Cosmo

The Porn Boys

Chapters 5-8

When I awoke, Yura was gone. My bedroom door was slightly ajar and the bed next to me was empty. A corner of the bedclothes had been strategically flipped over where I could almost picture Yura quietly extricating himself from between the sheets and slipping away without waking me. I got up, donning my bathrobe, and went downstairs to the drawing room. I could hear the TV on full blast as I approached. I paused, hovering on the threshold, momentarily stopped in my tracks. I saw Yura upside down on the big sofa opposite the big plasma TV. His little feet were pointing up in the air, his legs against the backrest, and his head hanging down over the edge of the seat. I had suspected it would not take him long to discover the games console, though I couldn't work out how he was playing the game upside down. The most noticeable thing, however, was something I didn't instantly register: he was completely naked. He had instantaneously progressed from walking around half naked in his pajama bottoms to languishing around the house completely nude. His cute little boydick was nestling floppily in his crotch. He had the games controller resting on his bare chest. He seemed engrossed in a really raucous game with too much happening on the screen all at once and a really inane soundtrack. He had the sound turned right up. I didn't notice which game it was, but I did notice that his SpongeBob pajama bottoms were nowhere to be seen.

It was odd seeing Yura's pretty little face hanging over the edge of the sofa upside down. As I appeared in the doorway, he glanced over, focusing on me momentarily, and smiled to himself. He immediately went back to his game. Evidently he didn't feel the need to say anything. It was a stark contrast to when he was in my bed last night uttering an effusion of dirty talk whilst my big cock was buried to the hilt in his sweet little boycunt. The fleeting memory of his pretty little face as he barked out 'Cum on me!' whilst we were fucking last night now flashed briefly through my mind, and I marveled at how this little ten year old fuckboy could be so sexually demanding and precocious in bed, yet appear to be so sweet and innocent out of it. It was such a paradoxical blend. I smiled to myself, pleased to see that he had at least made himself at home and that he was just doing what normal ten year old boys do. As for his nakedness, I could only surmise that now we had finally fucked, he didn't feel the need for clothes anymore. It was as though he had decided there was no need for modesty when he was around me. It was almost an act of total submission. He knew he was my boy and instinctively understood that I would enjoy looking at him. The memory of last night was the only evidence of the special bond that now existed between us, a bond that neither of us felt the need to vocalize. But it was there, and that memory was enough to allow me to confront the day ahead with a feeling of warm self-assuredness. I went into the kitchen to put some coffee on, and I smiled to myself contentedly as I went about my business.

When I called him in for breakfast, Yura came into the kitchen cupping his crotch protectively as he walked. Like all little boys, his hand seemed to automatically gravitate to his little jewels – a natural consequence of walking around naked, I suppose. It took a little adjustment on my part to accept that he wanted to be naked around me. I had to admit, it was very pleasant to have sight of his naked little preteen body. I have already said, he was a beautiful boy, and his body was extremely attractive, and I must admit it did give me a hard-on to think that this was the same pretty little body I had fucked and spunked all over last night. I watched him as he perched himself on one of the high stools by the central island, and I pushed across to him some toast and cereal. I settled opposite him and observed him silently as I sipped my coffee, enjoying his nakedness. He seemed oblivious to it, apparently only preoccupied by the things in front of him. He didn't say anything. He took a tiny bite out of the corner of a big square of toast, and started reading the back of the cereal packet as he munched. I wasn't sure how much of it he understood, but it seemed to distract him for a good few minutes. I poured out a glass of milk and set it down in front of him. He spotted it and, turning away from the cereal packet for just a moment, took a couple of big gulps of milk, balancing the heavy glass in his hand precariously. He put the milk back down, leaving a little white milk moustache on his top lip. Then he promptly turned back to the cereal packet as though he was determined to read every word on the box. I smiled inwardly, observing the way he sat there obliviously. He looked so cute with that little milk moustache I wanted to lean over and lick it off for him.

"What?" he asked, looking up, suddenly aware that I was staring at him.

I ripped off a sheet of kitchen paper and leaned across, smiling affectionately. He let me wipe his mouth for him, holding his head still as I did so.

"Thanks," he said.

"Are you not getting dressed today?" I asked him.

"What for?" he replied, and went on spooning cereal into his mouth.

"You just going to walk around the house like that?" I asked, "Totally naked?"

He seemed to be thinking that over for a moment.

"I'm used to being naked," he went on, as though it was no big deal, "They wanted us to be naked all the time. They liked us showing our bodies and playing with each other."

"Who?"

"The guys who filmed us fucking. They said we had to be naked all the time."

It was another reference to his experiences at the hands of the pornographers. It was entirely consistent with what I knew: that often in cases of child porn the children were encouraged to be naked all the time. It served to diminish their inhibitions and helped to further sexualize them for the camera.

"They took away our clothes," Yura added, "Vladik said it was to stop us running away."

He elicited a slight giggle with that, although it was probably closer to the truth than he realized.

"Well, we're not making porn movies here," I reminded him, confirming that those days were over for him.

He smiled mischievously.

"Unless you want to," he chuckled, and bobbed up and down on his stool in delight.

I had to laugh with him. It amazed me that he could still retain a sense of humor, even after all he had been through.

"You'll have to get dressed," I told him, "We've got things to do today."

"Aw," he grumbled, disappointed, "I don't feel like it. I just want to spend the day with you."

"There's time for that later," I said, "First we have to get you over to HQ. More formalities I'm afraid."

"Aw, do we have to?"

"Yes," I asserted, "Maybe when we get back we can go for a dip in the pool later."

He seemed to brighten at that.

"Really?"

"Sure," I said, "It's a nice day."

I finally succeeded in getting Yura showered and dressed and out of the house. With so many diversions and delights in the house, it was difficult to entice him away. I strapped him into the passenger seat and we took the now familiar drive downtown. The trip was pretty routine, and we chatted idly on the way. That was one thing about Yura – he always had plenty to say. If he ever went quiet, you knew there was something wrong or that he was in the midst of some serious contemplation.

During the trip, even as we were talking away, there was something in the rear view mirror that bothered me. It took a while to filter through to my consciousness, but when it did I was immediately aware of the gravity of the situation. It was the silver grey Dodge Trader. It was definitely the same car that had tailed us before. It stuck in my mind because it was quite a distinctive vehicle. If indeed it was the same car, it had now been behind us for some time. At this point I realized that there was a real possibility that we were being followed. I glanced over at Yura. He was innocently staring out of the window, oblivious to my scrutinizing of the rear view mirror. My mind sifted all the possibilities. It was true that there were any number of people who might want to follow us. I had found that out from previous close protection assignments. They could be anybody: over-zealous defense attorneys, the media, even a crackpot with an axe to grind. Hell, I had even been followed by members of my own unit before. It was accepted that your loyalty and trust was to be tested and verified at some point in your career. That was how the police department worked. At the outside, it was conceivable that it was the minions of the Russian crime lords out to do their bidding – but I was fairly confident that it was probably the least likely scenario.

I decided to play a waiting game. I didn't know who they were or what they wanted, but I wasn't going to give away any obvious clues. I held station and kept my speed constant. I changed course and decided to stay on the freeway. I wasn't going to lead them anywhere. One way of testing out the parameters was to see just how long they stayed on our tail. It also gave me more time to think. I carefully considered our options. All my defensive driving training came back to me. We were in a good position on the freeway. Traffic was light. Plenty of room to accelerate out of danger if necessary. The Constellation was fast. It was heavy, but powerful. I knew we could easily outrun the Trader if we had to. Beyond that, I was confident that as a last resort I could successfully pull off a rearward ramming – not my specialty and not a maneuver I had ever used in anger, but the Constellation would undoubtedly have the advantage in such an eventuality.

Thankfully, the Trader pulled back. It shadowed us for a while, but not close enough for me to get the license plate number. I continued on the freeway two exits further on before turning around and heading back towards HQ. The Trader disappeared. I was relieved, but nevertheless concerned. This time it was not a coincidence. We were definitely being followed. But I didn't mention anything to Nikolayev about it. I wanted to deal with it in my own way.

Nikolayev greeted us with his usual air of efficiency, with brisk handshakes and more than a little enthusiasm. He showed us into his office and left the door open. Evidently he was expecting others to join us. He had a very spacious office, tastefully fitted out with quite modern furnishings. Nikolayev had impeccable taste. As usual the air conditioning was slightly too cool. Off to one side there was a seating area. Almost half the room was given over to this little lounge area with three large sofas, and there was a drinks cabinet over by the wall. It was a nice space for an informal meeting. Yura sat very close to me on one of the sofas, and Nikolayev served us drinks. Yura cracked open a can of soda and sat there patiently sipping from the can. I opted for a glass of ginger ale. Soon we were joined by Elena, who came in and greeted Yura with a warm hug. Not long afterwards, the guy from the Russian Embassy in Washington DC arrived. Nikolayev as usual took center stage and stood in the middle of the seating area to talk to us. He was always affirmatively in control. As he talked, standing there in his shirtsleeves, he gestured animatedly with a rather slick looking fountain pen between his fingers. He looked for all intents as though he was set to conduct an orchestra. I noticed how his expensive cufflinks sparkled on his sleeves, perfectly complimenting his neatly pressed designer shirt. An equally expensive Rolex was just visible on his tanned wrist.

Nikolayev was discussing the long term plans for Yura. The guy from the Russian Embassy talked for a while about how they were proceeding with sorting out Yura's immigration status. It was hoped that he could stay in the country long term, but it was by no means a foregone conclusion.

We had not been talking for very long when a little boy of about seven or eight years old skipped into the room through the open door and ran up to Nikolayev.

"Daddy!"

It was Nikolayev's little boy. He came scampering into the room, and took a running jump into his father's arms. Nikolayev stooped to catch him as he jumped up, ending up safely and firmly in Nikolayev's embrace. I watched the interaction between Nikolayev and his little boy and I could see genuine love there. They were obviously very close. They nuzzled each other and Nikolayev gave him a single affectionate kiss on his forehead, holding the boy's diminutive little body against him, supporting his weight with an arm under his butt. It was the first time I got a good look at Nikolayev's little boy. It was clear to see he was well cared for. He looked very clean and well groomed, just like his father. The boy's hair had been brushed back and spiked with gel and I wondered if perhaps that had been done by his mother. It was a strange shade of light brown, not quite blond, not quite brown, more sort of honey-colored. He had Nikolayev's good looks and dashing, well-defined features, with dark, mysterious eyes that had a healthy, mischievous glint in them. He looked for all intents like a miniature version of Nikolayev. He was dressed in a bright sky blue t-shirt which came down well past his hips, and khaki knee-length cargo pants, which clearly showed off his pretty little legs. His legs were trim and shapely. The skin on his calves and forearms was brown and silky and had a warm healthy glow to it, which told me he obviously spent a lot of time in the sun, just like his father. The tanned skin was accentuated by his white ankle sox and his little boy feet were encased in an expensive pair of limited-edition sneakers that made his feet look almost too big for his body. On his forearms was a fine dusting of peach fuzz. He was indescribably cute.

"This is Misha," said Nikolayev, letting the little boy slide off him and back onto the floor.

"Hi," said Misha, in an endearingly sweet voice that was so high-pitched it was almost cartoon-like, and he turned to face us with an air of self-confidence which almost mirrored that of his father.

"This is Ivan," said Nikolayev, introducing him to Misha.

"Hi," Misha said again.

"Hi," said Yura, politely.

The two boys looked at each other. Yura was visibly suspicious and reticent, but Misha, being a little more assertive, stepped forward and pulled a PSP out of his back pocket.

"Wanna play?" he said to Yura, in English.

Yura smiled and his inhibitions left him immediately. Yura got up and both boys went over to the big sofa on the other side of the room while we carried on talking. Yura took his soda with him.

"Dad, can I get a soda too?" Misha asked.

"Sure," Nikolayev replied, "help yourself."

Misha went to the little drinks cooler in the corner and got himself a soda, then made himself comfortable on the sofa next to Yura.

Nikolayev was explaining how the people from children's services wanted to place Yura with a certified foster family, but that had been ruled out because of security issues. So for the time being he was going to have to remain in my care. Naturally, I had no objections to that.

As Nikolayev was talking, I kept a watching brief on Yura. He seemed comfortable enough with Misha, and was quite accepting of his new acquaintance in that inimitably unassuming and non-judgmental way that children have. The boys were quite relaxed, sitting well back on the big sofa opposite, huddled together, engrossed in the little handheld device. Their heads were so close together they were almost touching. They were staring into the screen and exchanging spontaneous comments in Russian. It was a lovely scene. I could barely make out the halting, disjointed conversation the two boys were having as they immersed themselves in the game.

"Is that your dad?" I heard Misha ask, still focused on the screen.

"No, he's my lover," said Yura, quite blatantly and provocatively.

"Oh, awesome!" said Misha, as though it was almost inconsequential, and they both giggled.

I was stunned. Stunned not only that Yura could so proudly and innocently describe me as that, but also stunned that Misha seemed so readily accepting of it. Apparently they both thought it was funny. It was almost comical in a quaint kind of way. Sometimes little boys just left me breathless in wonder and astonishment with the things they said.

Nikolayev had now moved on to talking about Operation Ganymede. It had not progressed any further, he explained. The police investigation had stalled and the entire operation was pretty much at a standstill. They were still trying to ascertain what might have happened to Vladik, but still could not positively confirm if he was alive or dead. They were desperately in need of a breakthrough. It was the same old stuff.

"You like pizza?" Misha asked.

"Sure I like pizza," Yura replied.

"We're having a pizza party tomorrow. Wanna come?"

"I'll have to ask," said Yura, his voice betraying doubts about the legitimacy of accepting such an invitation.

"It'll be awesome," said Misha, excited, "I can show you my tree-house."

"Cool!" said Yura.

And on they went. Little boy conversations were so down to earth.

As we concluded our discussions, we all got up simultaneously and stood in a big huddle by the door to say our goodbyes. The embassy guy was first to leave. I had a feeling that wouldn't be the last I would see of him. When Elena left, she went over and gave Yura a big hug. I thought that was a lovely gesture. I think she was genuinely fond of Yura. But then, everybody who met Yura was drawn to him like that. He had natural charisma that was undoubtedly going to make him a very popular young man one day.

"C'mon little buddy," I called out to Yura, "Time to go."

The boys seemed loath to get up, so engrossed were they in the PSP. When they did finally tear themselves away, Misha came over and was tugging at his father's sleeve.

"Dad, can Ivan come to our house for pizza tomorrow? Huh, please dad?"

Nikolayev looked down at Misha's pleading, hopeful expression.

"I guess it would be okay," said Nikolayev.

"You want to go?" I asked Yura.

"Sure," he shrugged.

Nikolayev turned to me.

"That's settled then. Why don't you bring him over in the morning?"

"You sure?" I asked, concerned about the security implications.

Nikolayev nodded confidently.

"He's going to be at my house. What harm can he come to there?"

