes without warning and most of the time quite spontaneously, without any obvious trigger – hardening in his crotch for no apparent reason. How could any boy, feeling the pleasurable hardness of his little dick, not heed the yearning to jack that little instrument to orgasm and feel the fleeting pleasure of ejaculating hot young spunk – the inordinate nirvana of that ultimate ecstasy as his essence was forced from that iron hard pole, to be released in pleasurable delight. Some of these Halcyon League boys were so entrenched in their beliefs, so indoctrinated with VLA propaganda, so steeped in the fervency of politics and armed struggle, that they had forgotten that at the root of it they were still just boys. Boys with stiff dicks that begged to be fucked hard into tight little holes, boys with butts that ached to be stuffed with engorged fuckmeat and pumped full of hot boybatter. What a shame that all the political ideology had turned them into blind, obedient automatons, forsaking their natural urges and ignoring the fact that they were essentially flesh and blood, that they were vital and alive, with real feelings and desires and the propensity to fuck around together and give each other pleasure.

So there we stood, assembled before the Halcyon League boys' guns. There was Altair, his shotgun still in his hand, with us crowded around him. I noticed that River, who was standing next to me, was holding onto Tallin's little hand, keeping Tallin very close to him. I thought that was real cute, and it reminded me so much of how I was with Simon-Peter. The two refugee boys were standing out in the yard, cowering and bewildered. The younger boy was very small, probably only about 7 or 8. To my mind he was clearly too young to be a shota boy. He was cute, of that there was no doubt, but generally, the criteria was that if you were too small to comfortably take an adult cock, you were too young to be a shota boy. Conversely, if you were old enough to have pubes, you were considered too old. Although, as I knew only too well, there were still a fair number of hebephiles, enough to constitute a healthy demand even for pubescent boys. Of course, without getting us to lower our pants and physically check out our boyshit, that particular criterion was open to interpretation. Come to that, in theory any small boy could take an adult cock, given enough breaking in. And breaking in was the operative term. The smaller boys could be apprentices – essentially shota boys in training, as indeed Tallin was – but generally, as a shota boy you didn't start taking adult cocks until your age was at least into double figures. That didn't mean you couldn't take kiddie cocks of course, as was evident from boys like Simon-Peter and Tallin. Both of them had taken my kiddie-sized cock with great aplomb, so I had already established that the former was quite proficient at it and the latter I had every reason to believe soon would be.

The VLA truck which came to pick them up couldn't have been far away. It arrived within a few minutes. It was an open truck, probably a troop carrier, and it was backed into the yard slowly. Two VLA soldiers got out of the cab. One of them was a Lieutenant, in full VLA uniform of field gray, with a kepi on his head and a holstered pistol on his hip. He jumped out of the truck and surveyed us all standing there in the yard. Something told me that this Lieutenant would be difficult to bargain with. He was a mean-looking bastard. I wondered how it was that all these military types always looked so mean. His face was thin, his cheeks pockmarked and motheaten, and most distinctive of all, the visor of his kepi was pulled so far down you couldn't see his eyes. Obviously a hardened military man, a veteran of many campaigns, with unswerving loyalty to the VLA cause, and consequently compassionless and hardhearted. No, there would be no negotiating with him.

"Is this what you are fighting?" Altair asked the Lieutenant, plaintively, indicating the poor crippled boy, standing there forlornly on his crutch, trembling and scared.

It was easy to see why Altair was drawing attention to him. He was completely harmless. And yet the Halcyon League patrol had singled him out as a shota boy, thus highlighting that he could in no way have been a threat to them. I admired Altair's spirit, but he was clearly making no headway with the VLA Lieutenant who completely ignored Altair and continued to issue orders to the Halcyon League boys.

"Move them out!" he called out.

Altair was still not happy and still determined to resist.

"You can't do this!" he shouted.

The Lieutenant lost patience with him. He drew his pistol and took a running jump, swinging his arm up and hitting Altair in the face with the butt of his pistol. The crack of the blow was loud and rang out across the yard. Altair collapsed in a heap on the ground, holding his face, and his shotgun went clattering to the ground a few feet away. Then the Lieutenant kicked him just for good measure. It was a hefty kick too, a powerful, tangible thwack. We all winced. I felt so sorry for Altair. He was a good man, and he was just trying to protect us. He didn't deserve to be treated like that.

