Attis

A Lamb for the Lion

Chapter 1

A vacant hotel room in Atlanta

50394827364 12-20-03
—Delta Flt. 962 Atlanta (ATL) to Minn.-St. Paul (MSP) $229.00
54523466454 12-20-03
—Starbucks Coffee Shop (ATL) $7.80

The message was an order. Everyone who came in contact with it knew that. It was an order because it came from the Lion, and the Lion never requested anything. Accordingly, the otherwise perfunctory message was processed swiftly and in the mode appropriate for such matters. It was hand carried from Saudi Arabia to Kuwait, where it was doubly encrypted and sent as email that bounced off a dozen proxy servers until it reached an email account that had been specially created for the month of December. Indeed, that account existed only to receive a single message. Only one time was that account accessed after it had been set up two months earlier by an Iranian graduate student in Vancouver, Canada. The message resided, unread, for a single week, then disappeared forever.

The email, after it was decrypted twice using different passwords, read simply: "A lamb for the Lion."

Such a simple five word message should not have caused what followed, or perhaps it should be blamed entirely, if only because it was so innocuous. Despite its very simplicity the message was very clear to the one man who read it.

"My Lion desires another lamb, does he? So I must find another pretty American catamite to share his bed," Abdul Al Ghiran said aloud.

No one heard him. At the time, he was sitting in a hotel room. Room 2704 was a suite on the 27th floor of the Marquis Marriot in Atlanta. No one even knew that he was there at 9.30 a.m. on a Monday morning. In fact, the room was scheduled to be repainted and re-carpeted within minutes of him leaving. There wouldn't be so much as a fingerprint or a single hair left behind.

Abdul Al Ghiran was dark haired, with an olive complexion, not quite thirty-five years old, and clean shaven because for an Arab to have worn the customary beard would surely arouse suspicion following 9/11. His laptop was opened before him. It was not the latest model, but it sufficed for what he needed. It wasn't used that often or for anything that demanded much performance, although it came equipped with certain file protection software as befitted a man of his vocation, a procurer.

No longer did he need to refresh his memory of the Lion's basic specifications. This was the third 'cat' in as many years that he had delivered to the man. He didn't care what happened to the boys after leaving them with the middleman. What happened when they were with the Lion, he neither knew nor cared. He assumed, correctly, that they seldom lasted longer than a few months. The Lion could be very cruel at times. The boys just disappeared, one after the other, like they had been sent to the minotaur in Crete.

Abdul Al Ghiran quickly entered the appropriate keystrokes, downloaded the less-than-2K attachment, and within a minute brought forth the Lion's five-line file, no longer encrypted. He read slowly, easily committing the concise if somewhat curt details to memory.

• Boy. 9-11. US Caucasian. Must sing.
• Blond hair, blue eyes preferred.
• Above avg. intelligence. NOT fat!
• All expenses, deliver via Paris contact.
• C&C healed prior to $50K COD.

Abdul Al Ghiran smiled, although nothing was amusing to him. There was no surprise. Not really. The Lion's requests for boys were seldom so unusual as to cause him much of a problem. This time, he wanted a boy who could sing. It was vaguely amusing, the Lion wanting a boy who could sing. Why that? Still, the Lion wanted what the Lion wanted. It was not his job to question taste. However, it would complicate the procurement process somewhat, to say the least, but not to the degree that the he would turn down the assignment.

The last line was also entirely predictable as well, although it always irritated him to see it set down as a formal requirement. C&C. There, in two simple letters, was the ultimate contradiction. One resulted in the most important mark, the sign of Allah's glory, especially if the circumcision was performed in the appropriate manner, and the other? It was the ultimate indignity for a boy. It was also illegal because Moslem law forbid castration, at least for Moslems in Islam. It was a different matter for non-Believers. Fortunately, it was not difficult to arrange if one knew where to go. The boy's circumcision, which might or might not be needed, and castration, which most certainly would be needed, were his responsibility, even if he didn't wield the knife. Arrangements would have to be made for it to be properly done because tradition was very important to the Lion.

Medically speaking, a misnomer in a way because a doctor was not going to be involved, the elimination of a boy's maleness was a relatively simple procedure compared to the rest of the assignment. Far harder was the task of locating and then kidnapping a boy who met the specifications, and spiriting him across the Atlantic to Cairo. There, Abubakar would take care of the rest of it in less than an hour. Simple as it was to do, that part of his assignment still necessitated a delay in delivering the boy of a week or two. It took that long to heal. It was risky too, if not done by an experienced hand.

The reason that motivated such drastic action was known only by a few men. Unlike Abdul Al Ghiran's other clients who much preferred eunuchs over boys with their genitals intact, the Lion was not so inclined. He had sworn a sacred vow that he would not lie with a woman until the battle was won against American-Zionist aggression. Neither would he lie with a man, since the Koran expressly prohibited it. Thus, a eunuch boy was the only option for him to obtain relief, and an American boy in particular since it reflected on his power. If a few boys suffered the loss of their maleness to make the Lion happy, it was no one's fault but the warmongers in Israel and the White House. It was nothing more than what the Zionist-loving Americans deserved, the fate of all men who rejected Mohammed for false prophets.

The fee was small compared to what he usually received. It represented just one fifth of his normal quarter-of-a-million US dollars. Under any other circumstances it would have been insufficient to ensure the request was given any priority at all. However, the fee was unnecessary. Abdul Al Ghiran served the Lion before all others. The Lion was very generous in other ways, especially for matters that were important to him. Indeed, Abdul Al Ghiran would keep very little of the fifty thousand dollars for himself. The rest would go to aid the struggle against Zionist oppression.

He closed the laptop only after he'd booked and paid for a one-way flight to Minneapolis-St. Paul, Flight 962, on the 20th of December with a previously unused Visa credit card in the name of Jeffrey Alvin Dalton. His destination made perfect sense to him. After all, there were more blond-headed, blue-eyed boys to be found in Minnesota than anywhere else in the United States. Surely, one of them would have to be able to sing. It went without saying that the criteria also included good looking, presenting the only real challenge in the assignment if only for the simple matter that he considered himself something of a connoisseur of boys.

Chapter 2

23485373202 12-20-03
—Three day rental Dec 22-24 Ryder Co, St. Paul
64563431212 12-20-03
—St. Paul Motor Inn. Three nights. Bus rate. $274.50
52441232323 12-20-03
—Warner's Restaurant, St. Paul $47.23
52441456354 12-21-03
—Warner's Restaurant, St. Paul $38.20

As luck would have it, snow fell on the afternoon of the 23rd of December. There was not a lot of snow. Just three inches [7 cm] over as many hours, certainly not enough to close down the airport and re-route incoming flights. There was just enough snow on the roads to delay homebound traffic by thirty minutes.

Inside the Cathedral of St. Paul, on 4th Street, three dozen boys sang to the glory of God. Three dozen boys were attired in black trousers and white shirts. For once there were no scuffed sneakers or insulated boots. Instead, they were wearing polished black shoes for the final rehearsal. Amongst those angelic boys, some slim, some cherubic, there were but two voices that could shatter crystal. Two pure sopranos that were matched with powerful lungs and the desire to make music that reached, if not to the heavens, then to the far corners of the cavernous gothic-revival building. One of the voices belonged to Shayne Santorini.

He stood in the middle of the first row. Unlike the other boys whose hair was blond or light brown, and more often than not was either closely cropped or styled in the latest fashion, Shayne's hair was dark and long. He had unruly hair that rejected brushing, hair that was too long for a boy with curls that reached well past his eyebrows or lapped his collar from behind, hair that could have been inherited either from his Irish-Catholic mother or his Greek father. His pale complexion and cerulean eyes made him appear more innocent than the rest, and that was despite a mischievous smile. If his good looks were not enough, his noticeably dimpled cheeks were guaranteed to bring unwanted attention.

He sang with all his strength, forming Latin words whose meaning escaped him with near perfect diction. His voice wavered only once, because he missed a breath. The choir leader immediately scowled in his direction, then recognizing the culprit softened from a stern glare to merely frowning his displeasure. Any other choirboy would have surely incurred his wrath, but not Shayne. He had that effect on people, especially for those men who favored his delicate almost girlish features for reasons of their own. A single glance at him was enough to form an opinion that he was different to the other boys. He was without guile, yet he was as seductive as any ten-year-old boy could be. Indeed, it might have been thought by people who didn't know him that he even went out of his to incur the favor of the men who looked at him. He recovered his demeanor quickly, gaining vigor in his voice for the final chorus of the 12th century hymn. It was an honor for him to take the lead. It ended in a crescendo of song and organ. He was breathless, if not humiliated.