So it was settled. I had no qualms. Nikolayev was right. Yura would be perfectly safe at his house. Besides, I thought it would be nice for Yura to spend some time with Misha. Misha was such a friendly, easy going and unassuming kid. Best of all, he spoke Russian.

Later in the afternoon, true to my word, I sat by the pool watching Yura having fun. After our visit to HQ that morning Yura just wanted to relax and enjoy himself. Yura had been eyeing up the pool since we arrived, but had not thus far had the opportunity to use it. It was a fine day, certainly warm enough for a swim, so he wasted no time in stripping off into a pair of tight fitting bright red Speedos and spent the afternoon messing about in the water. I smothered his little body with sun cream and let him loose. As I watched Yura from the little wooden bench on the poolside terrace, I could see he really needed to unwind and burn some youthful energy. I admired Yura's expertise in the pool, impressed by his natural affinity with the water as he cavorted around, for the moment all his cares forgotten. I loved the way those wet Speedos clung tightly to him, accentuating the muscles in his perfect boy butt, and the sweet little bulge of his crotch.

As I watched, I contemplated the implications of my discussions with Nikolayev and Elena at HQ earlier. The conclusion of it all was that Yura's abductors still remained at large, and the Moscow police were no nearer to arresting anyone. Yura's situation was still in a state of limbo, and no one was able to decide conclusively what was going to happen to him. The whereabouts of his friend Vladik were still unknown. I feared, based on my past experience, that in all likelihood, Vladik was probably dead. I looked over at Yura as this thought occurred to me, and I shuddered inwardly at the thought of what fate poor Vladik might have suffered. I only hoped that Yura never got to know about it. It would be another tragedy in the long list of tragedies that had already befallen this poor little boy in his short life.

As I gazed over at him, I saw Yura preparing for a dive. He stood poised on the far side of the pool, steadying himself on the small diving board, his perfect, compact little frame coiled like a spring. With great skill, he jumped up, hopping off the diving board and performed an expert forward somersault, flying through the air in a perfect arc, with all the precision and grace of a leaping panther. He darted into the water with barely a splash. He swam right down near the bottom of the pool, then straight back up, resurfacing unexpectedly with a big splash. With a practiced flick of his head he shook all the water out of his hair and beamed at me.

"Mark, did you see?" he called out, "Did you see what I did?"

"That was great little buddy," I called back.

It was funny how we had already settled into this comfortable routine with each other. In the short time that we had known each other we had built up such a good rapport and I was starting to get used to communicating with him in Russian, although I sometimes spoke to him in English. Yura seemed to be picking it up quite easily and every now and then he would surprise me by coming out with the odd English word or phrase. We seemed to rub along just fine in this strange, disjointed way.

Yura swam to the edge of the pool and lifted himself out, hopping up onto the wet tiles at the poolside, and he padded over to me. He flopped down onto the little wooden chair opposite me, still dripping wet, his hair plastered to his forehead. At that moment the sun caught his skin, and his perfect little body was glistening with droplets of pool water, lending his skin a greasy sheen. He was so alluring when he was wet. He leaned over towards the little metal table between us and picked up the tall glass of juice that was still sitting there unfinished. Raising it to his lips, he took a few long sucks through the bendy straw. His eyes were looking up at me as he was drinking. He was silent, but was clearly contemplating something. I could almost detect the machinations in his head.

"Mark?"

"Hmm?"

"Why did John die?" he asked, with almost empathic curiosity.

I was stunned. The question came completely out of the blue. Instantly I knew that he must have been pondering this in his mind ever since our discussion yesterday when I had shown him John's picture. It was evidence of his deep and thoughtful nature. Not much escaped Yura. As I looked across at him affectionately, I wondered why he wanted to know, flattered that he should even care. But I suspected that he knew John had been a big part of my life, and I was touched that he wanted to hear more about that.

"He died very suddenly, very unexpectedly," I said.

"How old was he?"

"He was forty six," I replied.

Yura looked pained for a moment. He furrowed his eyebrows in that inimitable way of his, showing genuine concern.

"Oh, he wasn't that old," he observed.

"No. He was still in the prime of his life," I said, "Still had everything to live for."

"So why?" Yura asked again.

I looked at him earnestly.

"I don't know little buddy. No one really knows. He just died."

"What happened?"

I took a deep breath, not even sure if I wanted to go into it. I looked about me, as though searching for courage, and I considered whether I really felt like talking about it. But then my gaze settled on Yura, sitting there across from me with that straw stuck between his pursed lips, his azure blue eyes fixed on me expectantly, waiting patiently for my answer. I decided that if he wanted to know I would steel my heart and share it with him. I probably wouldn't have done it for anybody else. So I told him. I told him everything.

As I related the story to Yura, it took me right back. It was almost as if I was back there again, in that beautiful apartment with John, and I remembered exactly what my life was like back then. I remembered how much I was deeply in love with John. I remembered how we would spend every waking moment together. I remembered how I felt like crying with joy every moment I was with him. He was my whole world. Not only did he take me in off the street and give me a home, he taught me to respect myself, educated me and made me into the man I was today.

John had a very modern, well-appointed apartment. It had a fantastic view over the bay, and even a wooden deck overlooking the beach. He was quite well off. Not tremendously rich, but quite comfortable. He was a writer, so he spent most of the time in his study, with its full length windows that afforded an enviable view of the bay. The sunsets over the bay were beautiful. You would never tire of watching them. I'm sure that view gave him plenty of inspiration. John wrote novels and plays, even some poetry. He was well known as being one of the foremost gay writers of his generation. His work was groundbreaking in some ways. Gay literature had only just become established then, and it was people like John who helped to make it into a recognizable genre in its own right. His first bestselling novel was A Funny Kind of Love, a feel-good romantic comedy that was extremely funny. It was very well received by the critics. Probably his greatest work was The Glory of O, which John considered to be his magnum opus. That was not so well received by the critics, probably because a lot of them didn't understand it. It was such a complex, thought-provoking book, I think it went well over their heads. They didn't understand a book that was devoted to celebrating gay sex and, in particular, the male orgasm. It surprised me that so many people couldn't work out what the O stood for. But it didn't matter. John was so well established by then that the critics were irrelevant.

John was a well known, popular, gregarious man, with lots of friends. There were always people coming over to the apartment, not only people from the literary world, but also prominent personalities from the social circles he mixed with. I remember at first how overwhelming this was for me, being a twelve year old boy he had just rescued from the street, as ignorant and naive as I could possibly be. All I had known was filth and deprivation. I was a worthless bum boy who people used and then discarded. Suddenly here I was in this cosseted world of finery and money, mingling with the social elite, consorting with the educated, moneyed intelligentsia.

Gradually, I got used to this wonderful new world that John introduced me to. For the first time in my life I felt special. I was wanted and made to feel valued and loved. He treated me like a prince. He would take me to the finest bars and restaurants, where he always invariably met people he knew. Sometimes, out in public, people recognized him. We would also receive many invitations to places like galleries and exhibitions and, because he was well known, we sometimes attended award ceremonies and charity dinners. We would also go on the most extravagant vacations. We travelled all over, Europe, Mexico, the far east. John also liked to have people over to the apartment when we were not going out. His parties were always well attended and had a reputation for being slightly risqué and outrageous. He took me with him everywhere, showing me off to his friends, who treated me with politeness and respect, and sometimes more than a little envy. They flirted with me and complimented me, and John took it all in his stride. He was never a jealous man, and very secure in his relationship with me. At first I was introduced as his nephew. It was safer for people to think that we were related. You couldn't be too careful. There were a few select friends he had, the few that he could trust and were of similar ilk, who knew that we were really lovers.

John sent me to school, and later on to college. He watched me grow up from that skinny little kid he picked up off the restroom floor to a tall, handsome, well adjusted young man. He became a father figure in the sense that he always had time for me. He talked to me, was always willing to discuss my deepest fears and insecurities and I knew I could talk to him about anything. John was one of those rare people that you knew would always be there for you. He was such a giving man. That's why he was known as Big John. He was a big man with a big heart. He was generous, kind and affectionate. Not just to me, but to all his friends. He never refused a favor if it was within his remit, and was always first to lend a hand when anybody needed help.

John and I were very close. At night we made love. In the morning we shared a leisurely breakfast. Sometimes we would take an early morning walk and go down to the beachfront café, or go for a run, jogging together along the shoreline. He got me into the habit of running with him, and regularly exercising. He also trained me in holistic massage, and was a great believer in alternative therapies and a healthy lifestyle. He taught me how to cook and, perhaps more importantly, how to mix cocktails. I always prepared drinks for him and his friends when he was entertaining. He taught me some of the simpler things too, like bowling, ice skating and even how to play pool. He taught me how to appreciate art and literature and music and, like any devoted father, he bought me my first car and he proudly applauded me at my graduation. Coincidentally, he even encouraged my interest in foreign languages, and I can still remember the day I told him I had decided I wanted to learn Russian. I could tell immediately that he thought it was a terrible idea, but John being John never discouraged me from anything. There was not one occasion when he told me I couldn't or shouldn't do something. That was very unique about John: no matter what hare-brained idea I concocted, he always supported me. I'm sure he knew a lot of my ideas were doomed to failure, but like a doting father he let me make – and learn from – my own mistakes. That must have been one of the most difficult things for any parent to do. John was just about the most complete human being you could ever hope to meet.

What a lot of people didn't know about John is that he did a lot for charity too. He gave a lot of money to various charities, anonymously of course. But few people were aware that he was the inspiration behind Boyscape. Boyscape had been entirely John's brainchild. It was a charity he wanted to set up to help street boys like me. It had been a longstanding ambition of his ever since the day he found me on the floor of that restroom. He always talked of doing it. I can remember when he was sitting in his study one afternoon, deciding that he was going to do this, and pondering over a name that was memorable, and also encapsulated what he was trying to achieve. That was when he came up with Boyscape. It was an amalgamation of 'boys' and 'escape', denoting a refuge for homeless, disenfranchised and abused boys, somewhere they could go to find sanctuary. It also suggested a scenario that was exclusively boy oriented. To me, it suggested something altogether more romantic, like a scene that was boy dominated, a landscape of boys. Boyscape was a good name. It worked on so many different levels, and most of all, it was memorable and cutting-edge. Of course, it was through Boyscape that I became involved in working with those street boys. We set up the refuge, hired staff, and I helped John run it. It became our vocation for the last few years of his life. By then I was twenty one. John had seen me through my college years and had set me on a good path. He made me the best I could ever hope to be.

Sometimes the little world that John and I inhabited was a little insular. He was very much a creature of habit. He had a regular routine, which I automatically slotted into, and we passed the days in his apartment wrapped up in our own star-struck little affair – as though we were acting out the scenes of one of his plays – the main protagonists in the story of our own lives. During the day I left him to his writing. Occasionally we played tennis in the afternoons, or we would deign to leave the apartment to go swimming in the ocean. A few times, when the beach was quiet, we made love in the sand. Sometimes we would cuddle up together in the afternoon and make love on his big bed. Afterwards, I would give him one of my special massages. Every now and then we would light up a joint – his friends were always bringing the stuff in for us. We would lie on top of the bed naked, passing the joint between us, and in between the fits of giggles and pangs of hunger was the inevitable horniness that they induced. The sex was incredible.

On top of that, sometimes we also sniffed poppers. John loved poppers during sex. There was nothing better than laying on his big bed in the early evening, watching the sun go down over the bay through the full length windows. We would make love endlessly, fucking in every conceivable position, and take a big hit of poppers for the finale. John and I were so attuned to each other, like our bodies were inexplicably linked, and we would always cum together. Cumming together after a big hit of poppers was the ultimate. It made the whole experience almost transcendental.

It was just such a day that, as per our usual routine, we had a particularly arduous lovemaking session, fucking in the most feverish and uncompromising way, and we were exhausted. I had just opened a fresh bottle of poppers and we both took a big hit each. When we were cumming, the high in my brain was so intense it was like fireworks going off in all different colors, whizzing away in all directions, popping and cracking in my ears. Not only did it feel like I had just gushed a whole fountain of cum, it seemed to go on for about five whole minutes. At the end of it, John was breathing real hard. It had been a particularly intense bout for both of us. When the haze in our brains started to clear, we both collapsed together in laughter. Then, after he had calmed down a little, and we were both breathing a little easier, we kind of snuggled up, giggling like children. And as we came down from our high, we lay sweaty and exhausted in each other's arms and watched the sunset together. We stared for ages at the big lemon-yellow sun slowly sinking into the ocean, disappearing over the horizon, creating a glowing crimson and orange fire in the sky, the dying embers of a summer's day.

We laid there for so long, we became shrouded in darkness. The sun had almost completely disappeared. Night was closing in and the room was in shadow. I thought I had better get up and start dinner. I glanced over at John. He had fallen asleep. I thought I would leave him to nap while I got dinner ready. About an hour later, I fixed him his usual rum and coke, just the way he liked it, with plenty of ice, and took it in to him, setting it down on the dresser opposite the bed. Like I said, John was very much a creature of habit. He liked a rum and Diet Coke and always watched the evening news before dinner. I switched on the little TV that was on the dresser and turned it towards him.

"Hey John," I called out, "Come on get up, it's wrist-slitting time."

He was always complaining about how depressing the news was, and I liked making jokes about that.

John didn't move. I thought he must have been very deeply asleep, so I called out to him again.

"Hey John, come on wake up, it's nearly time for dinner."

He didn't move. I called out to him a couple more times.

"John."

No answer.

"Hey John."

I went over to him. I put the bedside lamp on. It was funny, I thought, that he was still in the same position as when I left him. He looked so peaceful, I wondered if I should just leave him. Then I put a hand on his arm to jiggle him and realized his skin had turned cool. It was at that point I knew John had left me. I knew straight away that John was gone. All I could think of was that it had hardly been an hour since we had lain on the bed giggling. Hardly an hour since we watched that last sunset together… and John was already gone.

As the vision faded and my words trailed off, I focused on here and now, finding myself sitting by the pool with Yura. He looked worried. He had been listening to my story and his eyes were welling up with tears. He looked on the verge of crying.

"C'mere little buddy," I said, holding up an arm in readiness for a hug.

He dashed across to me and joined me on the bench. I extended an arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer. He threw himself across me and hugged me tightly. He buried his wet little head in the side of my neck, his thin arms wrapped around me. I held firmly onto his damp little body, comforting him and myself at the same time. Yura was such a sensitive, emotional little boy, and at this moment I could tell he really felt for me. As was his usual way, he didn't say anything, just stayed huddled against me silently, experiencing the moment with me. I could hear him elicit a couple of little sniffs, so great was his sympathy for me.

"It's okay little buddy," I said, rubbing his body warmly.

It was odd, I thought, as I sat there with Yura in my arms. It was a strangely familiar situation, except with a disorientating reversal of roles: it felt like history was repeating itself, except now I was in the role of John, playing the older mentor, and Yura could almost have been me, the younger acolyte who was now being nurtured and comforted. But even as I sat there, with this lovely little boy in my arms, I once again gasped inwardly in wonder at this amazing little boy who was making such an impact on me. Once again, I felt that unique bond between us. Once again, it was another perfect boymoment.