"Move them out!" the Lieutenant called out, repeating his order, walking away callously and leaving Altair writhing away in agony on the dusty ground.

As we attended to Altair, the Halcyon League boys closed in, their machineguns still poised at their hips, and started to usher the refugee boys towards the truck. By and large they were cooperative, although they did let out a murmur of confusion and concern, clearly uncomfortable with the guns being pointed at them. As they were led away, I felt so sorry for these two pitiful displaced boys. They had sought refuge in the stable – alas probably the only place that was accessible to them – just seeking shelter for the night and a place to rest their weary heads. They were too frightened to speak and seemed confused and disorientated by the whole episode. And I realized, as they were being taken away to god only knows what fate, that it was only at their expense that River and Tallin and I were still at liberty to pursue our own objectives. It could so easily have been any of us. Secretly I prayed that those boys were going to be okay.

Alas, the whole operation was poorly thought out – the truck was simply too high for the refugee boys to get in, so the other VLA soldier had to help them. I watched the young soldier who looked about 18 or 19, around the same age as Ciggy. I noticed him because, even under his steel helmet, which looked slightly too big for him, he had very bright, shiny eyes, where the whites showed quite prominently. He was focused on the task of helping the boys up into the back of the truck. The smaller boy was able to pull himself up and jumped onto the ledge of the truck floor, clambering over the sill with ease. When the boy on crutches came, he saw straight away that this boy was unable to hop up like the other boy had. This poor crippled boy looked meek and unassuming, with big, sad, pleading eyes, staring out from beneath that curtain of dirty, straggly black hair with a fairly nondescript expression. I saw the way this young soldier took the crutch from him, then he physically lifted the crippled boy up into the truck. He hoisted him up over his shoulder in a type of fireman's lift, and sat him down on the edge of the open truck. The boy smiled his gratitude at the young soldier, and was able to get up and move into the back of the truck with the help of the smaller boy. It was an act of kindness which stood out for me, and an example of something I had been aware of from the very start of this conflict – that there were good and bad people on both sides.

Luckily, Altair was not badly hurt. He was bruised, and had a small cut on his cheekbone where the VLA Lieutenant had struck him with his pistol, but he was otherwise unharmed. When the VLA soldiers and the Halcyon League boys were gone, we helped Altair up and took him inside. In the kitchen, Altair was shaken, but still utterly coherent. Milo was upset seeing his father struck down, but still had the presence of mind to fetch the first aid paraphernalia for Altair's wound. What I liked was that Milo, completely unbidden, also brought to the table Altair's pipe and the little pouch of tobacco, along with the matches. Altair smiled his gratitude at Milo's gesture. To me, it was yet another example of the unique rapport they had. It was a thoughtful gesture by the boy, and demonstrated the regard he had for his father. Once again, I found myself wondering what that must be like.

River helped to cleanse and dress Altair's cut. It was more of a split than a cut, caused by the force of the blow rather than anything sharp. It was easily fixed with antiseptic and a piece of gauze, held in place with a bit of surgical tape. River was quite good with the first aid gear. River was good with anything like that. He was very practical. I quite envied his dexterity with such things. When River had put the first aid things away, Altair assembled us at the kitchen table. We gathered around him as he sat there, with that neat little dressing just below one eye.

"Listen carefully," said Altair gravely, surveying us all.

He said it with the same kind of purpose and conviction as when he had given me that message from Ciggy the night we had first arrived.

"This is important," he went on, "We don't have much time."

Then he focused on me.

"Cloud, you must get ready to leave."

It was the last thing I expected to hear. Despite the fact that I knew I was going to have to leave here eventually, I realized that I was not ready to leave just yet. I had settled things in my mind that I would be here for a few more days. I opened my mouth to protest.

"But…"

"No buts," Altair interjected, "I promised you that I would make arrangements for you when the time was right. That time has come."

River and I exchanged glances. He looked very somber. Then I focused on Milo's little face and saw how frightened he looked. Frightened because the moment he feared, the moment he had confessed to me he dreaded, was now becoming a reality.

"But why now?" I asked, mystified.

"Those Halcyon League boys are already suspicious. They will be back. They will sniff around until they find some other reason to arrest someone. You must be gone by then."