"Shayne!"

"Yes Father?"

"And what was that exactly?"

"I'm sorry, Father."

There were no excuses allowed. The priest towered over him, a gaunt grey-haired man in a cassock of Franciscan appeal. It made no difference to him whether the boys were nine or twelve. Perfection was expected of them all, even of a boy of his favorite age.

"Don't do it again!"

His shoulders drooped, his expression glum, but not because of the reprimand. During the last carol he had scanned the rows of seats, even the long aisles. There were parents scattered in the nave, one or two sitting in every row as far back as the transept. There were even one or two people he didn't recognize. Perhaps they were friends of the choristers, he mused. One was a man, which caused him some amusement, thinking that the man might even be another boy's special friend. The man had been there every day for the last three days. It was almost like he was taking Peter's place. On the second scan, there was still no sign of Peter. Peter was supposed to be there before practice ended. Peter didn't like him walking home by himself when it was dark.

Shayne took his time taking off his shoes and putting on his boots, expecting Peter to arrive any moment. He kept looking up, checking the front doors because that was where Peter would come from once he'd parked his car. Several minutes passed and still no cheerful greeting. He wasn't worried. Peter had been delayed before. Besides it was snowing outside, or it had been when he walked the four blocks from his home.

Finally, unable to delay much longer because everyone else had already departed, he picked up his jacket, a down-filled, oversized so-he-could-grow-into-it snow jacket that must have cost Peter a lot of money. It came with a fuzzy-lined hood that almost enclosed his face. Putting it on and closing the zipper was a bit like getting into a sleeping bag. It puffed out around him so that he might have resembled the Pillsbury dough-boy except that his jacket was blue and black.

He left the same way that he came in. He reasoned that it only made sense because he might meet Peter on the way in, but the real reason was something else. It was safer that way. It was a lot faster going home if he went out the side door and down the alley, but that meant going past Father Joseph's office. He didn't like being alone with Father Joseph. In fact, he went out of his way to avoid it. Nothing had happened, at least nothing that could be reported to someone, and certainly nothing of any significance had happened since he told Peter. Then, Peter had come with him to confession and talked to the priest before he went in. Still, there were lots of looks that unsettled him. Not that being looked at like that bothered him as much as it used to. He received lots of looks from men, and most of them made him feel uncomfortable in the pit of his belly. It was different with Peter even though the looks were similar. He liked those looks. He still got feelings in his belly, but they were more like butterflies.

He kicked snow and sent breathy mist into the night air as soon as he went outside. There was no sign of Peter, or of Peter's car. The only vehicle to be seen was a rental truck, one of the yellow Ryder vans that displayed the prices on the rear doors. He tromped down the half-dozen stairs, feeling clumsy and slow in his boots. It was next to impossible to run in boots and snow jacket. He started towards home, happily humming to himself. It wasn't that far, just a few blocks. He had Peter's key in his pocket. He could let himself in and… He smiled at the thought of what he would do. He would brush his teeth before going into Peter's bedroom. He could be lying naked in bed, waiting with the Vaseline, when Peter came home. Peter would be happy. Yes, Peter would be very happy, especially if he had the 'urge' as they had taken to calling it. They were both looking forward to doing it again.

After another block, he turned right so that he would pass the park where he had first met Peter. It was just a few months ago, before the leaves changed color, but it seemed longer. It seemed as if he had known Peter all of his life, or only for a few seconds. Peter always said that life was full of surprises. He didn't hear the van pull up behind him because of the snow, because he was thinking of Peter. There were no witnesses, but it there had been they surely would have described it as Godzilla meeting Bambi. The boy was swept off his feet, both literally and figuratively. There was never a chance for him to escape. One moment he was walking, dreamily remembering how he had started playing with Peter's frisky Brittany so many months ago, the next instant he was scooped up by a man who was three times his size. The glove that was forced over his mouth was soaked in pungent fluid that made him choke and cough. He remembered only a few seconds of what happened next before he passed out. He kicked, he bit, and then he was slammed onto the floor of the van with a bruising thud. As his eyes closed, the rear door of the van closed and everything went black. Very, very black.

Chapter 3

23542525213 12-21-03
—Lug-it Samsonite World Proof 30 Hardside $159.99
43551233129 12-21-03S
—t. Paul Medical Supply Co. Miscellaneous $154.84
52441232399 12-21-03
—Warner's Restaurant, St. Paul $17.23

Much as Peter Hamilton expected, there was no one at the cathedral. Expecting to find Shayne walking home since he had arrived somewhat later that the few minutes they had agreed upon, he followed the only logical route, down 4th Street. No matter how direct the route was, he still detoured a block to go past the park, their park. He looked into the gloom, past skeletal trees, beyond the snow-covered field to the playground where he met the boy of his dreams. What he remembered was the picture of innocence, a lonely nearly-ten-year-old boy making friends with a liver and white frolicsome dog who had no manners at all. The dog was all over the little boy, licking him on any exposed skin he could find.

It was funny to watch and innocent too, at least at the start, but he when he finally found the courage to walk over and introduce himself, he got hard awfully hard because the boy was 'drop dead gorgeous.' By the time he finally managed to separate them and calm the dog down, he was head-over-heels in love. So was the dog. It was all so… so natural. They needed each other.

There was no sign of Shayne in the park, but Peter wasn't worried. He continued on his way, still looking for the boy who he had taken to calling 'lover-boy', because it was true, but it was only when it was just the two of them and the dog. Had it been daylight, there was a chance that he might have noticed the disturbed snow next to the tire marks. Even in the darkness of a late December night, there was still a chance, because there was a streetlight nearby, but Peter Hamilton was thinking of Shayne's beautiful body and the utterly delightful things that they could do together for the rest of the night, all through the night if they wanted. And tomorrow night too, because Shayne's mother was a nurse and she had taken a double night shift at the hospital where she worked to get some extra money for the holiday season.

It was both reassuring and unsettling that she trusted him with her son, which didn't say a lot for her judgment, or maybe it did, because he did love Shayne. It wasn't infatuation, although it would have been easy to become infatuated with a boy like Shayne. It really was love. He loved Shayne and Shayne loved him back. And the sex? Well, one thing was certain. Shayne wasn't a virgin. They had done it for the first time only a week earlier, gone all the way, fucked. It was just the one time, although he got hard again before he pulled out so maybe it was twice. The strange thing was that once they had decided to do it, they discovered that is was remarkably easy to accomplish. Indeed, it was so much fun after only a few minutes that both of them realized that it was going to be essential to the love they shared. He couldn't wait to do it again. He fantasized about leaving it inside Shayne throughout the night. He hummed with happiness just thinking about it. Shayne's mother would have killed him if she knew what he dreamed of doing to her son that night. It wouldn't take very long the first time, but he planned on making the other times last.

There was no sign of Shayne when Peter arrived at his apartment. That was when he became worried. Really worried. He started making telephone calls. Father Joseph was the first one he called, even though he didn't like or trust the man. Then, he called Davy Gradison, who was Shayne's best friend, because there was a chance that Shayne went to play. He followed with a couple of the parents of other choristers, because the priest suggested it, and it made sense. After each person gave the answer he didn't want to hear, he became increasingly worried. He called Shayne's mother, Alicia. Then, he called 911. As he did so, he mulled over the incongruity of that number and 9/11, and then he tried to marshal his thoughts into some sort of coherence, or at least so as to not arouse suspicion. He was a concerned friend of the family.

Chapter 4

54534234231 12-22-03
—Walmart. St Paul Miscellaneous Items $64.56
23324229793 12-22-03
—Home Depot, St Paul, 2' [60 cm] plastic tube, 2" [5 cm] duct tape $9.40
98953242423 12-22-03
—Lucy's Upholstery Store. 4'x8'x4" [2½ m x 1¼ m x 10 cm] cushion foam $74.39
52441232323 12-23-03
—Warner's Restaurant, St. Paul $12.23

The process of handling missing person reports was somewhat accelerated for that time of the year, but especially so when the person was a child. Peter Hamilton's phone call was immediately routed to Detective White, who was a woman with a man's voice. Peter's hair, already spiky at the back, went up like a dog's bristles. 'Time to be careful', he mentally instructed himself.