Yura was very quiet as he held onto me. The sun was starting to dry the droplets of water on his perfect skin. After a while, he lifted his head and looked up at me as he was huddled in my arms. I looked down at him, peering deeply into his crystal blue eyes, still wet from the pool, so that his long seductive eyelashes were clumped together, and he spoke very quietly.

"Mark?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm sorry that John died."

I was deeply touched by that.

"Thanks little buddy."

I hugged him tighter and closer, and we stayed wrapped up like that for a good long while, drawing out this special little boymoment as long as possible. Then after a few moments, he spoke again, this time betraying the fact that he had obviously been thinking deeply about his own future.

"Mark?"

"Hmm?"

He loosened himself from my embrace and raised himself up, placing a solitary little kiss on my forehead, just as he had seen Nikolayev do with Misha earlier. Coming from Yura, it was such a mature, affectionate gesture, almost as though he was the parent and I the child.

He settled himself back into my embrace, closing his eyes and pulling my arms about him even tighter.

"I love you Mark," he said, almost in a whisper, "I wish I could stay with you forever."

When I dropped Yura at Nikolayev's house the following morning, it was the first time I had been separated from him since the day we met. It was difficult to believe that we had been together almost every hour of every day since the moment I picked him up from the airport. And now, even at night he was sharing my bed. Last night, he had tired himself out from swimming in the pool. He had used up so much energy that by the time early evening came around, he was exhausted. He actually fell asleep on the sofa in front of the TV. I almost felt like his father when I scooped him up in my arms and lifted him from the sofa to put him to bed. His arms hung down floppily and his little mouth was ever so slightly open as I carried him, unconscious, up the stairs. There is something beautiful and mysterious in watching a little boy sleeping. At times like that, when I observed him sleeping soundly, his eyes innocently closed, his face peaceful and expressionless, it was as though he could have been any ten year old boy. Not the ten year old boy that had been through so much and had all those problems bearing down on him, but a ten year old boy sleeping contentedly, without a care in the world. I put him into my bed and tucked him in, leaving the lights on low, and slipped out onto the terrace for a smoke before I joined him. He slept peacefully all night long. There was no bedwetting, no nightmares and he certainly had no trouble sleeping. It was as though sleeping in my bed had banished his fears and insecurities overnight. At some point during the night he must have turned and attached himself to me, because when I awoke he was turned towards me, his face nuzzled against my arm, and he had one hand placed ever so lightly on my stomach. But he was still asleep, and I think he must have slept better than he had in months. It was as though, even while unconscious, he knew he was protected and with someone who genuinely loved and cared for him. He knew he was safe now.

So it was with a strange feeling of trepidation that I dropped Yura off at Nikolayev's house. He was excited about going over to play with Misha. The company of other children was something he had missed out on a great deal – at any rate the company of other children who were not overtly sexualized like the other boys he had been incarcerated with. Misha would be a good counterpoint to the kind of cock and ass play Yura was used to. He needed that normality. I only hoped he would be able to relax and feel comfortable with Misha.

Nikolayev's house was a big pseudo-Italian type villa, one of a number in a secure compound way over the other side of town, in one of the more affluent neighborhoods. Many of the houses round about were occupied by families with credentials more or less equal to his. They were obviously accomplished, moneyed and successful. It was an exclusive community, and it was apparent from the moment we pulled up at the big iron gates and had to be buzzed inside. The grounds were lush and green and well manicured, with automatic sprinklers and beds of carefully tended shrubs and neatly trimmed hedgerows. The houses were all two or three storeys high, with wide driveways and arched doorways and three-car garages. Some of them had windows so high, it was easy to peer inside and snatch a glimpse of the opulence within.

It was a Hispanic woman that answered the door, followed shortly by Nikolayev and Misha. I exchanged a few polite words with Nikolayev at the door, but declined his invitation to step inside. The Hispanic woman withdrew and left Misha languishing in the doorway. He was dressed only in a pair of loose swimming shorts, already prepared for a day of playing in the pool. He beamed at Yura getting out of the car and appeared so excitable that he was literally hopping from one foot to the other. His swimming shorts looked a bit baggy on him and seemed to make him look smaller than he actually was. But he was still bone dry, evidently not having been into the pool yet. I noticed how he had really clear bronzed skin on his arms and legs and chest. He had quite a lean, taut little body. His bare little boy feet were as brown as the rest of him and when he was standing still they had a tendency to point inwards ever so slightly, giving him an air of cute vulnerability. He was a very attractive little boy. I handed Nikolayev a backpack with Yura's things in it: There was some sun cream along with his Speedos and a change of clothing. I bade goodbye to Yura with an almost subconscious pat on his rump as he scampered inside, and he hopped up the steps and into the house without looking back.

As I turned and got back into the car, I wondered if this was what it felt like to deliver your child for their first day at school. I was happy for Yura, but sad for myself. Yura had so utterly filled my thoughts and deeds over the past few days, an eerie loneliness suddenly pervaded my emotions, and as I drove away from Nikolayev's house, the big iron gates shut emphatically behind me with an unsympathetic clang.

I decided to go to my favorite bar. I had nothing else to do, and finding myself suddenly feeling pretty out of sorts, I naturally gravitated towards my old haunts. The truth is I rarely drank these days. In fact, since John's death I had studiously avoided alcohol. I wondered if it was more than a coincidence that I found myself heading for one of the very places that I used to frequent with John. John was very much uppermost in my thoughts since I related the story to Yura yesterday. Of course, what I hadn't told him was how John's death had affected me. Naturally, it hit me very hard. I damn near went off the rails after John died. When there was no longer anybody there to guide me, I was lost in hopelessness and despair. Yes I drank. I drank a lot after John died. I sank into an endless downward spiral of black, blinding grief that threatened to totally consume me. I drank to ease the pain. I sat there night after night obliterating my mind with alcohol. It was all too easy to just let go and allow myself to sink into the mire of a type of morose self-pity that was so profound that it threatened to irrevocably dislodge my fingertips from the cliff of hope and send me tumbling headlong into the abyss of despair. Thankfully, I never looked into that abyss, for if I had, I doubt I would have survived intact. Thankfully, I still had Boyscape. I suppose Boyscape was my salvation. Boyscape gave me something to focus on, and put my circumstances into context. Okay, John was gone. But I had had a good life with him. I was lucky to have known him. I was lucky to have known real love and to have had the benefit of his nurturing and guidance. I wasn't going to throw that away. I knew I had to set aside my grief because it was nothing compared to the problems of the poor boys who turned up at the refuge every day looking dazed and bedraggled. Their lives were chaotic and disjointed and characterized by violence and abuse. I knew that I could make a difference. Perhaps I drew strength from that, and I was bolstered by the certain knowledge that there were boys there who needed me, boys whose very lives depended on me.

The bar was pretty deserted when I walked in. A place that was usually buzzing with activity in the evening, had that sad, washed out, depressing look to it at this time of day. The sunlight was streaming in through the windows, accentuating the dusty, almost fetid atmosphere of the cavernous room. The bare wooden floor, and the unpolished wooden tables dotted about the place looked lonely and uninviting. There were various arcade games flashing away unappealingly in the corner, and there was a juke box playing in the background, seemingly for nobody in particular. I stepped up to the bar.

"What can I get you?" the bartender asked, in a husky voice, busily polishing a glass as he questioned me.

I ordered a bottle of beer and settled on one of the fixed stools by the L-shaped bar. The bartender put a coaster down and served my beer in a frosted glass. I looked around, incredulous at how little the place had changed. There were two leather guys with beards playing pool over the other side of the room, and one wizened old man sitting in a booth by the window eating chicken wings. Towards the back of the room, two big thick-set guys with pony tails and tattoos were sharing a pitcher of beer. The place had hardly changed at all. Perhaps the clientele was older since I had last been in here, but then so was I. Suddenly the bar depressed me. There was no real attraction to hanging out in such seedy places, so I decided to quickly finish up my beer and go.

I visited the restroom. When I came back to finish my beer I found a paper napkin laying next to my glass. It was a small square of white and had something written on it in blue ink.

The letters were scrawled quite hard into the soft paper, and had been etched into the surface with several passes of the ballpoint. Where had this come from? I looked up and scanned the room quickly. Everything was just as it had been before: the two leather guys playing pool, the old man in the booth, the two big guys with tattoos – no one had moved. I gestured to the bartender.

"Did you see who left this?" I asked him, holding up the little napkin.

He shook his head.

"I was out back," he said.

I dashed over to the door. Whoever had left it could not have gone very far. I flung the door open and raced out into the parking lot, just in time to see a car exit the lot, its brake lights flashing briefly before turning into the flow of traffic and disappearing. It was the silver grey Dodge Trader. Damn! I had just missed it. I stood there squinting into the distant traffic, but the Trader was gone.

I looked again at the napkin, now half crumpled in my fist.

I went back inside and sat down to finish my beer, looking again at the mysterious napkin.

A multitude of questions all battled for recognition in my mind all at once. Of course I knew the Saxon Club. It was a well known gay venue. But there were just too many questions. Obviously whoever had left this message had followed me into the bar. It was eerily uncomfortable to think that they had been watching me and I had been completely unaware. It left me feeling cheated and vulnerable. I wondered if it was significant that they had waited until I was alone. This was the first time I had been out without Yura. Perhaps they had been waiting for this opportunity. Staring at the napkin, I snorted, almost laughing to myself at the ridiculousness of the situation. Whoever they were obviously had a distorted sense of reality, and were clearly fond of playing games. Who they were or what they wanted was a mystery to me. But if there was any way of knowing, I was going to make sure I was at the Saxon Club tomorrow. I got up and headed for the door, stuffing the napkin into my pocket as I left.

It turned colder as the evening approached. It was difficult to believe, from looking out of the drawing room windows, that it had been warm enough for Yura to have been swimming and playing outdoors at Nikolayev's house. No matter. We were warm now, content and happy. I drew the blinds and Yura curled up next to me on the sofa as the night was drawing in. We cuddled up together watching some inane sitcom on the big plasma TV, sharing a prolonged boymoment. I was so grateful to have him back. The truth is, I had missed him. Even though it was only one day, a matter of a few hours, I missed him terribly. Yura spent the morning with Misha at Nikolayev's house, and I spent the rest of the day languishing around the big empty house on my own feeling miserable and alone. Who could have thought the presence of one little ten year old boy could have such an impact on me?

When I saw Nikolayev's car pull up in the drive, I almost rushed to the door. I threw the door open as Nikolayev was helping Yura out of the back seat. I exchanged a few polite words with Nikolayev, and thanked him. Yura said goodbye to Misha, who was still safely strapped into the back seat, and we waved them off as they drove away. I ushered Yura inside and shut the big heavy front door. There was a brief, slightly nervous pause between us and Yura stood there smiling. I held out my arms. He eagerly filled them. He threw himself onto me with some urgency, and I knew he was glad to be back too.

"I missed you little buddy," I said, muffled against the top of his head.

"I missed you too," he said.

I held him out at arms length and took a good look at him.

"Glad to have you back my little fuckboy," I said with a laugh.

He giggled.

I cannot describe the exquisite pleasure of having this beautiful, sexy, precocious little boy so close to me. This boy who was in awe of me and whom, if I was honest, I absolutely adored. So it was all the more poignant for me, after yesterday when Yura had declared his love for me, that he now wanted to be close to me all the time. In fact, I found that he was suddenly quite insistent at following me about the house, as he had done all evening since his return, wanting to help me. This was particularly apparent in the kitchen earlier when I was preparing dinner for us both, and as I cooked, he sat on one of the high stools and talked excitedly about his day. He told me about Misha's big pool and the big garden and how they played in his tree-house, and about how Misha had just about every games console imaginable. It was so refreshing to hear him talking about ordinary little boy stuff. I knew that at these times he was allowing his natural childishness to surface, for there was never any guarantee that the very next moment he would not be momentarily distracted by some unwanted memory from his past, where he might involuntarily recall some horrible instance of the things that were done to him. I knew how this little boy had suffered, so it was all the more delightful to hear him speaking of the innocent boyish things he had got up to with Misha. I made no mention of my unscheduled visit to the bar earlier. Certainly I did not say anything about the mysterious message on that napkin, which was at that moment still surreptitiously stashed away in the pocket of my jacket.

Now Yura was on the sofa next to me, his top half laying across me, his beautiful bare little boy feet drawn up onto the sofa and his elbow propping him up across my lap. I had an arm along his flank, with my hand resting on his hip. He was freshly out of the shower, warm and smelling of a mildly scented soap. Looking down, I could see his wet hair, still ruffled from the shower, where it stuck up in a little whirl on the top of his pretty little head. He was laying there swaddled in the loose folds of my big toweled bathrobe. It was far too big for him, but he insisted on wearing it. He claimed he never had one of his own and that he liked the idea of wearing something of mine. So I gave it to him. His slight little frame was almost lost in its folds, and the long sleeves flopped over his little hands so that only his fingers were poking out. He cupped an enormous mug of hot chocolate between his hands, from which he took the occasional sip. As he did so, he giggled to himself.

"What?" I asked.

"Fuckboy," he laughed, in his Russian accent, quietly, as though almost talking to himself.

The term had stuck in his mind from when I had uttered it earlier on his return. It was funny when he said it. Evidently it was new to him and he seemed to think it amusing. Or else, he liked the sound of it.

"You're a dirty little fuckboy," I whispered.

He laughed, and said in Russian, "Yeh, fuckboy, that's me." Then he switched modes and stunned me by saying, in almost perfect English, "I like fucking."

Pleased with himself, he looked up at me with a satisfied smile. I smiled back, nodding approvingly. It may have been slightly unorthodox language, but his English was definitely improving.

We were enjoying this random, almost reckless banter. I was discovering that he could be quite engaging when he was relaxed, and was actually quite witty and light-hearted. The change in him had been quite dramatic. It was a stark contrast to the reticence he displayed when he had first arrived, when he had seemed unsettled and ill at ease.

He took another sip of his hot chocolate, and put the mug down on the coffee table to the side of the sofa. He was very mellow and relaxed. He laid down across my lap, so that he was facing up at me, looking thoughtful and content for a few moments. He reached up and placed his little hands on either side of my face, drawing my head down towards him. His palms were hot against my cheeks from where he was holding the mug. I lowered my head and kissed his little mouth. His lips were sugary and tasted of chocolate. As he was laid out across me like that, I slipped a hand into the open front of his bathrobe, and stroked his smooth boy chest, tracing circles around his pink little nipples. He wriggled and purred in contentment. I felt the tangible musculature of his chest and pinched one of his nipples for good measure. He closed his eyes momentarily in appreciation, then went on watching me intently. He was totally relaxed as he laid there, passive and yielding. I felt his clean, silky, flawless skin, taking in the fine ridge down the centre of his chest, all the way down to his tight little abs and the beginnings of a little six pack. His cobalt blue eyes sparkled from the glare of the TV. God, this little boy was so unbelievably beautiful and he had such a perfect body, I doubted I would ever tire of looking at him.