As usual, as with everything Altair said, it was unequivocal and unavoidable.

"Do you understand?" he asked me, seeking confirmation.

I hesitated, not wanting to go. For a moment I considered defying him and appealing to him to let me stay and take my chances. But deep down I knew that it would be a selfish thing to do. I risked getting Altair and Milo into trouble. And, though I still didn't know for sure if they were working for the Resistance, I knew it was best that I did not attract suspicion or cause them any undue hardship or distress.

"Yes," I said, finally, "I understand."

Altair stood up, apparently happy with my undertaking.

"Get your things together. I will arrange a car for you."

"What car?" I asked, and I realized almost as soon as the words were out of my mouth that it was an inappropriate question.

Altair ignored it anyway.

"Where will I be going?" I ventured, thinking that more pertinent.

"To the Red Cross field hospital."

"To see Ciggy?"

Altair nodded.

"You said it wasn't safe," I reminded him.

"It isn't," he explained, "But if you stay here, you might be arrested. At least if you travel incognito you still have a chance of getting out safely."

I looked at River and then Milo. I knew we were all thinking the same thing. As unprepared as we were, we could not avoid the inevitable.

"What about us?" River asked, wondering what was going to happen to him and Tallin.

Altair turned to River. Tallin was, as usual, standing very close to him.

"I wanted to wait until the offensive was over, so we could smuggle you across the border into Zachyna. But the VLA have been victorious these past two days. They have exacted big losses on the KAPO rebels. They have increased their control of this region. It will be impossible to get you across the border. I am sorry. It is best you stay here for now."

And so we resigned ourselves to this fate. Altair's word was supreme. We didn't argue. We simply did as he said.

I did as Altair instructed and immediately went to pack my stuff. It was River who helped me pack. Not that I had a lot of stuff. I had abandoned the vast majority of my things back at The Saxon Club. I had even less when we left Kolina. All that remained was a minimum of clothes and personal effects, most of which I could probably have done without. Nevertheless, River held my backpack open on the bed as I crammed things into it. We were alone in the little upstairs bedroom of the inn. We were very quiet as I stuffed the last of my rolled up shirts into the backpack and then River zipped it up.

When we had finished, we sat down next to each other on the bed. It was a special moment because we were both aware that this was the very last opportunity we had to say our goodbyes. It was River who turned to me and put an arm around me. Even he was feeling the emotion of having to say goodbye. It was nice when he leaned over and kissed me. I turned to meet his lips, and within seconds it turned into a feverish, lascivious kiss, reminiscent of the horny times we had shared, each of us remembering the inordinate passion of our sexual exploits together. River was a beautiful, sexy, intelligent boy – a wonderful human being, and I could not forget all that he had done for me. Indeed, it was only because of him that I was here.

When we had finished kissing, alas all we had time for, we sat huddled together on the bed, our arms around each other.

"What will you do when you get across the border to Zachyna?" I asked him.

"Try and get Tallin to England," said River, "He has family there."

"I hope you make it," I said.

"Thanks," he said smiling, showing off his cute braces, one of the things I liked most about him.

"It's been a helluva rollercoaster," I replied, "But I've enjoyed every minute of it."

"Me too," he said, both of us sensing that our days as shota boys were pretty much over.

There was a pause, during which we both pondered that prospect.

"No regrets?" he went on, turning to me.

"No," I replied, "no regrets… Except perhaps…"

"Yeah?" he asked, interested.

"Well, I never got to fuck my way across Europe," I explained, in jest.

River laughed, exposing his braced teeth again, and he looked at me quizzically.

"What do you mean?"

"I was gonna write a journal about my experiences, comparing all the different nationalities I've fucked. It was gonna be called 'How To Cum in 23 Languages'."

He burst out laughing again, and we both laughed together, allowing ourselves a gentle, rolling laughter that went on for a few minutes. Then, when we had both calmed down, he looked at me with a more serious, enquiring stare.

"Between us we must have had quite a few," he said, "different nationalities, I mean."

I nodded in absolute agreement.

"Yup. Pretty much."

"So tell me," he went on, scooting closer to me on the bed, and leaning towards me with enthusiasm, "Who were the best fuckers?"

I put my finger to my lips and looked up at the ceiling, thinking it over.

"I think it's gotta be the Americans!" I said, spluttering with laughter.