"His name is Shayne Santorini. Like the Great Santini, but with an 'or' in the middle." It was a standing joke between them. It made him feel good, just to say it. Very few people knew of the Mediterranean island of the same name.

Already, his heart was thumping. God alone knew why he was so scared. Actually, he knew why he was scared as well. The conversation went poorly from the outset, when he gave his name.

"No, he's not my son. He's a friend. … Yes… his mother? Alicia Santorini. … Of course, she knows. I just got off the phone with her. … What? She's coming here right away, of course. … He was supposed to meet me at St Paul's. … What? S-T-P-A-U-L-S. It's the cathedral downtown. … Sorry, I didn't mean to shout. … Yes. Okay. … He's in the choir there. He had practice today. I was going to pick him up at 5.30 but with the snow, I ran late. … About six, I think. … Father Joseph, … that's right, Joseph. … I don't know his last name. Everyone calls him Father Joseph. He's the priest who's in charge of the choir. I called him first. He said that Shayne had walked home. So I drove the way he would go. There was no sign of him. … No, he's supposed to come to my place tonight. His mom's working late. He wasn't here when I arrived. … Yes, I called his friends. … Yes, I looked. … No, I didn't search the fucking building. … Sorry. … Okay. Yes, I'll search right away. Call you back? … Yes, of course. When? … Okay."

Chapter 5

23434234299 12-23-03
—Am. Air Flt 231 Minn-St Paul (MSP) to Rome $750

It was several hours later when Abdul Al Ghiran turned into the parking area of the St. Paul Motor Inn. His success in the park urged even greater caution, and a lot still remained to be done before he could relax. He backed the van up and turned the motor off. It was as close to his ground-floor room as he could get. Transferring the unconscious boy from the rear of the van into his room was simply a matter of putting the boy inside the suitcase. He was pleased to see that there was ample room. A few of the boys he had kidnapped had broad hips and shoulders so that he had to skimp on the padding. This boy was the perfect size to transport. Not only would he arrive unbruised but he would be easy to carry as well.

After lifting the now eighty-five pound [38.5 kg] suitcase down from the truck he quickly wheeled it inside and locked the door behind him. He placed the boy on the only bed in the room and stood back to admire him. The child was as special as he had seemed when Abdul Al Ghiran had initially observed him singing in the cathedral choir. What better place to find a boy who could sing? And the angelic boy on the bed could sing. He sang like a nightingale, he thought. That alone would please the Lion, but the boy was so beautiful that it would not matter that he had dark hair instead of blond hair.

For the first time since he had jerked the boy off his feet and clamped his hand over the small frantic mouth, Abdul Al Ghiran breathed deeply. It was a sigh of relief, even though the worst part was still to come. Momentarily, he studied what little of the boy that he could see beyond the burgeoning snow-jacket. The hands were fine-boned with longish fingers. The skin was smooth, unblemished, sallow, delicate the way a boy's hands were supposed to be when his role was to please a man. Abdul Al Ghiran licked his lips with anticipation when he imagined the depraved things those small hands would soon be required to do. There was still a lot to do, not the least being to remove all of the evidence of the boy's disappearance.

Getting the eight foot by four foot [2½ x 1¼ m] sheet of four inch [10 cm] foam into the motel room presented a problem because it would not fit into the suitcase. He compressed it onto the plywood floor of the van and used a box-cutter to slice it into several pieces.

The first boy who he had kidnapped in St. Louis died en route to Turkey by drowning in his own vomit. That was ten years ago. Now, he knew what to do. He took no chances. He waited until the boy began to regain consciousness. Then, he went to work. Shayne was still very groggy when Abdul Al Ghiran started to administer the luke-warm mixture of syrup of ipecac to induce vomiting and a solution of magnesium sulfate for good measure. The latter was both a harsh laxative and speedy cathartic, and cheap. It was easily purchased in any drug store because it was generally used for a quite different purpose than purging a young boy's stomach and intestines. Almost as soon as Shayne became aware of his surroundings, he began to vomit over the bedspread. Some of it splattered across his expensive jacket. Abdul Al Ghiran looked away, even turning up the television volume to drown out the sound of retching. As soon as the first wave was over, Shayne slumped back into darkness, not appreciating his predicament, or even realizing that another person was in the room with him.

While the boy slept, Abdul Al Ghiran set about removing his clothes. He was rough and cruel by nature, but not unnecessarily so because of the boy's special destiny. If the boy woke up, it wouldn't matter either way, but it was more enjoyable revealing the boy's body while he slept. From the moment he laid eyes on the boy in the choir, he had planned to do it slowly, relishing the task. That was always the best way. One piece of clothing at a time, savoring what could be seen and what was still covered. First, the bulky down-filled jacket that stank from vomit. He threw it across the room. He had seen the boy in his virginal white shirt only a few hours earlier and suddenly he wanted to see more, much more. He began to unbutton the front of the shirt. His hands trembled. Some boys had that affect on him, an affect that was so strong that he was unable to control himself. He ripped the last few buttons apart. He pulled the shirt apart and gazed at the pale slender body. The boy's nipples were tiny, like his slightly indented navel. The flesh was warm as he stroked across the firm belly. The Lion would be pleased. Very pleased indeed. He lifted the boy's shoulders up and removed the shirt, discarding it on the floor because the boy would never wear it or any other western shirt again.

The boy's arms were smooth and lean with only the slightest trace of peach fuzz on the forearms. It wasn't worth shaving off. Abdul Al Ghiran licked his lips and studied the sleeping boy. He would never admit to anyone, not even to himself, that he envied the Lion, but this boy was different than the others. This boy was truly beautiful. With surprising calm, he directed his attention to the boy's feet, unlacing his shoes before removing them. Then, the socks. The feet were small, like a girl's feet. The toenails, like the fingernails, were perfectly shaped and clipped close to the cuticle.

He unfastened the metal button and opened the zipper of the boy's trousers with nervous hands. It was so easy to spoil perfection. A single flaw, a mole in the wrong place, a scar. Cautiously, with tense movements, he removed the boy's carefully pressed black dress trousers. The legs were thin, as he expected, not well muscled, but not scrawny. Just beautiful. There was even less hair on his legs than on his arms. The thighs were smooth, slim, just the way the Lion liked. Legs that were neither masculine or feminine, but somewhere in between. All that remained was the boy's underwear, colorfully striped boxers. They felt like silk. Abdul Al Ghiran drew them down very slowly.

At first he did not believe his eyes. There was a ring of gold around the boy's penis. At the very bottom of it, where his scrotum joined. It was like a wedding ring, at least that was what he first thought of. Then, he saw the carved hieroglyphics that encircled the rim. At first, in a bizarre twist of fate, he thought the writing was Arabic. He reached down and pulled it off, musing as he did so why a boy would have a ring on his penis. The writing was not something that he could read. However, he was sufficiently familiar with young boys and their unusual habits, that he gave it no thought beyond putting the ring in his pocket. It was the only thing of Shayne's that he intended not to be destroyed. Nothing would be left in the room after he was finished.

When he awoke the second time, Shayne was naked and lying on his side in the bathtub. He vomited again, this time over himself, splattering his pearly skin with yellow fluid. As soon as his heaving ended, the cramping began. His bowels released before he could get up from his prone position. Barely had he recovered from the first bout of diarrhea when the second came, flushing out the remnants of digestion. That time, the stench was unbearable, even to Abdul Al Ghiran who had smelled it often enough to be used to it, yet it pleased him to see the watery dribble at the end. At least the boy would not drown in his own vomit or foul the suitcase.

The mixture that had caused him such distress was soon followed by another potion, an oily extract of the castor plant. Shayne fought to keep the ungodly liquid from his mouth, but there was little he could do to stop it. He gagged violently as it flowed into his mouth, even spitting some of it out before the man's hands forced his jaws apart and drained the bottle into his esophagus. And then, just as Shayne recognized the man before him, he shrieked as cold water from the shower sprayed down upon him. He shook uncontrollably, unable to resist as he was shoved back and forth under the water. Finally, when he was rinsed clean, the man dragged him from the shower. A cloth was forced into his face, covering both his nose and mouth. For the second time, he smelled the pungent over-powering fumes and he struggled to resist the arms that clasped him, wrapped his naked cold body in towels, and lifted him up onto the vanity. He was losing consciousness again even before he was placed in a face up position on the counter top.