I stripped opened the front of his bathrobe and asked him to take it off. I wanted to feel his body properly and appreciate his beauty once more. He immediately complied. I moved over and he raised himself up. He took off the bathrobe, then laid face down on the sofa completely naked. I loved the way he was so comfortable in his nakedness. His lack of shyness still took my breath away, even now. I admired the curvature of his perfect body, his smooth back and the dip of his waist, the swell of his perfect butt, and the backs of his slender legs. His arms were folded under his head, resting his chin on the back of his hands. I perched on the edge of the sofa and reached over to give his little shoulders a squeeze, as though giving him a massage.

"Hmm, that feels good," he murmured, his eyes closed, "Do it some more."

I massaged away, squeezing the hard little muscles across his shoulders, digging my fingertips into his shoulder blades and all along his upper arms and the base of his beautiful boyish neck.

"You're good at that," he said.

"I'm trained in holistic massage," I reminded him.

"Massage… cooking… fucking… you do everything good," he remarked.

I laughed and carried on, using my strong fingers to really manipulate his muscles, and he was starting to get very relaxed. I continued my ministrations on him, feeling my way from the deltoids in his shoulders, right down his smooth back to where his lats formed a hard ridge at the root of his spine. My big hands encircling his slim little waist, and then down over his perfect little butt, and back up again.

Yura was really into it, and as I had come to expect, became very thoughtful and relaxed. I knew from experience that a really deep massage sometimes had that effect. The TV was babbling away in the background and Yura was very quiet. He laid there silently with his eyes closed for a very long time. But I knew he was awake, and his mind was very active. I waited until he was ready to talk.

"Mark?" he said at last, as my massage was pressing him down into the sofa cushions.

"Hmm?"

"Do you think I'll ever see Vladik again?"

So that's what was on his mind.

"I don't know," I said, "I don't think anyone knows."

"I wish I could see him again," he confessed, "I miss him."

He said it with such longing in his voice, it was clear to me that this boy Vladik held a very special place in his heart.

I continued massaging his perfect little body all over. It was nice to see him so relaxed and mellow. He was thoughtful and introspective, almost comatose. Then, after a good long pause, he broke the silence once more.

"Mark?"

"Hmm?"

"Please fuck me?"

It was a plain, unpretentious request, almost a question. Coming so soon after his thoughts of Vladik, I wondered if sex was just his way of assuaging the hurt he carried with him. Perhaps getting fucked was the only thing that could soothe those painful memories.

I leaned over and whispered against the back of his head as he was lying there.

"You're so fuckin" horny, little buddy."

"Horny little fuckboy," he said, in English. And then with a sad sigh, he reverted back to Russian and said "There's no hope for me."

That seemed an extraordinary thing to say, especially coming from the lips of a ten year old boy. It was so insightful and revealing and I wondered if it was an acknowledgement of how his sexual experiences had affected him. It was statements like that which convinced me he had a maturity way beyond his years.

He turned over on the sofa so that he was facing up and grabbed at my sleeves, looking up at me longingly. His little dick was already hard and pulsing perceptibly in his crotch, sticking straight up, rigid with horniness.

"Do me Mark. I want to feel you inside me."

"God, you're insatiable little buddy," I said, instantly aroused by his plain talking.

"Is that good?" he asked, humorously, obviously unfamiliar with the term.

I smiled, and with that I leaned over and kissed him, resting my big palm over his stiff little boydick, and clasped it tightly. I could feel it burning hot and as hard as wood. Yura took a long deep breath and exhaled with pleasure, closing his eyes.

"Ooh," he sighed, "You're so good to me."

He put an arm around my neck and drew me closer, his tender young lips kissing me softly all around my mouth, and he whispered into my ear.

"Fuck me Mark. Fuck me hard. Make me feel it."

I drew back and looked into his eyes earnestly, disarmed by his forwardness.

"You're really fuckin' special little buddy, you know that?"

He shifted, lifting himself from the sofa and got down on the floor. I moved aside and watched what he was going to do. Kneeling down, he grabbed his little boydick with his fist, pulling his foreskin back quite hard, revealing the soft pink head of his dick, and gave it a good hard tug. A little moan of pain escaped his lips, and he closed his eyes in pleasure. Then he turned, leaning forward onto the seat of the sofa, and presented his sweet little butt to me. He laid his head on the sofa and looked back at me over his shoulder.

"Fuck me Mark. Please fuck me one more time."

I cannot describe the feeling I had at that moment, having this sweet little fuckboy kneeling there in all his beautiful nakedness, literally begging me to fuck him. What strange set of circumstances had conspired to bring about this perfect moment? He was just so adorable, so remarkable, and so special to me. There was nothing I wanted more than to bury my cock firmly into his perfect little preteen body. I was already hard and not about to decline his request. I hurriedly shed my clothes, discarding everything unceremoniously on the floor. Once naked, I scooted up close behind him, running my hands over his back, feeling the smoothness of his flawless skin and appreciating the beauty of his boyishness. His body was burning hot to the touch, and he was almost panting with anticipation. God, that was so sexy. But I made him wait. I leaned over him, planting kisses all over his back. The tip of my cock brushed the smooth skin of his sweet little bubble butt as I did so, and he almost swooned. But he was patient. I kissed his back from between his shoulder blades, all the way down to his butt and I pressed my face into his crack, licking it up and down, relishing his clean boyish scent. He moaned, but didn't move. I parted his smooth little ass cheeks and located his shiny little rosebud. I licked around it, using plenty of saliva, getting it really wet and sloppy, finally tonguing his boyhole with a deep thrust of my tongue. He gasped and jerked his head back in ecstasy.

"Oh fuck!" he cried out plaintively.

"Yeah," I exclaimed, triumphantly, "No one's ever done that to you before, have they?"

I tongued his hole some more, and I could tell he was loving it. Then, licking my fingertips, I slowly massaged two fingers into his crack and felt around for his little boyhole. I pressed into his hole and it yielded easily. I sank my fingers in as far as they would go, feeling the hot, velvety smoothness of the inside of his little chute, and I knew my cock belonged in there. I fucked my fingers into him hard, connecting with his gland, and he winced. He yelped, but didn't protest. I did that two or three times and he yelped each time. God, his little yelps were such a turn-on. I almost wanted to hurt him just so he could go on yelping for me in his high pitched little boy voice. I dug my fingers into his soft, yielding hole as hard and as far as they would go, and, with my fingers still inside him, Yura curled around to look at me, tilting his head to the side.

"Take me Mark," he said, with some urgency, "Take me hard."

And with that he turned around, mustered up a good mouthful of saliva, and spat emphatically onto my cock, looking up at me tauntingly. He was goading me, spurring me on. His hot spit was a real turn-on, and I watched his big glob of saliva spreading and dripping from the end of my big cock. I regarded him with a kind of lust I had never felt before. I had never experienced sex like this. It was as though this kid was taking me onto a whole new level. I reached over and pushed the back of his head, forcing his sweet face back down into the sofa cushions. I lined up my big cock with his little hole, took a firm hold of his slim hips, and fucked it into him with all my strength. I buried my cock all the way into his hole in one swift, almighty thrust. He yelped even louder than before. Slowly, my iron pole of hardness enveloped itself in his yielding softness, and he rocked with me as I tried a few hard thrusts. I fucked him slowly for a good few minutes, and then roughly and mercilessly, barely giving him time to breathe. His hot little body felt so good. Looking down, the sight of my cock disappearing between the cheeks of his perfect little boy butt was exquisite. As I pistoned into him, his narrow little frame seemed barely big enough to accommodate my big cock, which must have been stabbing right up into his abdomen. His hole was obscenely stretched, impaled on my cock. God, what a sight. Then he started with the dirty talk.

"Harder," he begged me, between yelps, "Fuck me harder. Hurt me."

God, this little boy was so into it. He was jerking his head back in ecstasy, and pushing back to meet my thrusts, as usual in perfect synchronization, and letting out little high pitched squeals each time I hit his gland.

We went on like this for a good long while. He was almost breathless from his exertions, panting like a little dog. For me, that was all the more erotic. Eventually it got too much for him. He slowed me down and, as he was apt to do, wanted to change positions. Wordlessly, he let my big cock slip from his hole, and he turned over onto his back. He settled himself comfortably on the rug, his little dick still hard and pointing up insistently like a little flagpole. He raised his knees up to his chest to give me access to his hole, and invited me to resume fucking him. I got into position above him, looking lovingly into those beautiful blue eyes. It was a perfect boymoment. I stared deep into his pupils and I saw something really special in his mysterious cobalt blue eyes: I saw the love and adoration he had for me reflecting right back at me.

"Fuck me, fuck me!" he urged, anxious not to allow the momentum to diminish.

My cock was still wet with spit and precum, and as hard as steel. Lowering myself over his diminutive little body, I took him hard, just the way he liked it. As I did so, I could see the pain and pleasure in his face as he bore the force of my assault.

"Fuck my little ass," he went on, "Fuck it hard."

I gave him a few expert thrusts and his little body shook with the force of my fucking into him, but I had barely resumed our fucking when he stopped me. He pushed his palms flat against my chest, and I stopped, my cock still buried in his ass.

"Mark, fuck my ass as hard as you can."

I pulled away, slightly repelled.

"I don't want to hurt you," I said.

"I can take it," he said, "It's the only thing that makes me feel really alive."

I was stunned – momentarily stopped in my tracks by his statement, with its deeper overtones and implications. Perhaps he really did need rough sex to make him feel good, almost as though he was addicted to it.

"Do it," he barked, "Do it for me."

I already knew there was something of a masochistic element to his fucking. He was always begging me to hurt him, but I had always considered it a manifestation of his bravado, his boyish exuberance. But to ask me to make a concerted effort to deliberately hurt him was new territory for me.

"Please Mark," he pleaded, "I need this."

I was so turned on by this sexy kid, so full of desire for him, I took a deep breath and held my cock just at the opening of his little hole, and I could feel him bracing himself beneath me. I was so anxious to please him, I unleashed the full force of my energy upon him.

This new, forceful and violent fucking that we now embarked on felt almost the extreme opposite of what we had started out doing a short while ago, when he was relaxed and mellow and I was massaging and comforting his little body. But he was enjoying it. He was enjoying this fuck so much that he wriggled his hips as I thrust into him, expertly moving his boyhole around so that my cock was hitting the sides of his chute as I stabbed it into him, and he was feeling the full force of my thrusts. And he took it. He took everything I gave him, bearing my assault with all the bravery and fortitude of an Eagle Scout.

At the same time, I could see that he had worked his hands down to his boycock and had grabbed his little hairless balls in one hand, squeezing his little sac roughly. With the other hand, he squeezed his little boycock and was jacking it furiously. That was so sexy, seeing him pulling his little dick like that with his tiny fist. I slowed down, and gave him a few long thrusts, pulling nearly all the way out and quickly shunting my cock back into him, hard. I was shocked to see there were traces of blood on it.

"God, that's blood!" I gasped, almost absent-mindedly thinking aloud.

I could see Yura focus on my dick as I fucked it in and out of him, and his eyes widened. It was blood alright. I must have torn the lining of his little chute and my cock was smeared with ripples of bright red blood mixed in with all the precum and slime. Seeing that, Yura quickened the pace on his dick. It was the catalyst which finally brought him to a climax. His stare was fixed on my cock as I continued thrusting in and out, and he was gasping "Oh fuck, oh fuck…" as his orgasm was building. From the urgent tone in his voice, he knew it was going to be a big one, and his anticipation was tangible. Finally, another plaintive cry as his orgasm gripped, and his little dick squirted. He continued jacking it and spunked like a little porn star, with a copious amount that I didn't think was possible for a boy his age. He spunked with such force that his boycum went way up into the air, spraying us both. Little jets of his hot little boy cum sprinkled my chest and stomach and there were tiny little droplets of clear boyjuice covering his smooth chest. God it was so beautiful.

I pulled my still hard cock out of his little ass and was amazed by how much blood there was on it. A couple of tiny rivulets of watery reddish slime trickled out of his hole. I reached for a wad of tissues from the box on the coffee table nearby, and wiped his hole and my dick. Momentarily dazed by his cum, Yura laid on the floor beneath me breathless, his little chest heaving rapidly. He was shiny with sweat, and it was running from his temples and forehead. That was one of the things I really loved about him. He felt his orgasms so intensely that it took him a few moments to recover. In those moments he seemed innocently intoxicated by the feelings induced by his own body. It was so sweet.

With his little boy spunk still wet on both of us, I wiped all the reddish slime off my cock with the tissues and continued jacking it. My cock was rigid with desire and my own cum was now extremely overdue. Yura sat up, evidently having recovered sufficiently, and started licking the head of my cock as I jacked it, especially the super sensitive frenulum underneath. His hot little tongue worked all the way down the shaft of my cock to the root, even licking my balls for good measure. He must have known what the most sensitive areas were. God, his little tongue was superb. Watching his little mouth gliding so expertly over my cock and balls provided the last essential stimulus I needed to take me over the edge. It was way too sexy. The urgency to cum overtook me. I just knew I had to spunk his little face. Still jacking my cock with a strong, rhythmic movement, I rose up on my knees and he instantly knew what to do. He positioned his beautiful little face just beneath the tip of my cock with his little mouth slightly open. His little tongue was poking out at a point, the hot, wet tip barely touching the head of my cock. He did everything right. It was almost as though he knew exactly what to do. The sight of his pretty little face just there, that pink little tongue, that sweet little mouth… I exploded all over them, letting out an urgent gasp, feeling the extreme pleasure of it even before my orgasm arrived. It was so intense, as were all my orgasms with him, that I nearly collapsed with the force of my ejaculation. My cock spasmed violently and I squirted out several good strong blasts of cum, streaking his little face, lashing his cheeks, nose and eyelids. I could see my cum falling into his open mouth. His little tongue worked to catch as much of my cum as he could. Even as I squeezed the last drops from the tip of my cock into his mouth, he was using his little fingers to push as much of my cum as possible into his mouth, and held it there. Instead of swallowing it all, he pursed his lips, pouting and showing me how much spunk he was holding in his mouth, and I saw it frothing and bubbling on his tongue. And then, in one big gulp, he swallowed, and it was gone. He even wiped his lips with the back of his hand. God, he was such a little spunkboy.

My urgency now relieved, and feeling satisfied, I was able to relax and enjoy the afterglow of that fantastic cum. Leaning back against the sofa, I sat down on the floor next to him, both of us naked and exhausted and still covered in his boycum. He still had some of my cum drying on his face. Yura leaned over me, his little head moving over my chest, and started to suck his own cum off my skin. For better access, he got astride me, sitting on my lap, facing me, and I could feel his hot little tongue lapping my chest and abs like a little puppy dog, licking up every drop of his own cum. I watched him lovingly. As I did so, he raised himself up, planting his little mouth over mine and fed me his own cum, his hot little tongue squeezing it through his pursed lips into my mouth. I sucked in his sweet boyspunk with relish and swallowed it all, even licking my lips. God, it was so erotic.