* * * * * *

True to his word, Altair had arranged a car for me. The whole thing was executed so seamlessly that I wondered how exactly he had facilitated this, especially at such short notice. After all, there were no civilian vehicles and the supply of gasoline was strictly regulated. I wondered just how much influence Altair really had. I never did find out for sure if he was working for the Resistance, and I was aware that he probably could never have told me anyway. But I didn't deign to ask him. He had already told me that I asked too many questions, so by now I had come to accept that sometimes it was better to just keep shtum, and that there were some things you just shouldn't question.

The problem was that the car arrived to take me away just as the main saloon of the inn was filling up with soldiers. As it turned out, the VLA did return, just as Altair had predicted. They were all in a state of frenzied hysteria, fresh from their recent victories over the KAPO rebels. Having trounced the KAPO militia, they were bragging and full of hubris, effusing with stories of how they smashed the KAPO lines and how many they had killed or taken prisoner. Already intoxicated on the bloodlust of their deadly engagement, they descended on the inn, weary and battle-fatigued, some bloodied and bandaged, but clearly intent on drinking themselves into a stupor to rejoice in their victory. The yard filled with APCs and trucks and the VLA soldiers burst into the inn in gaggles of four or five, screaming loud incoherent vocalizations as they entered, as though they felt compelled to announce their arrival. Milo was already being manhandled by them, his diminutive shirtless form dwarfed by all these burly men, his pale-skinned little body a stark contrast amongst all the gray uniforms. He struggled to satisfy their demands for beer, such was their voracious thirst. He was being pushed and pulled carelessly by the soldiers, some clamoring for more beer, others wanting to get a feel of him, slapping his butt, slobbering gratuitous kisses all over his little face and, on one occasion at least, apparently no longer content to just cop a feel of his crotch through his shorts, one of them was actually delving into the front of his cutoffs to grab at his boyshit. Seeing this, with the depth of affection I had for this little boy, I wanted to run in there and punch that soldier. I wanted to throw them all off and pluck that boy from their midst, rescue him from this bunch of drunken boorish molesters and their unwarranted groping. But, alas, it would have been a stupid move. Milo didn't enjoy that rough treatment. But he was a beer monkey. That was his job. Milo was a sensible boy and he knew his place. So he tolerated it, much as I tolerated the occasional drunks, boy-batterers and forcefuckers that were an occupational hazard for a seasoned fuckboy like me.

As the car waited for me in the yard, I hesitated by the kitchen door, preparing to slip out the back door so that the VLA wouldn't see me. I could only watch helplessly as Milo was being manhandled by the VLA soldiers. He couldn't leave them and they wouldn't let him go. The car couldn't wait. So my last glimpse of Milo was across the teeming saloon of the inn, with him being assailed by some inebriated buffoon of a sergeant. Milo twisted his head around just enough to catch one last glimpse of me, and our gaze connected across the crowded room. As I locked onto his stare, looking into those pretty green eyes for the last time, I knew that telepathically we said goodbye to each other, perhaps never knowing if we would ever meet again. His desperate, pleading expression told me that he hated these soldiers, but he was obliged to serve them, and that really he wished he was coming with me. In return, I flashed him a look of admiration, gratitude and love, and I knew that even as I turned away, breaking our gaze, I would always remember this little boy. But I had to go. The car was waiting and my escort was impatient. We couldn't risk the VLA soldiers seeing us, so reluctantly, and with a heavy heart, I ran out and hopped into the waiting vehicle. The door was slammed and the car dashed out of the yard at speed. As I waved goodbye to the boys who had been my friends and saviors, I shed a little tear for them. They had been my companions, my fuckbuddies, my comrades. I could feel the sting of tears welling up in my eyes as I realized that I was probably never going to see them again. As we turned out of the gate, I took one last glimpse of the place that had been my sanctuary for the last few days, and was overwhelmed by sadness. But most of all, my tears were for Milo, as it struck me at that moment just how much I actually loved this special little boy. I think I had fallen in love with him from the very first time I saw him. No word of a lie, I really did love that little guy.

But as one part of me sorrowed at what I was leaving behind, another part of me glowed with excitement at what awaited me. I breathed a metaphorical sigh of relief that I was finally getting out of Verolino. I was at last headed for salvation. This was it! I was finally going to see Ciggy.

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