What followed required more than a little care because of the nature of what needed to be done. There, in the harsh fluorescent light, everything that needed to be seen could be seen. There was more than a half inch [1 cm] of skin that protruded beyond the head of the boy's silky cock to form a nozzle-like pucker. Although it was not too late to correct the problem, it still angered Abdul Al Ghiran that such an otherwise absolutely perfect boy could be fouled merely because of his parents' neglect in circumcising him. Unlike his own parents, who waited until their son was old enough to have it done in the traditional manner of Islam, if a western boy retained his skin after birth, it was intended to remain until he died. It fouled the child. For that reason only, Abdul Al Ghiran donned a pair of latex gloves that would have been at much at home in a surgery as in the paint section of the hardware store where he bought them. He was ready for anything. Indeed, the little piece of skin that puckered from the tip of the boy's cock was quite unexpected, although he had heard only recently that American parents were increasingly choosing the unclean appearance for their sons. What surprised Abdul Al Ghiran was the apparent ease with which the foreskin retracted to expose the perfectly shaped if tiny helmet within. Usually, a young boy's foreskin was tight, in some cases even adhered to underneath.

Although he would not do it himself, he knew what needed to be done for the Lion's particular taste. In a way, an uncircumcised boy offered an opportunity that seldom came along. The Ring of Allah could be made as it should be made, not at the top of the shaft, but at the very bottom. Indeed, he had seen the procedure performed only three times before, twice on boys he'd procured and once upon himself when he was nine years old, in a tent in the desert of Saudi Arabia. Actually, he considered himself lucky that his cock wasn't flayed in the Bedouin tradition.

With amusement he fingered the child's prick until it became erect, then he pulled the prepuce down, completely exposing the head. Fascinated despite his disgust, he drew the rippling folds further down the thin hard shaft, until he observed what he hoped to find, that there was sufficient inner skin for the entire length. The circumcision scar would be at the very base. It would have the appearance of a kind of wedding ring because of the narrow band of darker tissue. A circumcision like that would have the effect of covering the shaft almost entirely with delicate mucous membrane instead of the more durable outer sheath. The boy's cock would have a glossy shine to it whenever it was erect for the skin would be stretched very tightly.

His attention turned to the boy's scrotal pouch. Like the child-sized cock protruding boldly above it, there too was a surfeit of skin. He fondled the delicate balls without applying much pressure, until he was able to lure them from their hiding places underneath and capture them between his fingers. They were as small as they appeared beneath the silky folds of pale skin. He was not experienced enough to detect the slight enlargement that preceded the arrival of puberty, yet he realized that maturity was at least a year or two away. Not that it mattered for the boy was destined never to know the delight of shooting his seed. For himself, he secretly preferred boys who had begun to ejaculate, but it did present a problem for many of his clients.

Just two tiny eggs could make all the difference in the world. With them, a boy was male, and therefore forbidden to a Moslem. Without, a boy was nothing, neither male or female, but a eunuch, an in-between. The word itself meant 'keeper of the couch', as much a guardian of the harem, as a means to satisfy a man's lust. He had seen the gelding done often enough, for most clients who preferred boys generally wanted them without their eggs. It was not performed as easily as circumcision, not at all, but it was nothing that required a doctor's surgery, not if one knew how to do it in the traditional way.

He continued to hold the boy's cock like that, with the foreskin pushed all the way back, while he inserted a No. 2 catheter into the urethra. It took patience, something that he normally had little of, and even less when he was under pressure. The boy's cock was fully erect and the tiny opening was barely large enough for the thin rubber tube, so it was rather like threading a needle. Nearly six inches [15 cm] went in before the boy's bladder was punctured and a stream of yellow urine squirted out the end and into the basin.

As soon as it finished, Abdul Al Ghiran began the task of taping the boy's limbs. First, a second skin of tightly stretched plastic wrap was applied, then loops of duct tape were wound around the arms to pull the boy's hands to his shoulders, and around his legs to secure his feet beneath his buttocks. He inserted the long rectal tube and securely taped the collection bag into place just in case there was something left inside. There would be no messy accidents this trip. Only when the task was finished did he stop to think how easily the tube had entered. He put the thought aside quickly. This wasn't the Middle East. The boy was most definitely a virgin. If only American parents knew that carefully protecting their sons in a bubble-like innocence made them all the more desirable to men like himself and the Lion.

More plastic wrap was applied to the boy's face, momentarily smothering him until Abdul Al Ghiran inserted two No. 6 catheters through the plastic film and into the boy's nostrils and down his nasal passages so that breathing was restored. Each catheter was connected to a piece of plastic tubing which would terminate in parts of the suitcase that had been specially prepared to guarantee a supply of fresh air. Then, more duct tape was wound around and around until a metallic-gray hood completely enclosed his head, until the child's back and chest were crisscrossed with two-inch [5 cm] stripes. By then, the boy's body, now bound into the fetal position, was completely immobilized. It would not matter if he did regain consciousness, and if he died, he would do so silently. Only two things remained to be done before the boy was placed in the suitcase. He secured the urinary catheter and a plastic collection bag to the boy's slender thigh with more tape. Then, he inserted an intravenous needle and feeding tube into a vein in the upper right forearm. For the next 36 hours the boy would survive on a liquid diet of Pedialyte and dissolved sleeping pills.

Only then, did Abdul Al Ghiran turn on the television set. He was shocked by the first thing that he heard. The director of the Department of Homeland Security had only that moment announced a change in the alert status from yellow to orange. It had happened before. The delay at the airport would be hours long, especially with the rental truck. With security concerns at the forefront of his mind, Abdul rushed to leave. He left the room not as he had found it, and certainly not as he intended, but fouled with feces, vomit, and scattered clothes.

Chapter 6

34355393539
—Veterans of America Cab Co. 5 miles. St, Motor Inn to Airport. $15.00
23434234928 12-23-03
—Am. Air Flt 231 MSP to Rome 45 lbs Excess Baggage $25
54484954545
—Starbucks Coffee Shop Minneapolis-St Paul (MSP) $12.30

Of course, Peter Hamilton was the prime suspect. That was the nature of kidnapping investigations. First look to the family's trusted friends because more than likely one of them was guilty. A computer program weighed probability, motive, opportunity, and whatever else was needed to make the same decision as Detective White. Within four hours, which was about the time that Shayne was being taken aboard an American Airlines 737 at Minneapolis-St Paul International Airport, a search warrant was issued for Peter's apartment. Nothing was discovered to implicate him, not as a kidnapper, not even as Shayne's lover. Only Peter's computer skills saved him in the latter situation because evidence of the latter certainly existed if someone knew how to find it. There were over a hundred jpeg image files hidden inside his computer. Taking photographs of Shayne without his clothes was but one of the games they played in Peter's bedroom. The files weren't encrypted, just encoded and hidden.

Peter knew better than most people how to hide things on a computer. His profession, if it could be called that, was computer security expert for CA, assigned to manage the upper-mid-west region. Long ago he realized that the best place to hide something was in the open where everyone could see it, or in this case, hear it. The only requirement was that no one knew what they were looking for, or how to translate a music track back into what were sometimes obscene photographs of a ten-year-old boy. It wasn't surprising that Peter's favorite group was the Trans Siberian Orchestra. In the cacophony of sounds, his jpeg noise went unnoticed.

Nearly 12 hours had elapsed from the time that Shayne was kidnapped before the focus of the investigation shifted from interrogating Peter Hamilton to checking his alibi. Only then was any thought given to the possibility of an unknown perpetrator, and by then it was too late. The plane that Shayne was on was already making its final approach into Rome's da Vinci Airport.

Chapter 7

34534505359
—Air Italia Flt 23 Rome () to Cairo () Departing Dec 24th L. 568,000
67535332222
—Trattoria Bernadetto. Roma. Prix fixe, vino, gratuite Dec. 24th. L. 30,800

On Christmas Eve evening Peter Hamilton sat in St. Paul's and cried while 35 boys in pure white surplices sang carols. There was an empty place in the middle of the front row, a place where Peter stared. He longed desperately to hear Shayne's pure soprano voice, to see his infectious grin or that shy awkward smile he had whenever he wanted to be touched by the man who he loved, but was too embarrassed to initiate something.