His work now done, Yura fell onto me as we kissed, and sitting there naked on the floor, I hugged him in my arms. His hot, naked little body was kneeling astride me, and I could feel the hot wetness of his little boycunt, still leaking traces of blood and slime, and the boyspunk on his skin now smeared all over me. His chin rested on my shoulder and he was still a little groggy and distant.

"Thank you Mark," he said.

He was always thanking me. He was such a dirty, filthy little spunkboy, but his manners were impeccable.

"Did I hurt you?" I asked, solicitously, feeling slightly remorseful.

"I'll be okay," he said, reassuringly.

"God, you can really take it little buddy," I remarked, genuinely impressed, "I've never known anyone take cock the way you do."

"I learned that in the children's home," he said laconically, "I've been taking cock since I was six years old remember, some even bigger than yours."

I couldn't see his face, but somehow I knew he said it with a smirk. I laughed at his boyish boastfulness. He was so endearingly cocksure and self-confident. He giggled, perhaps realizing the humor in what he had just said.

"You're such a sweet little fuckboy," I exclaimed, kissing his forehead, which tasted salty with little boy sweat.

He hugged me tightly, lovingly, his little arms gripping me with real affection, and I could feel his warm hands stroking my back. It was another perfect boymoment.

"You're really amazing little buddy, you know that?"

"Really?"

"Oh yes," I said, "And you know what else?"

He waited, resting his head on my shoulder, his hands still rubbing my back.

"I think I'm falling in love with you little buddy."

There. I said it.

He raised his head, holding onto my shoulders at arms length, and looked me straight in the face, smiling. His happiness was tangible, as though he had been waiting for me to say just that.

"Do you really mean that?"

"Oh yes," I said, nodding affirmatively, "You're really fuckin' special to me."

I heard a voice behind me.

"Mark?"

I turned around and saw a face that was unthreatening, curious, even friendly. He was wearing a pair of round, wire-rimmed spectacles which, close up, you could see had tiny grains of dust on them.

"Yes," I said.

"Anton," he said, holding out a hand.

It was a friendly gesture, so I shook his hand. He was a slim, lean young man, perhaps nineteen or twenty years old, and he looked a bit scruffy and disheveled. But despite his outwardly shabby appearance, his hand was warm and pliant and his handshake was firm and sincere.

"How do you know my name?" I asked him.

"I know all about you," he said cryptically, "But that's not important. What's important is what I have to tell you."

Although his English was perfect, I detected a hint of Russian accent. Not strong, barely distinguishable, but it was there.

"Okay," I said, "I'm listening."

So he sat down in the deep armchair opposite me, and we started talking. And that was how Anton introduced himself at the Saxon Club. In truth, it was a fairly low-key introduction which did not expound the mystique and intrigue that was suggested by the cryptic note he had left scrawled on that napkin.

In the event, it had been something of a struggle to get to the Saxon Club on time, but I managed it. By sheer coincidence Yura had his first appointment with the child psychotherapist that afternoon, and for security reasons it was decided that this session would take place at HQ. I opted to drop him off at two thirty, which would give me enough time to drive across town to the Saxon Club for my furtive rendezvous at three o'clock. I was quiet and not very talkative in the car on the way to HQ. So was Yura, though for an entirely different reason. I was keyed up about my rendezvous. He was not looking forward to his session with the therapist. I already knew he reserved a subtle kind of contempt for psychotherapists, judging by the lack of confidence in them which he had alluded to in our previous conversations. But it was not negotiable. He was obliged to go. So, I dropped him off at HQ and climbed straight back into the car to head over to the Saxon Club.

The Saxon Club was one of those places that was busy at all hours of the day or night. There was a pub-type bar in the basement which was tasteful, but had a slightly subterranean feel to it, I guess because there were no windows. I decided to wait in the slightly more salubrious cocktail bar on the first floor, not only because it was more conducive, with its polished chrome and smoked glass decor, but because I guessed it would be easier to meet whomever it was that I was supposed to be meeting. It was funny, I thought, that despite taking a table directly opposite the door, and studiously watching everyone who came into the club, Anton still approached me from behind and I never saw him come in.

As Anton sat down across the low table, and we started talking, I reverted to my old police officer's instinct and studied his demeanor. He looked genuine enough. He was relaxed and open, and I decided I could trust him. Underneath those round spectacles, he had an oval face, with a neat, narrow nose and big, bright, hazel eyes. His shaggy, mousy-colored hair was long and brushing his shoulders. There was a sparse coating of lightly-colored soft young stubble on his jaw. On his head was crammed a woolly cap, which he had pulled down over the tops of his ears. His corduroy jacket was worn and crumpled, and looked like it had never been pressed. Looking at his body language, he seemed very approachable, certainly not shifty or defensive. There was something very appealing about the way he draped his lean body over that armchair as he sat down. He was fully clothed, but the bits of his body that did show were strangely alluring. I studied the open neck of his shirt, and I could see the young skin where the tendons met in a little V-shape at the base of his neck. His hands and wrists were smooth and hairless, and his fingers had a graceful dexterity to them. One thing was for sure: beneath that long hair and woolly cap, under those shabby clothes, spectacles and stubble, was an extremely good looking young man. His face was captivating in the extreme, and his very presence, as he languished there in the armchair, had a strangely magnetic appeal.

"First of all, sorry about the scribbled note yesterday," he began.

I guessed he was referring to the paper napkin.

"Oh that," I said, "I know you've been following me."

"Yeah, sorry about that. I was just getting an idea of where you hung out. Then when you stepped into the restroom yesterday, I saw my chance to leave you a note. The napkin was all I had to hand."

"Why didn't you just talk to me there?"

"I didn't want to approach you just like that. I knew that if you were willing, you'd meet me. But I wanted it to be your choice. I didn't know if you'd come, but I'm glad you did."

It was plausible, I decided.

"You must be wondering why all the cloak and dagger stuff?" he went on, looking at me a little sheepishly.

He had obviously given some thought to how he was going to handle this meeting.

"Just a bit," I said.

He took a deep breath, and put his hands together, forming a little bridge with his fingertips.

"It's about Yura."

"How do you know his name?" I asked, shocked.

"I knew Yura back in Moscow."

He leaned forward, looking about him nervously, then he fixed me with an intense stare. He rested with his elbows on his knees.

"I can trust you right Mark?"

"Is it in Yura's interest?"

He nodded.

"Yes, I think it is."

"Then you can trust me," I replied.

He took another deep breath and readdressed his stare.

"I was in those videos," he said.

"The porn videos?"

"Yes. I was one of the older boys that sometimes played with the younger ones."

I looked at him for a prolonged moment, trying to remember if I recognized him from the videos. I couldn't. But I knew one thing: his good looks certainly bore testimony to his claim. As I have already said, all the boys in those videos were exceptionally pretty.

"I've known Yura since he was six years old. We were at the children's home together. I was thirteen at the time."

"How old are you now?" I asked.

"I'm eighteen."

God, he was younger than I thought.

"I was only in the videos at the beginning. Usually it would be one older boy with two younger boys. Thankfully, I was able to get out before they got too extreme."

He paused, looking up, "I heard what happened to Yura. I'm glad he's okay."

"The other boys weren't so lucky," I added.

He nodded sadly.

"So how can I help?" I asked him, anxious to bring things to a conclusion.

"It's more about how I can help you really," he said, "Can I show you something?"

"Sure, what?"

"Come with me. I'll explain everything."

So, after finally meeting the mysterious Anton, and acceding to his suggestion that we should go somewhere to talk, I left the Constellation in the parking lot and rode with him in the now familiar Dodge Trader, over to his apartment. It was only a short drive away. It was odd, I thought, that this was the same car that had followed us on the freeway, and suddenly I found myself in it. On the way, I looked about the interior of the car and saw how messy it was. There were old takeout cartons and empty drinks containers rolling around in the footwell, with the straw still inserted into the lid, as well as little scraps of paper, old store receipts, candy wrappers and what looked like bits of used chewing gum. As well as checking out his car, I studied this enigmatic young man. I was apprehensive, but not scared. I guess I was slightly more perturbed wondering about the possible nature of what it was he had to show me. But I sat patiently in the passenger seat, and let him drive us over to his apartment, curious to see what he had in store for me.

Anton's apartment was more of a studio room, with living, dining and sleeping areas all combined. It was squalid and messy. As soon as we entered I could see that the bed in the far corner was rumpled and unmade. There were dirty clothes on the floor. The carpet looked oily and covered in fluff and was adorned in places with some sickly looking stains. Just about every surface was covered with some kind of abandoned or forgotten object. There was a dining table by the window with dirty mugs and plates with remnants of food on them. The sofa was worn out and torn in places, where the stuffing was hanging out. There was an open pizza box sitting on it, with the crusts of a left-over pizza. It was impossible to tell how long that had been there. Next to it were discarded candy wrappers, empty soda cans, and some unwanted take-out cartons from a long-forgotten Chinese meal. On the coffee table was a pile of old newspapers that had started to turn yellow, and there was even an ashtray that was piled so high with ash and cigarette butts it looked like it had never been emptied. Everything was coated in a thin film of dust. On top of that, the whole room was dark, mainly because the curtains were still drawn, and the sunlight barely penetrated, giving the whole place a musty, stagnant air.

"Come in," said Anton, leading the way, leaving me to shut the door.

He made no apologies for the state of the place. In fact he seemed oblivious to it. I wondered how long he had lived like this.

In amongst all this squalor and filth there was one single feature in the room that looked shiny and new – a gleaming silver computer with a large LCD screen that dominated a big trestle work table in the corner. It was quietly humming away in the background, still switched on, with little blue and amber LEDs lit up on the fascia.

"I would offer you a coffee," he said, "but I don't think I have any."

Just as well, I thought.

He went over to the computer, taking off his matted jacket and slinging it over the back of the sofa as he went.

"Come here," he said, beckoning me closer, and proceeded to pull up a moth-eaten chair, sweeping off the papers and other debris from it for me to sit down.

He leaned over towards the screen and touched the mouse, cancelling the screen saver, and he opened up his internet browser.

"Look at this," he said, pulling up his swivel chair next to me, and we both stared into the screen.

I watched Anton type in some obscure URL and up onto the screen flashed what appeared to be some kind of discussion board. It was called The Yura Fan Club and seemed to be a networking site, a forum devoted entirely to Yura. With a few clicks of the mouse Anton had opened up a whole series of pictures which he scrolled through with the arrow keys on the keyboard, pausing for a few seconds on each one to let me take it in.

I gasped and grimaced in horror and shock. All the pictures were of Yura. Clearly they had been taken at the same time as the videos – the locations were easily recognizable, and so were the other boys who appeared in the pictures with him. They showed him in all kinds of compromising and suggestive poses. He was variously pictured either with his legs spread open, or his ass up in the air, or with some object inserted into his boyhole. In some he was playing with his hard boydick, with his head thrown back. In others he was sucking cock, his lips impossibly stretched around some enormous adult organ. Others showed him being fucked, either by other boys or men. In some of those pictures he looked positively out of it, with his eyes half closed and an expression of dazed disorientation. He looked drugged. In other pictures he was bound, blindfolded and gagged. There was a particularly repellant series where he was being pissed on, with two robust streams of yellow piss being directed at his face and crotch. In yet others, he had visible signs of injuries. For example, in one particular picture he looked like he had a split lip, a cut on his cheekbone and a black eye, and yet, despite his injuries, there was some fat cock ejecting a copious load of thick spunk onto his already abused face.

I turned away, unable to view any more.

"That's enough," I said, disgusted.

Anton was staring at me intensely, perhaps anticipating my reaction, perhaps perversely pleased by it, I couldn't tell.

"There's more," Anton said, and he pulled himself closer to the keyboard.

He went to the discussion pages and clicked on one of the threads posted by the members. He waited while I read what they were saying: things like 'would luv to cum on him' and 'imagine sucking his lil cock' and 'bet Yura is a good fuck' and things like that.

"What is all this?" I gasped, incredulous.

Anton looked at me with a serious, almost manic grin.

"You mean you're not aware that Yura has a big following on the internet?"

"I knew his pictures were out there," I conceded, "But I never expected anything like this."

"Why not. He's a good looking boy isn't he?"

"But.. this is almost bordering on obsessive," I said, "It's creepy."

Anton huffed.

"Are you telling me you haven't tapped his little pussy?" he said, critically.

"What would you know?" I retorted, with a flash of annoyance.

"I know Yura," he replied, suavely, "he's probably in your bed every night begging you to ride him hard. Am I right?"

I was stunned, but at the same time I resisted the impulse to laugh. His postulation was frighteningly accurate.

"I am aren't I? He's probably begging you to hurt him and giving you all that dirty talk. That kid is obsessed with sex. He's addicted."

His observations were spot on. Indeed, I had reached the same conclusions myself. But I elected not to comment.

"What makes you think I'm into all that?"

"I've done my research. I know all about you," he said, smugly, "I know you have a weakness for little boys."

"How do you know?" I challenged him.

"I know all about you and Boyscape. I've spoken to some of the boys you were involved with. And I know John Bergman was your sugar daddy."

Sugar daddy? I had never heard him described like that before.

"That was years ago," I scoffed.

"Still," he said, "I had to know who I was dealing with before approaching you."

"You mean you've found out all this on your own?"

"Forgive me for wanting to be careful," he said, "But you're a police officer. I had to know if I could trust you."

"And can you?" I asked him, sitting back.

He cocked his head, considering my question, and taking in my presence as I sat before him.

"Yes, but I think you're taking a risk too."

He readdressed his stare and took a deep breath.

"I've been following Yura's story for a long time. I've been tracking what's being said on the internet, and I know all about Operation Ganymede. What I've learned is that there is a whole bunch of people out there who are interested in Yura. Some are just lonely guys who like to fantasize, and some are interested in hunting him down for real."

This guy was good. He looked like a naïve, inexperienced amateur, like a kid who was out of his depth, but boy, he had done his homework. I stared at this strange young man who I had only just met and wondered why he was telling me all this.

"Okay," I said, "But you didn't bring me here just to reminisce and show me pictures, did you?"

He shifted slightly in his seat and swiveled a little from side to side, a sure sign of apprehension. He looked down at the floor and took a few moments, as though preparing for something that was going to require some effort.

"I think I've found Yura's father," he said, looking up.

"He doesn't have a father," I replied.

"Yes, he does," said Anton, clearly and distinctly, "he just doesn't know it yet."

I stared at Anton, stunned.

"Are you sure?"

He nodded slowly, steeling his jaw affirmatively.

"I haven't met him, but I've been in contact with him. I have a picture. Of course it may be a fluke, but when you see his eyes..."

"Of course, those eyes," I concurred, knowing exactly what he meant.

"I've checked him out. Everything fits. I think he's genuine. I just wanted you to know. And of course I want Yura to know."

"Of course," I said again.