Peter had noticed that Shayne had the same smile when they made love, even if it had only been one time. For the days that followed that, he was incredibly happy, happier than he had ever been. More, he could tell that Shayne was happy. It wasn't simply a matter of being inside Shayne's wonderful body, tight and hot though it was. They were both happy just being together, but making love had taken that happiness to an even higher level. Joining their bodies was the natural outcome of what they felt about each other. Shayne claimed it didn't hurt that much. In fact, it was Shayne who kept asking if they could do it again.

Peter waited until the performance ended, until the priest gave a brief sermon and blessing that was appropriate to the season, until communion was finished, and people were leaving the cathedral. Only then did he find the courage to walk up to Father Joseph.

"Yes, my son? Oh, it's you." There was bitterness in his voice, but it passed quickly. "There's no word on the Santorini boy?"

"Nothing," Peter said bluntly.

He resented Shayne being referred to as 'the Santorini boy'… especially after Shayne had been in the choir for nearly two years. In his opinion, the priest was guilty of something. In Alicia's opinion, Father Joseph was responsible too, but only in so far as he had been remiss in allowing the boy to walk home by himself in the dark.

"I'm so terribly sorry. I've spoken to all the parents. No one has seen him. Perhaps he ran away?"

"No! Shayne wouldn't do that."

The priest inclined his head, thoughtfully considering. "Yes, I agree with you. Actually, for the last few months he always struck me as being very happy." He stopped to straighten a pile of papers. "You're fond of the lad, aren't you?"

His question took Peter back. 'Fond?' There had never been a time when his feelings for Shayne could be called 'fond'. He was fond of Shayne, very fond, because it was impossible not to like a boy like him, but it was always part of his love, an endearing, all encompassing love. He nodded slightly, not much but it was enough to show agreement. It also provoked comment. The priest nodded understandingly.

"He's rather attached to you, isn't he?"

"We're close friends," Peter answered brusquely. He resented how the priest inferred something more than friendship in his choice of words, even if it was true.

"You've not been here for choir practice at all this week, have you?"

"No. I had business to take care of," he replied.

He found himself resenting the priest's implication that he had been there, then Shayne would not have been kidnapped. He didn't need to be told that he was responsible. It was his fault because he wasn't there, because he was too busy at work to be there for Shayne when he really needed him

However, it was the carefully compiled timeline for business meetings and the phone calls he had made back at his apartment that finally provided his alibi. There was simply no time for him to do anything except the things he had claimed to have done the day that Shayne disappeared.

"It distracts him, when you're not here," the priest mused aloud. "I think he sings his best when you're here."

He gestured to the side aisle, to the row of seats that had become Peter's by virtue of his presence.

"And the police? They've found nothing yet?" he added.

"Nothing!" Peter could not hide the disgust. Shayne had disappeared from the face of the earth and there wasn't a single clue to be found.

"They came here to ask me about you," the priest confided. "So many questions. They kept me for an hour. They wanted to know about your relationship with him. I didn't tell them anything. Of course, you'll understand why I expect?"

Again, he ended with a question, but it wasn't one that Peter planned on answering. The man's manner unsettled him even more than the police interrogation he had undergone. They had given the impression that he was lying. The priest gave a very different impression… that he knew Peter had something to hide.

"You didn't tell them anything?"

"Nothing other than you're a good friend of the family and Shayne is fond of you. But that's only the truth, isn't it?"

"That's true," Peter agreed apprehensively

"However, it's not the complete truth, is it?"

"Meaning what?" Peter demanded.

"You and I are a lot alike," the priest observed quietly. "We enjoy similar things, I think. I'm quite sure we do in fact. We do, don't we?"

"Such as?" Peter queried. Increasingly, he distrusted the man.

"Ah, shall we say the sweetness of youthful innocence. The purity of an unbroken voice. The delight of a kiss given willingly. A shy smile that means something more than happiness. I'm sure you appreciate those things. You do, don't you?" The priest smiled, not shyly.

"A poet in the priesthood?" Peter said cruelly.

"No, just an admirer, like yourself."

Peter was taken aback. He swallowed dryly. The man's tone said a lot more than his words. "An admirer? Of what?"

"Ah. Our previous discussion about dear little Shayne has been forgotten already it seems?"

"What are you saying?" Peter demanded abruptly. He didn't like the way the priest referred to Shayne as 'dear little Shayne'. He didn't like anything about the man.

The priest smiled cynically. "And I thought I was making myself very clear. I was so certain that you'd understand what I'm getting at. And you don't, do you?"

"You aren't being clear at all."

"Well then, perhaps I should come right out and say what should be very obvious to the both of us. Should I?"

"Please do," Peter said brashly.

"Perhaps I'm wrong, but I believe that while we have our differences, we both agree on one thing." He paused for effect.

"There's nothing quite like the company of a charming boy, is there?"

Peter stepped back in shock. His ears burned with the truth.

"Yes, my son," the priest continued confidently. "We share the same affection for beautiful boys, don't we?"

"I don't," Peter replied hotly.

The priest smiled calmly. "Of course, I wondered about your relationship with Shayne when we talked before. Your concern for him was really quite unexpected. I expect you realize that, don't you?" the priest continued.

"Why unexpected?"

"Of course, I should have realized there was another man. He's so much better than I deserve. He's very sweet, and I'm sure he doesn't mean to, but the poor boy does send signals. I'm sure you've noticed them. You see, I'd thought that he was interested in me until then. I was rather surprised when you turned up. But of course, I can understand why he'd be attracted to such a good-looking man as yourself. What boy wouldn't be interested?"

"Um…"

Peter stumbled through his memories, finding it unable to deny the other man's claim. Shayne did 'send signals'. He had sent signals that first day in the park. It was the way he smiled, or demurely lowered his eyes, or squatted with his knees wide apart to show off the one thing that really interested Peter. That afternoon, Peter had not seen anything of interest except pale thin thighs in the constricted recesses of Shayne's shorts. However he had the distinct impression that the boy was not wearing underpants, and that he wanted the man to know it.

"So?"

"I think you'll agree with me that he's a rather special boy, and not just because of his good looks. He attracts men such as yourself," the priest explained. He smiled gratuitously, for it was obvious that the statement equally applied to him. He nodded thoughtfully. "When you didn't appear this week, I actually thought he'd found someone else. Do you suppose that's a possibility?"

"Someone else?" Peter choked on the words. He had worried about that for weeks, until they had exchanged 'I love you'. Then, there was no doubt in his mind that Shayne would be his to love forever.

The priest shrugged ambivalently. "It's none of my business. However, since he's missing, I think I'd better tell you. Since Monday, there was another man here, watching him just as you do. Shayne seemed to ignore him, but…" The priest paused and gestured absently. "One never knows with boys. They tend to be… well, some of them are at least… if they're not promiscuous, then they're unfaithful. It's all one big adventure. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about?"

"Shayne's not like that."

"Perhaps not, but that doesn't stop other men from being lured to him. He certainly not what you'd call coy, now is he?"

"True," Peter agreed. "Who was this person?"

He disliked how men looked at the boy he loved, begrudging them even the slightest chance to feast their eyes. Despite how proud he was of Shayne, he was also possessive. It was hard not to be with a boy like Shayne.

"He hasn't been here before this week. I'm certain of that. The man… he was an Arab, I believe. He was very uncomfortable sitting in here. Hmm… let me see if I can remember. Well, he was about your age. Tall with dark hair. Oh, and of course, the thing that was very strange, he was a Moslem without a beard. You don't see that very often, do you?"

"Really?" Peter wasn't greatly concerned, but it extended enough to make him think. His concern for Shayne increased for a reason that he did not understand.

The priest nodded. "A very strange one he was. No doubt it was a one-way street at least as far as his interest in your boy went. He was handsome in a foreign sort of way, but he was hardly the sort of man who would attract a boy like Shayne. But of course, you know him better than I do, don't you?"

"In what way?"

"He drove a rental van. I would have thought that something a bit sportier would be desirable if he was trying to pick up a cutie like Shayne. Boys do like their cars, don't they?"

"A rental van?"

"Yes, a rental van. I didn't tell the police, of course."

"Why not?"

"For the same reason that I didn't tell them the truth about you." The priest half closed his eyes. "If you must know, I thought Shayne might have gone off somewhere with him. It was one of those U-Haul vans with the price on the back doors." He scratched the back of his head. "$29.95. That was it."

Chapter 8

34534505428 12-24-03
—Air Italia Flt 23 Dec 24th 20 kg. Excess Baggage L. 53,000
56873434394 12-24-03
—Cosimo Roma Airport L 36,300

Peter Hamilton tracked down the first clue within an hour. It was remarkably easy. The Yellow Pages listed truck and van rental companies. It took two phone calls to find the office that had leased the van. Needless to say the U-Haul desk clerk would not give out the lessee's name, but did provide the date of the contract. That was all that was needed for Peter Hamilton to be able to do what he was trained to do. He began by connecting his computer to a service account at First Data, the leading processor of credit card transactions in the region. Hacking the system was easy for him. The hard part would be finding the right record without spiking the host computer's security functions with too many queries. There were ways of limiting the search and he used every one of them. He found the transaction within ten minutes and recorded the Visa credit card number in pencil by writing on the plastic surface of his laptop. '4356-4368-2454-1289'. He stared at the screen, still not believing, but there it was.

23485373202 Three day rental Dec 22-24 Ryder Co, St. Paul $93.49

The name of the credit card holder made little sense to him. Jeffrey Alvin Dalton. He had been expecting to see an Arab name because of what the priest had told him. Perhaps he had the wrong person after all. Perhaps another man was involved. Perhaps Dalton was an alias.

Still, he continued his search, now made much simpler because he could search using the credit card number. There were twelve transactions, from December 20 to that very afternoon, stretching from Atlanta to Minneapolis, to Rome, to Cairo. Again, he tried to reason with himself that he was wasting his time. There were any number of explanations, all of them logical. He went so far as to conjecture that Dalton had flown to Atlanta to see his family, used the Ryder to empty his apartment in St. Paul, then flown to Cairo for some sort of employment position. It all made sense. It was a dead end.

Peter Hamilton seldom drank, and certainly not during the last few months, not since he'd met Shayne. Shayne made his life so enjoyable that alcohol was unnecessary. That night, alone and angry at the world, he drank Jim Beam Bourbon, straight. Half a bottle of Black Label. He was nearly fall-down drunk when he called Shayne's mother and told her what her son meant to him. She said she understood. Peter cried. She cried. He almost told her that he was in love with Shayne. He said he would never give up the search until he found him. He put the telephone down and sobbed until he sobered up.

His conjecture was certainly an intuitively appealing explanation, but Peter's intuition didn't like it. There was something wrong. And then it struck him that unlike his credit card, Dalton's credit card had not been used for most of that month, not until December 20th. It was probably a coincidence. It was entirely possible that Dalton had acquired the card because of the overseas trip, so Peter logically initiated yet another search of the database. 'Jeffrey Alvin Dalton' turned up only one credit card issued, and that was applied for from an address in Houston almost one year earlier. With nervous fingers he searched the transaction record for the entire year. Nothing. He captured the transaction details for December, filed them away, and logged off. Only then did he put one and one together. One was Father Joseph's description of the man in the cathedral as being an Arab. One was Dalton's destination of Cairo.

It was early morning when he was sober again. Then, almost in a dream, the epiphany came, when he realized what had been staring him in the face from the printed list of credit card purchases. The excess baggage charges! An extra 45 pounds [20 kg] at Minneapolis-St. Paul and 20 kilograms at Rome. They were almost the same weight, and if added to the usual 40 pound [18 kg] baggage allowance… suddenly, another item on the list of purchases made a lot more sense to him:

23542525213 12-21-03 Lug-it Co. Samsonite World Proof 30 Hardside $159.99

He used his computer to access the web. The Samsonite World Proof 30 measured 28.6 x 22 x 13.2 inches [72.6 x 56 x 33.5 cm]. It came with large ball-bearing wheels, both combination and key locks, a super hard ABS shell and magnesium frame, and rubber bumper surrounds. He held his hands apart, trying to judge the dimensions, particularly the crucial dimension of 13.2 inches [33.5 cm]. Shayne was narrow in the hips and shoulders. Shayne was skinny. It was one of the things he liked about him, how he could hold him between his hands and almost, but not quite enclose his waist. Instinctively, he realized it was more than large enough. His heart began to beat faster and faster. What did the suitcase weigh? What did Shayne weigh? He wasn't very heavy. Just the week before, Peter had flipped him head over heels. He couldn't have weighed more than 75 pounds [34 kg]. That was when… He blotted out the thought, enjoyable though it was. Somewhere between eighty and ninety pounds [35-40 kg] for a boy and a suitcase combined. It was the only explanation that he could think of for 85 pounds [38.5 kg]. He always traveled light.

Yet for several minutes, he still rejected the possibility. It simply wasn't possible to put a boy in a suitcase and carry him out of the country. That sort of thing happened only in cheap novels. He had to get a tape measure to prove it to himself. A minute later he accepted that it was physically possible, at least, for a boy of Shayne's size to be positioned inside it, but how? He would have to be drugged. How long did it take to go from Minneapolis to Rome? Ten hours? What if he woke up? The thought chilled him. It sickened him even more than the idea of Shayne being a prisoner, tied to a bed…

There was a time, only a very brief time, when he considered calling Detective White. Instead, he called Shayne's mother again, catching her on the way out the door. He knew where she was going. To the same place that she'd gone every morning since he had met Shayne. Nothing had changed since he had disappeared. Her prayers were still for him. He explained his theory, incredulous as it was, not really believing himself. She did, but she was clutching at straws. There was nothing else to go on.

"Alicia… he's in Cairo by now then," Peter said hopefully. "If he was inside the suitcase that is. I don't know. Maybe. I don't why someone would want to do that. Yes, I suppose they might want to adopt him."

She was distraught. So was Peter, yet he understood a lot more than he let on.

"I think it would be a waste of time. They probably still think I did it. I don't know. I suppose the FBI. After what's happened for the last few days, I don't trust any of them. Besides they'll probably say I'm crazy. Carrying him in a suitcase is kind of hard to believe."

So, Peter Hamilton took the matter into his own hands. However, instead of rushing off to Egypt, he spent the rest of the day with Shayne's mother making inquiries. They visited the same stores in St. Paul, following in Dalton's footsteps. They did so with the growing realization that the man who they sought was already half a world away and there was little they could do about it.

Chapter 9

46372292002 12-24-04
—El Ur Din Rental Co. Cairo Int. Deluxe 5-day, mileage 200/20c,

Abdul Al Ghiran drove his rented Mercedes Benz G320 east into the darkness of night, headed towards Suez. He followed the railway line for a distance, then veered away. His destination was but fifty kilometers [30 miles] from the airport. Medinet was a small village on the very edge of the desert. After stopping for dinner, it was nearly midnight when he arrived. He stopped outside a small inn, which would have been a logical place for him to stop for the night, except that he did not go inside. The suitcase was sitting upright on the rear seat. It had been difficult to put in the car because of its weight and size, yet he was glad he had done so. After a day and a half, the intravenous solution had been used up so the boy would likely have regained consciousness. He assumed, rightly, that by sitting upright, the boy's terror would be lessened. He hurried across the dusty street to a telephone that was attached to a brick wall. Sand and time had eroded the mortar from the joints, but the gaps had been filled, at least around the telephone by gobs of hardened chewing gum. He did not insert coins. He simply called a number, letting it ring twice. The second time, it rang three times. After a minute he returned to the car, started the engine, and slowly drove on, looking for the road towards Tacqit.

The farmhouse was typical of the region. A low-roofed dwelling of indeterminate age, with crates stacked high around, parting only to reveal windows. The lights were off when he came to a stop, but within seconds a flashlight beam appeared, directing him onwards. He drove past a shed, arousing chickens. He stopped with the front of the car under a lime tree. It offered little shade, but in the heat of the day, some shade was better than no shade at all.

The man who opened the car door was his uncle, Abubakar al Sid. They embraced quickly and without emotion.

"You have him Abdul?"

"Yes." Abdul Al Ghiran pointed to the suitcase. "Wait until you see this one, Abu. He's a pretty little thing. He sings like a bird."

"Ah. He'll sing even better after he's felt a man's cock inside his bowels."

Abdul Al Ghiran laughed and clapped his uncle on the shoulders. "You haven't changed a bit in all the years I've known you. Let's get him inside."

Together they dragged the suitcase from behind the front seats. It was easier with two people.

"He's not as heavy as the others," the old man grunted. His back was stiff. So was his cock. He had a passing thought of another boy who was asleep inside the hut.

"Remember the little one last year? His hair was so white it was almost silver"

"Yes, of course. A delightful boy. Very beautiful? He recovered quickly."

"This one is even better looking."

"That's hard to believe. You have a buyer for him?"