I stared down at the floor, realizing that this revelation, if it was true, changed everything. If Yura's father really was out there, it would be a profound development in Yura's life. A strange mixture of emotions suddenly welled up deep within me. I was happy for Yura, especially when I recalled the way he had said 'I never had a father" in that doleful, regretful way of his. Perhaps his father appearing might redress some of the deprivation he felt. But at the same time, this joy was mingled with a feeling of sadness and despair. I guess there was a selfish element to my thinking. This was a seminal moment. I remember it because it may have been the very first moment I was confronted by the possibility that this might signify the beginning of the end of my time with Yura. It only made more tangible the realization that the day would soon come that Yura would no longer be in my life. The way I felt for Yura at this moment, I wasn't sure if I could ever face that day.

"Why didn't you just go straight to the police?" I asked him.

He raised his eyebrows and stabbed a finger at the bridge of his nose, pushing his spectacles back up.

"I was going to. But I didn't want to implicate myself."

"You won't be in trouble," I said, trying to reassure him.

I watched the way he hung his head down and his tone became solemn and regretful.

"I was involved. I was what you might call a procurer – I helped to find boys for the videos. I was like an older brother. I befriended them. They trusted me. Then I helped to abduct them."

"You were manipulated," I said, trying to put his sentiments into context, "You were too young to know any better. You were a victim too."

"No," he said, refuting that, "I betrayed them. I pretended to be their friend, then I abused them, and I helped others to abuse them. I'm sorry for that."

"Is that why you're doing this?" I asked, "To make amends?"

He looked up and his spectacles glinted from the glare of the computer screen. I thought I saw a trace of moisture in his eyes, almost as though his regret had touched off a twinge of sadness that conjured up a little tear. In that instant, what I saw was an insight into this young man's soul. And I could almost correspond with his sorrow – I could empathize with his suffering, in the same way that I recalled my own suffering as an unwashed, directionless street kid that nobody wanted, and I remembered how desolate and alone I felt.

"I'm just trying to do what's right. I want to get myself in order and make a better life for myself."

That was such a bold, optimistic and brave statement, and I admired him for saying it. I looked around at the state of the room and saw how squalid and neglected it was, and I knew that the sheer effort of living day to day was too much for this young man. Perhaps he was going to need a helping hand.

"So what happens now?"

"I'm going to contact Yura's father. I'm going to ask him if he wants to meet Yura. Then I guess we'll have to see how Yura feels about it."

That was a very measured proposal. It made good sense. He seemed to have it all planned out.

"You do realize that if his father is going to make contact with him in any way, the police will have to be involved? The Moscow police are calling the shots here. This is not something we can handle by ourselves."

"I know," he said, "I'm prepared for that. I just wanted you to be the first to know. It was better this way."

"I agree," I said, "And I guess I'm the only one that needs to know at this stage."

He nodded positively, looking reassured.

"So are you gonna keep in touch?" he asked.

"Sure," I said, "but no more scribbled notes okay? Here's my number."

He laughed at my reference to the paper napkin. And with that, I reached into my back pocket and took out one of my calling cards and handed it to him.

"Thanks," he said, slotting it neatly into the breast pocket of his wrinkled shirt.

"Next time, I would like for you to come to the house and visit Yura. Then we can talk some more. Okay?"

"I'd like that," he said, with a more positive note, "It'll be good to see that kid again."

I gave him a reassuring smile, wanting him to know that he had made a friend and that I was on his side.

"So tell me the truth," he started up again, shuffling the chair closer on its castors, and he leaned over towards me confidentially, "What was it like?"

"What was what like?"

"Is Yura a good fuck?" he asked, with a wry smile.

I stared at him, not sure if he was for real, and I laughed.

"I think you already know the answer to that," I said.

"Sure I know," he laughed, "I must have fucked nearly all of those boys. The evidence is right there," and he jerked his head at the computer, "But out of all of them, Yura really stood out. There is something very special about that kid."

And I knew exactly what he meant.

So that was my first meeting with Anton. He was a strange young man. A little odd, perhaps unorthodox in his approach. He was probably the most unlikely person I would have expected to meet in such strange circumstances, but I liked him. More than that, he did not strike me as someone with evil intentions. He was gentle, softly spoken, maybe even a little shy and unforthcoming. Not in the least bit overbearing. Quite innocuous actually. I approved of the way he went about things. He was clever and resourceful. He had succeeded in tracking me down and knew everything about me. He knew all about Yura and Operation Ganymede, and had even tracked down Yura's father. Everything he had done had gone as planned. I respected him for that. He may have been scruffy and not very domesticated, but under that stubble and shaggy hair, and beneath those grubby clothes, he was actually quite a handsome young man. I was pleased to have met him. I felt a very special warmth and affinity for him that went way beyond his natural good looks and undeniable charm. I looked forward to our next meeting and hoped it would not be too long before I saw him again. In the meantime, all I had to do was carry on as normal.

"We don't have anything quite like this in Moscow," Elena was saying, "At least not the restaurants we used to go to."

It had been Zhukov's idea to bring us to this restaurant. Zhukov was the Senior Investigating Officer from the Moscow Police, and Chief of the Moscow side of Operation Ganymede. He was also Nikolayev's boss. He had been a prime mover in getting Yura out of Moscow safely, so in a way Yura probably owed his life to Zhukov. Since Zhukov was in town, on one of his many visits, he had made it his priority to take Elena and Yura out for dinner. It was purely a formality for him, and considered it a courtesy since they were here to assist us in our investigations. Of course, I had to go wherever Yura went. So here we were, all four of us, sitting in a booth, in this bustling classic American restaurant with an extensive menu and oversized portions, and with overfriendly and attentive waiters taking our orders. Yura was sitting opposite me with Zhukov next to him, and Elena was next to me.

It wasn't that exclusive a restaurant, actually, just overpriced, I thought. But the food was good and I could see that everyone was enjoying themselves. It was one of those restaurants where the waiting staff introduce themselves ingratiatingly and embark on some convoluted spiel about the 'specials'. It made no difference to me. I couldn't have eaten half the stuff on that menu anyway. I played safe and went for the Caesar salad. Zhukov went for steak, but he was a big man anyway, thick set and very imposing. It seemed appropriate somehow. Elena opted for fish and, perhaps not surprisingly, Yura wanted a burger. No ordinary burger of course – this one had all the extras and was built like a little skyscraper. It was real boys food, I thought.

Yura had been quite hyper and excitable all day. It was a stark contrast to his downbeat surliness of yesterday, when I had returned to HQ to pick him up following his session with the psychotherapist. Like I said, if Yura was quiet, it meant he was either upset or contemplating something. I concluded that his time with the psychotherapist merely served to open up memories he would rather forget. He was obliged to talk about things which usually came more spontaneously and unexpectedly from him. Every now and then, as I had often seen, he would relate some thought or memory about what happened, but it was never forced when he was with me. Yesterday, he was quiet for the rest of the day. Coincidentally, so was I, as I silently contemplated my meeting with Anton and the inevitable consequences of what we had discussed.

Today, Zhukov had visited the house early in the afternoon, so he had been with us most of the day. Thus far, Yura and I had found very little opportunity to be alone. Hence, we had not spoken much today. Though we had been in each other's company, Zhukov had really been the center of attention most of the time. He was loud and showy, the type who takes over and talks a lot, and has something to say about everything. Even if Yura had not been over-enamored by him, Zhukov kept talking to him in a very chummy way, kidding him along with lots of winks and smiles, and calling him Ivan all the time. Sometimes it felt like I was the only one who knew it wasn't his real name. Zhukov had a very patronizing way about him, talking down to Yura as though he was six years old. Or perhaps it was just me that perceived Yura as being more mature than he really was. After all, no one else knew Yura in quite the same way as I did. But Yura indulged him, pretending to be interested in Zhukov's over-familiar banter and playing up to his avuncular manner. I could tell he wasn't really interested in Zhukov, but Yura was aware of Zhukov's importance, and was probably just keeping him sweet. I knew that Yura was very switched-on, and was much wiser than he let on.

Zhukov drank an incredible amount. He had started off with an aperitif and had also ordered wine. I already knew that Elena was fond of a drink, so it did not surprise me that they were getting through the first bottle rather quickly, even before our entrees arrived. During the entrees, Zhukov ordered another bottle of wine, and it was clear to me that he and Elena were settling down for the long haul, talking animatedly, their conversation lubricated by the wine. They were talking away in Russian about how things were back home. As far as I could tell there was very little talk about the investigation itself and they kept the conversation quite light and inconsequential.

After the entrees, Zhukov decided he wanted to go out for a cigarette. There was a terrace at the back of the restaurant where we could sneak out for a quick smoke and I offered to join him. It was a good opportunity to talk to him about the investigation in an informal way, without introducing too serious a tone into the conversation across the table.

Once outside, we found a secluded corner of the terrace, which was more like a little porch overlooking the parking lot, and stood facing each other. Zhukov produced a rather expensive looking cigarette case from an inside pocket, and flipped it open in his palm. I accepted one gratefully, and reciprocated by producing my lighter, offering him a light. When both of us had savored the initial puff, and were settled into our cigarettes, I asked him how Operation Ganymede was going.

"Good," said Zhukov, tersely, exhaling smoke with the words, "Very good."

It was exactly the opposite of what I had expected. Up till now all I had been hearing was how it had all ground to a standstill from lack of progress.

"I think we might just be onto something," said Zhukov, with a very upbeat tone.

I observed his grey hair and his thick jowls and considered what an imposing man he was. His hair matched the color of his eyes.

"We've just had some new videos come into our possession," he went on, waving his cigarette around.

"Boy porn videos?"

He nodded.

"New ones. Videos that were made very recently."

"What sort of content?"

"Same as before," he replied, "We think it's the same group, maybe trying to reestablish themselves."

"That could be useful," I observed.

He went on nodding enthusiastically.

"It might lead us straight to them."

"Who's in the videos?"

"Vladik," he said.

"Vladik? The boy that's missing?"

"It's definitely the same boy," he said, gleefully.

Then he fixed me with a serious stare, his steely grey eyes looking directly at me and spoke very slowly and very carefully.

"I think Vladik is still alive," he said.

"Do you think you'll be able to find him?"

"We're getting close," said Zhukov, knowingly narrowing his eyes, "This could be the breakthrough we need."

Zhukov touched me on the arm by way of warning.

"But don't repeat what I've just told you. At the moment it's only a hunch… but my hunches are usually right."

"Vladik?" I said again, almost in disbelief.

Zhukov took another puff of his cigarette and carried on nodding.

"It won't be long now," he said, exhaling smoke with a satisfied grin.

Vladik was alive! If Zhukov was to be believed, a breakthrough was imminent. Yura would be overjoyed, though of course I couldn't say anything. Nothing was definite just yet, but I was confident it would only be a matter of time. Vladik was alive, and for the moment that was all I needed to know. And it was with this knowledge that, after we finished our cigarettes, Zhukov and I returned to the table and sat down. He resumed his conversation with Elena and Vladik was not mentioned again.

Meanwhile, Yura was hiding behind the dessert menu. He held the oversized laminated card up and was using it as a little shield to hide behind. For some reason he procrastinated on the ordering of dessert and was using the menu to hide his face, lowering his head right down so that he was almost completely out of sight. Before long I could feel an insistent nudging against my leg under the table. There was something soft caressing my thigh. I realized it was Yura's little foot. He had slipped off his sneakers and was sitting there in his socked feet, extending his foot under the table to stroke my thigh. I thought he was just being mischievous, and was initially happy that he was at least paying me some attention. I had started to get frustrated that we had had no opportunity to hug each other today, and I think he had come to the same conclusion. It was strange how quickly I had grown this physical need to be close to him and to hold him, almost as though some invisible force bound us together, linking our energy and our spirits. The imposition of Zhukov's visit had thrown our usual quiet together time out of kilter. I was starting to miss my little boymoments with Yura, and I felt a deep physical need for his body. I soon discovered, however, that despite Zhukov sitting next to him, Yura had other things on his mind.

Initially I didn't respond, partly because I didn't really know what to do, and I thought Yura was just reminding me that he was there and wanted to acknowledge our secret little affair, deliberately hiding behind the menu and avoiding having to make eye contact. It was a nice gesture. But before long he had worked his foot right into my groin, and was pressing the soft arch of his little foot right onto my cock. He had sunk way down in his seat, still hiding behind the menu, and he placed the sole of his little foot firmly over my crotch, feeling out my cock, pressing and rubbing in quite the most erotic way. What a little cock teaser! It was such a sweet little game he was playing – but a very risqué one, which left me feeling somewhat at a loss. Yura was so daring and so sexualized that even here – in a public place – with a senior Moscow police officer sitting right next to him, he had the sheer cheek to feel out my cock with the only part of his body that could reach me, and work me up, once again, into a state of extreme sexual arousal. He was good at doing that, and he knew it.

The tactile little toes pressed insistently on my crotch and of course I had a hard-on almost instantly. That seemed to be what he wanted. He could feel it. He pressed his little foot onto the underside of my cock, and was manipulating it from side to side, getting the measure of my cock as it laid upwards against my abdomen, held in place by my tight jeans. He knew exactly what he was doing, but what made it all the more arousing was how he was completely in control. He never faltered once – never looking at me, never lowering the menu. He just went right on feeling me up with his toes. I was trying to talk to Zhukov and Elena, and as I did so he pressed particularly hard and made me almost wince. I don't think they noticed, but I almost lost the thread of what I was saying. He was such a tease and so mischievous. God, he was an amazing little boy.

To stop him doing that again, I put a hand under the table and held his foot firmly in place, pressing his little sole against my hard-on, and making sure he could really feel how hard I was with the soft arch of his foot. He let me press his foot right into me and I massaged his little toes as I was doing it. I curled my palm around his toes and manipulated them back and forth. Though I couldn't see his face, I could feel his little foot relaxing and I sat as far forward in my seat as possible, right up against the edge of the table, so the others couldn't see that I was doing. It was funny, I thought, that little boy feet held no attraction for me until this moment, but when I had his little foot in my hand, and I could feel how perfect it was, I was not exactly repelled by the idea of having his naked little foot on my cock, or even the prospect of spurting my spunk all over it. Yura had that effect on me. Everything about him was so alluring, so sexual. He was so sexualized and sexually precocious, and that in itself was an enormous turn-on. There was almost nothing sexual he wouldn't do. In fact, sexually he was probably more experienced, more adventurous and more demanding than I was. He had certainly taught me a few things.

Presently, Yura indicated that he wished to go to the restroom and asked if I would take him. Finally emerging from behind the menu, I could see him glance strategically at Elena as he did so, and she nodded her approval. I think it was a given that I would accompany him, especially here in a public place. Elena and Zhukov carried on talking, apparently thinking nothing of it. I said I didn't mind accompanying him and followed Yura to the restrooms. He led the way, not even looking back to check that I was behind him.

Inside, the restrooms were deserted. It was cool and quiet in there, spotlessly clean and ultra-modern, with granite counter tops and chrome fittings. Yura went into the furthest cubicle, where the lighting was quite subdued, and I followed him in. He put the lid down on the toilet and sat down. I locked the cubicle door and turned to face him.

"What's up little buddy?"