Abdul Al Ghiran laughed. "I do indeed. He's not for you, old man. Not unless you'd like to explain to the Lion."

The old man was humbled. He nodded his head to show respect. "He'll be safe with me, if not with him."

Abdul smiled. "You say that now, uncle, but I have a favor to ask of you. There is a reason why I brought him here besides the gelding. He still has his skin."

They exchanged glances. "You'll want him done like you, I expect nephew?" the old man asked.

"Of course. Take the inside skin down as far as you can."

"And tight as well?"

"The tighter the better. It will only add to his charm. Some shine even when he's soft would be good."

"That tight?"

"The Lion prefers it. It's not as if the boy will want to play with it again."

The old man snorted. "Of course you're right. Once he heals, he won't be a virgin for more than a day. And what of the child's balls, Abdul? You'll want them gone for the Lion, I expect."

"To become the bride of Allah, that is essential, but unless you want to anger the Lion, I suggest you do him just as his other boys have been prepared. The last time we talked, he spoke admiringly of your work."

"Ah, but I've developed a way that's even better, Abdul. It's neater and there's far less chance of him getting an infection."

"Do you have everything you need to do it?"

"Yes, Abdul. No, I remember now. We will need more antiseptic."

"I'll bring some back with me when I go to Cairo."

Abdul extended the handle and pulled the suitcase behind him, not bothering to lift it over the threshold but giving it a hard jerk instead. Inside, in total darkness, Shayne Santorini woke up for the first time in nearly two days.

He had never been scared, truly scared with fear that is overwhelming and the mind freezes. However, when he heard the suitcase locks being opened, felt the chunks of foam being pulled away from where they had been wedged between his body and the sides of the suitcase, the sudden flow of air against his bare back, his fear became even worse. His bowels contracted and then released, again squirting abdominal fluids into the already squishy rectal bag. He felt hands touch him through the layer of plastic and duct tape and then he was lifted bodily, groggily, from the suitcase and placed on the table, a shocking parody of a statue.

"Pass me the scissors Abdul!" The voice was guttural and very foreign, strangely familiar.

He heard the snipping before he felt the hard edge of metal pressing into his skin.

"Be careful."

"Don't pull the catheter yet. He's pissing himself again."

"He's small."

"Small but perfect. Wait until you see all of him."

The plastic wrap was peeled away slowly, exposing bare pallid skin, first his face, then legs, then arms. With exposure came soreness. Shayne stayed hunched up in a fetal ball, protectively blocking out the awful world around him.

"Yes, you're right, he's very pretty indeed. The Lion will be pleased with this one."

"I hope so."

A hand pushed between Shayne's knees and head and grabbed his lower jaw. His head was forced up. He kept his eyes closed, tightly shut, hoping, yet knowing it wasn't a nightmare. His head was spinning. If was if someone had suctioned out his brain and his head was hollow. Nothing! The urge to cough grew stronger. His nose, inside his nose, hurt terribly. It hurt everywhere, aching awful pain. And it hurt in his penis too, as if a white-hot rod had been driven into it, right up into his body. He gagged, spitting out bile that had found its way into his mouth. He felt the pain in his penis increase suddenly, a tearing agony that finally produced a scream as the catheter was dragged out of the urethra. Even after it was out, it didn't feel any better. It felt as if he was on fire between his legs. He dared not look.

"He's bleeding."

"Of course he's bleeding. It will stop soon enough. It bleeds because it's torn inside. You should have used something to make it slide."

"I put the oil inside him, like you said Abu."

"Put it on this too, next time. It'll go in easier as well. Let's lay him down."

Shayne's body was rearranged, his legs straightened out, his feet, with barely any feeling in them, reached to the edge of the table. His head was pushed onto the hard wood and held still by a single hand that covered the top half of his face. Between the spread fingers he could see a single light bulb suspended overhead. It swung like a pendulum.

"A pretty one indeed." That voice seemed older.

"As I told you, Abu. I have never seen a prettier one, I think."

"Ah. You've chosen well. He's a little small, but you say he sings nephew?"

"Like a bird, Abu, but he'll sing like a nightingale when you are done with him."

"The Lion will enjoy this one when he's recovered."

"I'm sure he will. When will you do it? Tonight?"

"Would you have me kill the boy? No, I thought not. Perhaps tomorrow. We'll see what the morning brings. He needs to gain some strength. It's not difficult to do, at least not for one so small, but the gelding still drains them."

Shayne did not understand what they were talking about. Fingers pulled at the end of his penis. He barely felt the cloth that came over his mouth. He recognized the odor, but unlike the other two times, this time there was no struggle. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs. It offered relief from the pain. He did not feel one of the men's cocks being placed in his hand or the laughter that followed when copious squirts of semen were ejaculated over his arm.

Chapter 10

44484443434 12-25-03
—Cairo Int. Airport. Coffee Shop $3.20

"What about this one?" Peter asked. He pointed to the next transaction on the paper:

43551233129 12-21-03 St. Paul Medical Supply Co. Miscellaneous $154.84

"It looks important," he added.

"It could be nothing at all."

He nodded thoughtfully. The last place they had visited was Warner's Restaurant, where Dalton had gone to eat no fewer than four times. With over a thousand customers a day, no one remembered anyone, especially that close to Christmas. It was frustrating, if understandable.

"$150 bucks is a lot of money for nothing at all. It's worth a try."

She went in by herself, using the ploy that Peter had suggested. She was Dalton's secretary and she was trying to process his petty cash claim, but she lost the receipt. It worked. In ten minutes she was back in Peter's car. She frowned and handed over the copy of what had been purchased by 'Dr. Dalton'. Peter read aloud.

"No. 2 catheter 15 inch [38 cm]. No. 6 catheter 12 inch [30 cm]. It says there were two of them. Intravenous package, size 4. Rectal kit, medium child. 2 collection bags." He thought, then read again to himself. "It doesn't make a damn bit of sense."

She agreed with him, although both of them realized that it probably made a lot of sense. They simply didn't understand how the pieces fitted together.

They tried the same approach at Walmart. It didn't work. The visit to the Home Depot was similarly unrewarding. No one remembered seeing anyone or anything. Both of them feeling depressed when they went into Lucy's Upholstery Store on Beckett Street. It wasn't often that they sold a 4 foot by 8 foot by 4" [2½ m x 1¼ m x 10 cm] thick piece of cushion foam. The gray haired lady at the counter remembered Dalton very well.

"At first I thought he'd come up from Florida, though, it's hardly the season for them to come up north. He was much too young to be retired."

"Why there?"

"Well, I could tell from his suntan that he wasn't from around here, of course. He was quite a handsome man too. He had thick dark hair. He looked very well off. Properly dressed. Not jeans like most men wear nowadays."

Peter smiled and nodded reassuringly. He was wearing jeans that he had purchased to match Shayne's favorite jeans. There was leather edging on the pockets. She probably hadn't noticed what he was wearing. Like young boys, old ladies also tended to like him.

"Did he say what he needed the foam for?"

"No, not really. Oh, I expect he needed it for packing something valuable. A lot of people do that, you know, when they're transporting a family heirloom or expensive china."

"What makes you think he was going something like that?"

"The van he was driving. It was one of those moving vans. It was parked right there," she added. Her gesture to the window indicated that the van had been park directly outside the store.

"Could you describe him?"

"Only what I've already told you. I thought he might have been from the university."

"Why?"

"His accent. It wasn't American. Some of them come in here, the students I mean, to buy mattresses, or pillows. I've told the manager that we should stock bed linen, but…"

"I'm sure they'd sell very well," Peter agreed.

Outside, with cups of luke-warm coffee, they tried again to put the pieces into coherent order. It was like connecting the dots, except the dots weren't numbered and some of the dots were missing. Peter said so.

"But it doesn't matter," she responded. "We have a theory."

"Yes, a dumb theory," Peter rebuked. "It doesn't make sense, ."

"Put yourself in his position."

"Shayne's?"

"No. This Dalton person. What would he do?"

"I don't think that's his name," Peter remarked sullenly.

"It doesn't matter, Peter." She tapped the sheet of paper listing the credit card transactions impatiently. "Let's start by imagining your theory is right."

"It's not."

"What if it is? You're going to put a little boy inside a suitcase for a long trip. How would you do it?" she asked bravely.

Peter gave an uncomfortable shrug. What she was asking, he didn't want to think about. She wanted him to make sense out of the things that Dalton had purchased.