But he was in no mood for conversation. Wordlessly, without even looking up at me, he reached out and unclipped my belt and started unbuttoning my jeans. I could see his tactile little fingers expertly manipulating my fly buttons with great dexterity. In no time, he stripped open the front of my jeans and was pulling down my underwear.

"This is what I want," he said, releasing my big hard cock from the confines of my tight underwear.

His eyes widened at the sight of my cock, sticking out in full length before him. It seemed to genuinely please him. He even licked his lips in anticipation. Without hesitation, he kissed the tip, then opened his mouth and let me stick it in a little. He sucked hard, hollowing his cheeks and really savoring the feeling of having his little mouth full of cock. I took hold of his sweet little head and buried my fingers in his thick black wavy hair, resisting the temptation to pull his beautiful head hard onto my cock. He took my cock right into the back of his throat, enveloping almost its full length. I was almost overcome by the exquisite pleasure of that warm wet little cavern that was creating a perfect haven for my cock. He sucked the head of my cock in and out, and in perfect coordination, was using his little hands to jack the shaft up and down as he did so. God, he was good.

We knew that we couldn't take too long in the restroom, as we had left Elena and Zhukov at the table. But somehow I didn't think this was going to take very long. Yura was so expert at this, and seemed to have such an innate understanding of how to stimulate my cock, I knew I wasn't going to last long. He would alternately suck my cock, then take it out of his mouth, slick with his saliva, and cuddle it against his face, licking the underside and stroking the top. Not only did it feel incredible, visually it was extremely erotic. His little face with my big, hard, wet cock pressed into it. God how I wanted to spunk that little face so badly.

It didn't take long for me to cum. He kept on sucking and playing with my cock and I could see the concentration on his face as he was doing it. And he knew when my orgasm was building. He was waiting for me to start breathing faster and he judged it perfectly. At precisely the right moment, he stuck my cock back into his mouth and literally sucked the spunk out of me. I gasped and my whole body tightened in ecstasy. I shot really hard into his mouth, my orgasm all the more accelerated by the sight of him manipulating my cock with his little hands even as it was spunking. It was a delicious orgasm, the intensity of which took even me by surprise. The first and heaviest jet of spunk went into the back of his throat, the next half into his open mouth, and the rest went over his lips and cheeks.

He swallowed the first and most substantial mouthful of my cum with a big gulp, then continued jacking and sucking my cock until my orgasm had subsided. I gently pulled away, starting to feel the sensitivity. He drew out the last few drops of spunk and licked them up with great relish, then let go of my cock. I put a finger under his chin and tilted his head up towards me, so I could appreciate the sight of his beautiful little face covered in my spunk. The gobs of pure white liquid lay there so tantalizingly on his young face. The spunk which he had worked out of me glistening on his perfect skin. He smiled, his little tongue licking all around his mouth. God, this kid was so into it.

I reached over for some toilet paper and ripped off a good handful. Cradling his head, I gently started wiping his face. Obediently, he sat there and let me clean him off, eyes closed and smiling. I felt like I was his dad, protectively cleaning the gunk from my little boy's face.

With the bundle of paper still in my hand, I knelt down so I was more at his level and leaned over him as he sat there.

"What about you?" I asked, reaching for his crotch.

He put his little hand across his lap, barring me from touching him there.

"I'm saving mine," he said.

I hesitated a moment, disarmed by his resoluteness and stunned by his presence of mind.

"I'm saving it for you… later," he said.

I put a hand up to his face and admired him closely for a moment, incredulous, then leaned in and kissed him gently on the cheek.

"You're really fuckin' special little buddy," I told him.

He smiled back tenderly, looking pleased with himself, and we hugged. It had been our only opportunity to hold each other all day. It was a lovely, if fleeting, little boymoment.

"C'mon, let's get you cleaned up," I said, standing up.

I straightened up my clothes and did up my jeans. Yura hopped off the toilet. I tossed the spent paper into it and flushed it. Then we prepared to go.

Just at that moment we could hear someone else come into the restroom and was using the washbasin. Before we left the cubicle, Yura beckoned me closer and whispered to me.

"Pretend that I've been ill and you're helping me."

I was stunned by his ingenuity, once again taken aback by his sheer presence of mind. It was an excellent ruse. So we left the cubicle together. I opened the door and we emerged, with me guiding Yura along before me, my hands on his shoulders. He held a little hand up over his mouth, looking as though he had just been sick.

"Are you feeling better now?" I said, in English.

He nodded feebly, just as the man at the washbasin shot us a cursory glance, his tinted spectacles glinting in our direction, but apparently not in the least suspicious.

I took Yura over to the washbasins and he leaned over. I splashed some water onto his face and dried him off thoroughly, benevolently dabbing a paper towel all over his little face. The man finished drying his hands, tossed his paper towel into the bin, and promptly left. As the door closed, Yura turned to me and giggled.

"He thinks you're my dad," he said, somewhat amused by the notion, and he chuckled to himself.

It was observations like that which often demonstrated how astute Yura really was, and how his perception and understanding of things around him was so very advanced for his tender years. He was such a remarkable little boy.

Back at the table, Elena and Zhukov were so engrossed in their conversation that they barely noticed how long we'd been gone. Yura squeezed back into his seat, just as Zhukov was ordering more drinks. Yura asked for another Coke. I stuck to mineral water.

Elena asked Yura if he wanted dessert.

"No, I'm pretty full," he said, screwing up his little nose, with a satisfied smile.

"Not even an ice cream?" she suggested.

He shook his head. As he did so, I noticed a little droplet of spunk glistening on his lower jaw, which I must have missed. I reached over with my napkin and wiped it affectionately. He smiled mischievously. I don't think Zhukov or Elena even noticed.

"Not like you to turn down an ice cream," Elena observed.

"What I just had was enough for me," he said, patting his stomach, and he glanced at me with a cheeky and knowing grin.

Zhukov was so high ranking in the Moscow Police that he was privileged enough to have a chauffeur driven car at his disposal – a sleek black shiny sedan sporting diplomatic plates. Zhukov had his driver drop us off, and when we got in, we decided to call it a day. It was late when we got back from the restaurant. It had been a long day and we were both tired.

I sent Yura to his room to wash up and get ready for bed, while I went into the ensuite bathroom of my bedroom to do the same. When I emerged, switching off the light behind me, I was confronted by the sight of Yura laying on top of my bed. I stopped and stared at him. He was already naked and he was reclining with one arm up around the back of his head, his little dick stiffly sticking up in his crotch and a mischievous smile on his face. His smooth, lean preteen body laying there on my bed was a beautiful sight. But I hesitated a moment because it was clear to me that he wanted to play and it had not been that long since his little performance in the restroom at the restaurant. He had made me cum so hard, I wasn't even sure I wanted to play any more tonight. But my ambivalence was short-lived. He fixed me with one of his longing, come-hither stares and smiled, then looked down at his crotch, drawing my gaze down simultaneously. With his other hand he was tantalizingly drawing back the skin of his little boydick between his thumb and forefinger, and he did it in such a way that he wanted me to see it. He exposed the pink head of his stiff little dick and left the skin drawn back. Then, letting go, he flexed his little dick a couple of times and watched it waggle up and down on its own. He had such a beautiful little dick, long and thin and infinitely suckable, and it complimented his body perfectly. But he didn't stop there. He swung one of his legs out to the side, exposing his boyhole, and he stroked his little pucker lightly with his fingertips, in soft, circular motions, stopping to prod it ever so gently, indicating that he wanted something in there. God, he was so sexy. My hesitation was quickly subjugated by my weakness for him. I stopped in the middle of the room and stared right into those pretty eyes of his – those magical cobalt-blue eyes that held so much mystery and wonder – and I knew that I would always be a slave to this little boy. I would always be a victim of my love for him. My heart was filled with such deep affection for him, and he was just too beautiful to resist.

He gave me a cheeky grin and pulled back the covers on his side of the bed. He got into bed, making sure he was well snuggled under the comforter. Then, he lifted a corner of the bedclothes for me to get in. That was such an affectionate and mature gesture. In one swift action, I slipped into bed naked beside him and into his welcoming arms. I drew the bedclothes up around us both and pulled him to me tightly, feeling the smooth, silky warmth of his hairless little body next to mine. He cuddled up to me lovingly, rolling on top of me, his little arms embracing me tightly. I could feel a tangible heat coming from his tiny frame. His hot, hard little dick was jutting into my abdomen, the unmistakable reminder of his irrepressible horniness. He was planting resounding little kisses all over my chest and I kissed his head. He was panting short, hot breaths as he kissed me, nibbling on my nipples and burying his face into the side of my neck. The urgency of his little boy lust was apparent in the way he held me so tightly and rubbed his little dick against me quite hard with quick, rhythmic thrusts of his pelvis. He was stabbing his hard little dick against me so impetuously it was almost as though he was trying to fuck me. His little boydick was burning hot and so stiff and engorged it was like a little rod of iron. Briefly, I recalled what Anton had said about Yura being addicted to sex, and I wondered how true that was. He was certainly very demanding, and seemed to be horny all the time. I held his head and lifted it from my chest, so I could look at him.

"Hey little buddy, slow down."

He hesitated a moment, quite surprised that I had stopped him in the heat of the moment. I held onto his head, brushing his hair back off his face, and he looked at me with a flushed and slightly bemused expression. Then he broke into a smile and just collapsed onto me. He cuddled me, perhaps conceding that there was no rush. He fidgeted around for a while, finally settling with his head resting on my chest, and we both just lay there in a prolonged boymoment, blissfully happy, not really feeling the need for conversation.

Cuddled together like that under the bedclothes, we were very warm, and pretty soon his little hand reached down towards my crotch and, even as he lay there under the covers, started playing with my cock. He was squeezing it, massaging it and yanking it down and from side to side. I was almost instantly hard. The sensation of his little hand on my dick was stimulating enough, but he was such a little fuckboy that he knew exactly how to manipulate my dick for maximum stimulation. A couple of times he rotated it down quite hard and it hurt – it hurt but in a good way. When I winced, he chuckled.

His sweet head disappeared under the covers and I waited for his hot little mouth on my cock. He licked it up and down, applying copious amounts of spit until it was dripping with his saliva. Then he threw back the covers, exposing us both, and quickly mounted me, his slender, hairless legs astride my pelvis, the fleshy inner part of his thighs hugging my hips, and leaning over me with his little hands pressing into my chest hair. I could feel the heat of his hot little boycunt incubating the underside of my cock as it lay flat against my abdomen, pressing into the natural groove of his perineum. He reached under him with his little hand and clumsily connected my hard-on with his boyhole, raising himself up so he could fuck himself onto it. He was single minded and without hesitation, and knew exactly what he was doing. It was pretty clear that he had fucked in this position many times before. But he was patient and methodical. He bore down on my cock slowly, feeding it into his boyhole a little at a time. He shifted, adjusting his knees slightly, and bucked his hips, rotating his pelvis to ease it into him. I could feel his tight little boycunt swallowing my cock, the burning heat of his abdomen enveloping my shaft inch by inch. As he did so, he gave a few token yanks on his own little boydick, which was still as hard as wood and sticking straight up towards his navel. He screwed up his eyes in ecstasy as he did so, savoring the moment, and obviously enjoying the sensation of working this big dick up into his little boycunt. God, he was so into it.

When he had finished inserting my cock into him and it was fully inside his little cunt, he sat there for a few seconds and steadied himself. His warm little body was adjusting to the invasion, propping himself up on my chest with his arms and his legs spreadeagled across my hips. I looked down and saw this gorgeous kid impaled on me, his little hairless body with my big hard, throbbing cock buried deep into his pelvis. God he was so infinitely fuckable. I was a lucky man.

He saw me admiring him, taking in the beautiful sight of the little preteen body that was straddled upon me, and he smiled. Leaning over, he whispered into my ear.

"Your cock feels so good in my little ass."

I smiled affectionately, then pulled down his sweet head and kissed him.

Then he got down to business, slowly raising himself up so he could fuck his little body onto my shaft, rising up and down and impaling himself hard onto my engorged cock. He fucked himself so hard onto my cock I was shocked that his little ass could take it after the punishment it had received recently. But he was loving it, head thrown back, eyes closed, his little tongue sticking out with effort and concentration. At the same time, he steadied himself with one hand, and with the other he was pulling roughly on his own little dick which was dagger hard, and which he was deliberately pushing down into my abdomen as he bore down on me. What a technique he had!

"Yeh, I need this," he was saying, "That feels so good."

And as he did so, his little hands sought mine. He clasped each of my hands, interlocking his little fingers with mine, and pressed my arms down onto the pillow on either side of my head, as though forcing my surrender. I was in a position of total submission, at that moment pinned to the bed by his little body, but all the more incapacitated by the sweet sensations his body was eliciting from my cock. And as he rode me like that, he was uttering the usual dirty talk.

"Fuck my little ass Mark. Fuck your cock into me real hard."

Except it was really him that was doing the fucking. Somehow, the vision of this little boy riding on my cock like that, his little high-pitched voice begging for my cock up his little ass… it was just too much. In no time at all I could feel my orgasm rising. It felt as though my cock was growing thicker and thicker, inflating in his tight little ass as he pumped it to an ecstatic climax with every rise and fall of his body, until eventually it exploded. It really did feel like it had burst open in the most pleasurable way.

"Oh yeh, fuck your spunk into me!" he exclaimed, just as the first volley was pumping into him.

As I was cumming, I thrust my hips upwards, stabbing impetuously into his little cunt as hard and as deep as I could, and my spunk was shooting into him like rapid-fire, filling his little chute with scalding hot liquid. Even as I was doing so, I moaned out loud, "Oh baby boy!" nearly tossing his little body up into the air. But he held on, rode it out, and even thought to put a little hand over my mouth to stop me crying out too loudly. He foresaw the whole thing, and I must admit this kid turned me on so much, and the orgasm he induced was so powerful, I felt like screaming from the intensity. Even in the height of passion, this kid was utterly in control. As it was, any further utterances were muffled by his little hand and I ended up biting gently into the soft fleshy part of his hand between his thumb and fingers. As his little body milked my cock at one end, he was stifling my passion at the other. And even as his little hand was over my mouth, I could see him smiling a little crooked smile of satisfaction. He enjoyed what he was doing, and loved having that control over me. His presence of mind was breathtaking.

When this little rollercoaster ride was over, I relaxed, totally spent and exhausted and somewhat breathless. It was a great cum, and I took a few seconds to get my breath back. He took his hand away and let me take a deep breath. I went as if to pull out of his little butt, but he reasserted himself on me, pushing back down onto my still hard cock.

"No, stay in me," he said, pressing himself down onto my cock, which was still hard and still firmly lodged up his little ass.

He leaned back and pushed my cock deeper into his now sloppy little boycunt, and I could feel the spunk I had just fucked into him leaking down the sides of my cock as it went back up his little chute, squelching down the sides of my shaft and making my whole crotch wet. As he forced my cock back into him, I could see him grabbing at his own little boydick and start to jack himself off in earnest. I reached up and felt up his little preteen body, appreciating the sight of the young body which was still connected to me. My hands gently skimmed all over his smooth little boy chest, feeling his silky, flawless young skin and pinching his little nipples. He loved that and was moaning and throwing his head back as I did so. The harder I did it, the louder he moaned. God, his little boy moans were so erotic.

Furiously, he was jacking his boydick with one hand. With the other, he cupped his tight little balls which were wet with my spunk, and was squeezing them in a rough, almost careless way, which looked quite painful. But he was enraptured and working up to what we both knew was going to be a great cum for him. I cast my mind back to earlier in the evening when I had reached for his crotch and he had stopped me, saying that he was saving it. Saving it! What kid had the foresight to delay gratification like that? He was so remarkable.

His breathing was growing ever more erratic, shorter and heavier, the breaths becoming more like rapid puffs, and I could see his little chest heaving with the effort and rising excitement. He quickened the pace on his dick and continued fucking himself up and down onto my cock. He was perfectly coordinated, wriggling his pelvis as he fucked, deliberately making my cock connect with his gland. I was still hard, mesmerized by the beauty and sheer sexuality of this little boy, and his insatiable, irrepressible appetite for sex.

I anticipated the spectacle of seeing his little cock spunk. That made my cock even harder. Then, as his orgasm hit, his whole pubic region seemed to contract, and I could feel the initial pulses of his orgasm constricting around my cock as he continued to fuck himself onto it. It was as though my cock was being gripped by some tightening fist and ruthlessly milked, and it actually hurt a little. As Yura started to spunk, he uttered one gratuitous "Oh fuck…" and then his whole body froze, tensing up as his perfect little boy dick flexed wildly and with each pulse urgently spat out several little jets of clear little boy spunk. It was ejected in long, wet streaks which all went in different directions, all the way up my chest and abs. His orgasm seemed to go on for a good long time, consuming his whole body which shuddered violently for several seconds, during which he seemed to hold his breath. His boyspunk was copious and burning hot… always a sign that it had been accumulating for some time, and once again he ejaculated more than I thought possible for a boy his age. There was so much of it that my chest and abs were soaked in it, forming little pools in my chest hair, and even up as far as my neck and shoulders. What a little spunkboy.

Finally, Yura breathed a tangible sigh of relief and let go of his little dick. He literally fell off me, exhausted, at the same time releasing my dick from his chute. He collapsed onto the bed next to me, face down, panting heavily. It always took him a little while to recover. I leaned over and stroked his back, kissed the back of his sweet head, and whispered into his ear.

"God, you're such a little spunkboy. Where do you get it from?"

He didn't answer straight away. He carried on hyperventilating into the pillow for a bit, then promptly turned over and looked up at me. He swallowed hard and caught his breath, licking his lips and dry mouth. He stared right up at me with a mischievous grin.

"Watch this," he said, cryptically.

With that, he rose up, and got astride me again, this time sitting way up on my chest, with his knees almost in my armpits, and weighing down on my rib cage, pressing my torso right down onto the bed. In doing so, he mixed the boyspunk he had ejaculated all over me with the spunk I had pumped into his little ass, which was now leaking out of his hole onto my chest. As he sat on top of me, he smeared it all into my skin with the underside of his thighs and little butt. His little dick was still hard and leaking little boy spunk from the tip, but it was nevertheless still standing to attention.

Sitting up on top of me, Yura grabbed his hard little dick once again. He milked out the last few drops of cum from his tube, catching them on the back of his little fingers, and looked up at me. He smiled that mischievous little boy smile of his and, staring directly into my eyes, he brought his hand up to his lips and licked it all off. Still staring intently at me, he swallowed hard and licked his lips to show how much he relished the taste of his own little boy cum. He was such a dirty little spunkboy. Then he reached down and started jacking his little dick again furiously, at a tremendously fast pace.

"Watch," he said again.

I watched. I laid there and enjoyed this little performance he was putting on for me. When he grabbed his little dick again like that, and settled his little boy butt on my chest, I knew he was going for another cum. He appeared to recover from the first one quite quickly, and this time he made himself cum fairly rapidly, working himself up into another orgasm within a matter of minutes. This time, he fell forward, thrusting his little dick up at me, and aimed his little boy spunk right into my face. He gasped, his little body tightening up one more time, and he shot two or three little squirts of thin boyspunk right over my face. This time it was my turn to lick around my mouth, and tasted the sweetness of his little boy juice. Considering he just spunked up quite a voluminous amount, I was incredulous that he was able to spunk up some more within a matter of minutes. His capacity to cum so much and with such frequency in such a short time truly amazed me.

"See," he said, "I told you I was saving it."

He smiled knowingly, and without saying a word, shifted down and sat on my hips once again. He leaned over and started sucking up the cum from my chest and abs, the mixture of spunk which had leaked from his ass and the spunk he had shot all over me. He moved up my body, sucking up the spunk he had just shot over my face, his hot little tongue licking my body and face almost clean. God, that was so erotic. When he had accumulated a good amount in his little mouth I thought he was going to swallow it. But he didn't. He leaned over, almost laying flat on top of me, and poked a little finger into my mouth. I parted my lips and, with his little face directly above mine, our lips only an inch apart, he opened his little mouth and he allowed the spunk in his mouth to drip into my open lips. It was hot from sitting on his little tongue, and I of course swallowed everything he fed me. When the last of the dribbling cum had fallen from his lips, he pressed his little mouth onto mine, locking our lips together, and he tongued the remnants into my open mouth, forcing whatever was left in his mouth into mine. God this kid was so unbelievably sexual. His little cum-swapping spunk games were mind-blowing.

"God, where did you learn to do that little buddy?" I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

"Huh, you think that's good?" he said, almost blasé, "You should see what Vladik can do."

It was almost prophetic that those were his last words before going to sleep. Prophetic because later that night, Yura called out in his sleep.

"Vladik!"

It was a plaintive cry, as though he was calling out a warning to him.

I was roused by his shout and felt a lot of commotion and ruffling of the bedclothes in the bed next to me. The awareness of this sudden activity alerted me that there was something very wrong. I opened my eyes and reached for the bedside lamp. Switching on the light, I turned to see Yura sitting up in the bed with an alarmed and confused expression, his eyes wide and staring fixedly, panting little shallow breaths of shock.

I rose up, genuinely concerned.

"Hey, what's wrong little buddy?"

"I… I had a… a nightmare," he gasped, between breaths.

I leaned over and hugged him. He clung to me.

"It was Vladik. I saw Vladik," he gasped.

"It's okay little buddy," I reassured him, "It's over now," and I held him close, rubbing his back.

"Vladik was falling," he went on, emitting his words at such a speed they were almost tripping over themselves, "I saw him falling. He was on top of a building, and I was down below, and I saw him jump, and I was going to catch him…"

"Hey, slow down," I said, calming him.

"Oh Mark, it was so real!"

I squeezed him tightly.

"It's okay, it's over now."

"Something happened to Vladik," he kept on saying.

"It's only a dream," I assured him.

He shook his head and pulled free from my embrace.

"No," he insisted, "You don't understand. Something has happened to Vladik."

He looked genuinely perturbed by this dream, and profoundly upset by it. The look in his face betrayed a type of agitation I had never seen in him before.

"It was like I was there," he was saying, "I really saw him."

"It's okay little buddy. It was just a dream."

I sat up in bed with him for a good long time, stroking him, rubbing his back and massaging his little shoulders, and enjoying an impromptu little boymoment with him, reassuring him and soothing his anxiety. I wondered whether it was significant that he should have dreamt about Vladik, given what Zhukov had disclosed to me earlier in the evening. Of course, Yura had talked a lot about Vladik, and I knew that there was a special bond between them, but I couldn't help wondering if at that moment something really was happening to Vladik.

It took me a long time to calm Yura down and I sat up with him until he had relaxed and eventually fell asleep again. By the morning, the hiatus of the night was almost forgotten. At any rate it was not mentioned. Either the incident was completely out of his mind, or he had chosen to say nothing more about it.

The next day we had a busy schedule of quite mundane errands to perform. It was almost a relief to be engaged in fairly routine pursuits, and it was good to have the opportunity to provide Yura with a good counterpoint to recent events, and get him to do some ordinary everyday things. Shopping was an incredibly boring and unappealing chore for any kid, but it was an exercise intended to expose them to normal everyday interactions. So my strategy was to always get them involved in finding things, to try and preoccupy them in some way. Of course it wasn't always successful. My previous experiences taking young boys shopping were fraught with behaviour ranging from extreme disinterest to full-blown tantrums. So, it was almost unnatural to me to discover that it required no effort at all with Yura. Luckily, he was always very cooperative and helpful and never once complained or demanded anything.

The trip to the supermarket would have been relatively uneventful and forgettable if it hadn't been for two significant events. The first one happened soon after we had entered the store. There was a rather large woman, who was seriously overweight, pushing a shopping cart down the aisle. Her cart was full to overflowing, mostly with junk, and she was puffing quite loudly, apparently from the sheer effort of walking. She was sweating profusely and seemed impervious to the two tiny little boys that were trailing along forlornly behind her. They were cute little things, probably about five or six years old. I guess they must have been twins. They were not identical, but looked very similar in appearance, with little mops of straight golden blond hair, button noses and big brown eyes. Their diminutive little bodies were decked out in basketball kits of thin vests and loose shorts. Their skimpy vests afforded a good view of their smooth armpits and necks. On their bare little boy feet were sandals which exposed the full length of their sinewy little legs. But there was no sign of any jackets or outdoor clothing to protect them from the cold. My first thought was that it had turned quite chilly outside, and I couldn't see how these two cute little specimens wouldn't be cold, even if it was just walking out to the parking lot. Yura and I found ourselves behind them in the aisle and they were cheekily whispering things to each other and giggling. Their corpulent mother forged on ahead, completely immersed in her shopping. The two little boys turned and smiled at us and they giggled to each other. Yura spotted them. It was delightful to see how Yura responded to them with such affection, and he gave them a warm, friendly smile. Apparently he found them just as endearing as I did. We even turned and glanced at each other, simultaneously captivated by the little boys' prettiness and cheeky smiles. Just then, their mother loomed up unexpectedly, grabbed them each by an arm, and abruptly swung them around, dealing out a harsh, resounding slap, first to one, then the other. She hit them quite hard, the sharp blow causing their heads to jolt violently. I could hear Yura gasp in shock and he recoiled at the sight of that.

"I told you little fuckers to stay close to me," she hissed, with real malice and vehemence in her tone.

The two little boys held their smarting cheeks, visibly shocked into silence by the extreme and unexpected blow meted out by their mother. What had been a delightful and tender moment had been prematurely halted and perverted by their mother's unwarranted intervention. I felt so sorry for them. She grabbed them both by their vests and violently jerked them away, and as she did so, their little vests rode up exposing a small expanse of their midriffs, so that you could see their flat little tummies and their cute little innie belly-buttons. They reluctantly went, their happy giggles now silenced and the cheeky smiles of a moment ago now cruelly wiped from their faces. We watched them go, their expressions contorted in pain and self-pity and with enormous tears welling up in their eyes.

What stuck in my mind about this incident was not the sheer lack of consideration demonstrated by the little boys' mother, but Yura's reaction to it. He gasped, and as the two little boys were being spirited away, he grabbed my arm quite hard. I could feel the distress in his grip because he held onto my arm so hard he pinched the skin on my bicep. He was visibly disturbed by the incident and looked up at me with an expression of horror and confusion. I hugged him and gave his ribs a reassuring squeeze. That little display of violence shook his sensitivity so profoundly that he retreated into a quiet and reflective mood for the rest of the time we were in the store.

Yura's reaction did not surprise me. But I felt for him. He abhorred violence. And yet, this was one of the very things that made Yura so remarkable and so lovable. He was a boy who had been shown very little love, and yet was so loving. A boy who had been beaten and brutalised, but was so placid and gentle. A boy who had been neglected and exploited, yet was the kindest and most considerate person I knew. But that was Yura. He may have been only ten years old, yet he had a wisdom and maturity that went way beyond his years. He was one big paradox, the measure of whom I don't think I was ever going to really understand. He was simply a wonderful human being.

When we finally got through the checkout and back out into the parking lot, I took Yura aside just on the forecourt of the store. I pulled out an item in a paper bag and presented it to him.

"This is for being so helpful today," I told him.

He took it and peered inside. It was a new video game – the latest release of Gran Turismo. He had been raving about it since he had played it with Misha the other day. Luckily I was good at remembering details like that. I had slipped it into the shopping cart whilst I sent him off to look for some obscure food item. I always believed in rewarding and thanking good behaviour. Yura looked up, overjoyed, and raising himself up on tiptoes, spontaneously kissed me on the lips. It was a lovely gesture, and probably one which felt quite natural to him. But it was not really something he should have done in public.

"Fag!" we heard behind us, in a critical and derogatory tone.

We both turned to see a young man, perhaps no more than fourteen or fifteen, slouching up against the wall, sneering at us. He was leaning well back, with one knee bent back, his foot resting on the wall behind him. He was dressed in a grey hoodie, although the hood was down, clearly exposing a big shock of hair which was sticking up in an unruly yellow peroxide explosion. I was tempted to show him my badge and warn him about his language, but I remembered that my priority was Yura.

I let it go and ignored his remark. Yura stared at the young man for a good long time, even as I was pulling him away. As we moved off, I could tell from his silence and the solemn look in his face that the remark had irked him. He knew it was an uncomplimentary word.

We returned to the car and started loading the grocery bags into the open tailgate.

"Mark, what does fag mean?" he asked me, as he passed me the grocery bags.

I looked down at him and saw his genuinely quizzical expression.

"It's not a very nice word for someone who's gay," I explained.

He looked puzzled, and I watched as his face transfigured through a series of different expressions.

"Why did he say that?" Yura asked me.

"Because you're not supposed to kiss me like that in public," I told him.

The look on his face told me that he really did not understand the implications of what he had just done. It was a clear indication of the unorthodox childhood he had lived so far, and served to demonstrate how his lack of exposure to proper boundaries was impacting on his conduct in public. This was a prime example of his relative unworldliness. In some ways he was wise and mature beyond his years, yet in others he was quite innocent and naïve. I explained to him that a love like this, the kind of relationship we were having, was not acceptable in mainstream society. I had experienced it all once before when I was with John. I knew even then that it was difficult enough being gay, but the kind of inter-generational relationship we were having was forbidden. With a love like this, we could not show that kind of affection in public simply because it was so misinterpreted and misunderstood. The look on Yura's face betrayed his acute disappointment and confusion. He was crestfallen. It was all the more inhibiting for me, knowing that I was unable to freely express the way I loved him, and that I was forbidden from publicly demonstrating the special love that passed between us. Never would I be able to openly annunciate my feelings for him. The injustice of that restriction depressed me beyond words. It was all the more frustrating because I knew that a love like this was as pure as any love I could ever know. Far from suppressing it, I wanted everyone to know how beautiful our love was. I wanted to tell the world how wonderful it felt. Deep down inside, what I really wanted to do was to proclaim our love from the rooftops.

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