"I guess… you'd want to pack foam around him so he wouldn't slide around inside."

She nodded encouragingly, even though it pained both of them to think about it.

"He'd have to be unable to move a muscle so he could make a noise, or he might be drugged." He paused, swallowing. "The duct tape? Oh God! They taped him up. That has to be it." He pulled the sheet of paper from her hand, nearly ripping it. "And the medical crap. God! I guess it all makes sense in a way. If it involved a day or so, you'd have to give him fluids or run the risk of dehydration. That explains it. But there's no drugs! Maybe they didn't use drugs."

He was immediately relieved, because he couldn't think of any way of taking Shayne on board an airplane without drugging him first. Shayne had never been on a plane but he still hated the idea of flying. Maybe it was all coincidence. There was still the motel to check out. Maybe they'd find him there, in a room at the St. Paul Motor Inn.

"There's a pharmacy at Walmart," she reminded him. Her voice wavered, barely keeping back tears. "They probably sell them."

"Not without a prescription."

"I guess not. But if you bought over-the-counter pills for adults and gave them to him…"

"That's true. I suppose… but they x-ray baggage on planes, don't they? Someone would have to see him inside."

Peter thought of his own method of hiding things, most notably photographs of Shayne. The best way to hide something was where everyone could see it. A suitcase more or less fell in that definition.

"I don't know. I don't fly nearly as much as you do, but I know they x-ray whatever you hand carry on board a plane."

They sat in awkward silence for nearly a minute.

"Peter, there was that story a few months ago about someone who shipped himself by air, remember?"

Peter nodded.

"Maybe they don't inspect very closely."

"After 9/11?" Peter asked abruptly.

"They'll be looking for explosives in suitcases, not a person. You said it wasn't even a very large case. That's what's happened," she said flatly. "Oh Peter! He's… he's… they've taken him to Cairo," she cried.

"Then I'll go to Cairo," Peter said determinedly.

"You?"

"Yes, me. I'm beginning tot think it's the only chance. Maybe I'm wrong, but it seems like we have to do something because no one else it. The police probably still think that I did it," he said angrily.

She dried her eyes. "You're very fond him aren't you?"

"Funny, that's the second time someone has said that since…"

"You are though. Shayne's… Peter, I don't know… he's… he talks so much about you… he's very fond of you as well."

Peter choked, He wanted to tell her how very much he loved her son. How Shayne loved him back. How happy there were when they were together. 'Fond'? It was more than 'fond'. It was love for the two of them. It had always been love.

"You love him, don't you Peter?"

He looked up suddenly. He sighed and nodded. "I…"

"You don't have to say it Peter. I think I already know."

"I do… I do love him. I have to find him," Peter sobbed. "I have to! God, I'm so worried something bad has happened to him."

"I'm worried about him too. Peter… Peter, please try to find him."

Peter nodded. He wanted to reassure her, yet he could not find the words. He was too troubled by the thoughts that plagued his mind. Images of Shayne being subjected to terror, the awful fear of being locked inside the suitcase. Then, even worse, he imagined him hurt, even dying, because he knew that whoever Dalton was, he was a pedophile.

"I'll try."

"If you need money…"

"It's not a problem. I've been saving to buy a house." He did not add that he harbored dreams of living in it with Shayne.

She smiled. "Me too. That's why I've been working the extra shifts." She sighed. "I was doing it for Shayne."

While she used his cell phone to book a seat on the next flight to Rome, he drove home quickly. With only a few hours to spare before departure he took just enough time to collect an overnight bag which was primarily occupied by his laptop computer, and his passport. What ever he needed, he would buy. Most of the time was spent collecting the dog's things and getting her into the car. It would have been much easier if Shayne was there to help.

There was still one more stop to make. The St. Paul Motor Inn was one of the most important items on the list of charges, but there was no time to do it and get Peter to the airport on time. They had gone there first. It was only logical to do so, both of them half expecting to find Shayne staying in one of the rooms. They couldn't let themselves think of anything else. Instead, the desk clerk told them to come back after lunch when the manager came on duty.

Shayne's mother went to the motel by herself. The manager was less than helpful at first, but after she became aware of the situation, she quickly led the way to the room where Dalton was registered. No one had been into the room since his check-out for the simple reason that the motel was not that busy and several of the cleaning staff had been given time off for the Christmas in lieu of a bonus.

They walked inside the room and immediately both women sensed that something was wrong, very, very wrong. The smell of vomit was strong, and the bedspread was splattered with dried stains. A child's clothes, white trousers and shirt were tossed to the side. There was a towel on top of a snow jacket in the far corner. Shayne's shoes and socks lay discarded on the floor beside the bed. In the bathroom, the smell was worse. The tiled floor and the bottom of the bathtub were still wet. There were gobs of feces, vomit, mess everywhere. Lying on the vanity were a partially used roll of plastic wrap and a roll of duct tape. Shayne's mother was barely able to stop from crying as she called Peter at the airport and described what she was looking at. She didn't mention the empty boxes that had contained the catheters. From the yellow urine that streaked the vanity, she understood what one of them had been used for. There was no point in upsetting Peter further when he was about to board the flight to Rome.

Chapter 11

23232343694 12-25-03
—Telecon Egypt. 10 min 034 324 38 to 015 54 324 2322 2 $7.34
38595405435 12-25-03
—Flt 34 Cairo-Paris, Paris to Cairo Dec. 26th. $1,245.00

Shayne woke up with the morning sun of December 25th in his face. His captors had taken the precaution of securing a metal cable to his wrist. It could be removed only by cutting the cable with a pair of heavy-duty pliers, and even then it would take several minutes to cut through the wires. Not surprisingly, his first thought was of his mother. It was quickly followed by Peter. His Peter. He pulled at the cable, not realizing that it had been attached to the bed. The rusty bed springs squeaked loudly. He heard movement, the soft pad feet on a packed earth floor. He quickly closed his eyes and feigned sleep.

"He still sleeps." The words were incomprehensible, yet the boy's voice was not much different to his own.

"Wake him up."

A hand, wiry and grimy, pushed urgently at his shoulder. "Wake up! WAKE UP!"

Language wasn't important when words were shouted in the ear. Shayne shoved at the hand. His head throbbed mercilessly.

"Ameri-kano pig! DOG FUCKER!"

That much hatred, even Shayne understood. The threadbare blanket that covered him was abruptly yanked away. He raised his right arm, expecting to shield off a blow. It never came. Instead, the boy laughed. Slowly, nervously, Shayne opened his eyes to slits. The wall in front of him was flecked with fly dirt, cobwebs, stains whose origin was indeterminate, what might have been spots of blood. The boy kept laughing, leaning over him.

"He still has skin on his prick, see Abu! It's disgusting!" he observed to the old man who was sitting next to the fireplace.

"Not for long, Maareq. Not for long," the old man answered cheerlessly.

"You will cut his prick today, Abu?"

"Perhaps. We will see. He needs to eat first. He must get his strength back."

"You will take his balls too?"

"Yes."

"Can I have them?"

"Perhaps. Abdul did not say if they were needed."

Maareq smirked and promptly left Shayne's side. He heard the boy's cross the floor again. Something smacked. Someone giggled. Another smack. It sounded the same as when Peter playfully slapped his bottom. It was never intended to hurt. It was fun. The sound of flesh on flesh was reassuring. There was another giggle. It sounded as if the boy liked getting his bottom smacked as much as he did. He tensed when he heard the sound of footsteps again. This time, a strong, rough hand gripped his bare hip and turned him over onto his back. Shayne stared up at a withered old man and brown-skinned black-haired boy who was naked as he was.

"He's a pretty one, isn't he Maareq?"

The boy smirked, his eyes staring straight at Shayne's middle. He nodded eagerly. "You have a fuck with him?"

"No! Definitely not. This one belongs to the Lion."

The boy's eyes widened. The smirk began to change, becoming a grin. "He's the Lion's boy?"

"Not yet, but he soon will be, Maareq. He will be taken to the Lion when he recovers from the gelding."

"But I still get his balls like the others?"

"Perhaps. Maybe the Lion will take them. You eat too many Ameri-kano eggs anyway, my sweet. Perhaps you will turn into an Ameri-kano dog fucker."

The boy laughed. Shayne didn't understand a word, but the boy seemed pleased by whatever the man had said to him.

They spoon fed him a watery gruel, dark brown in color that tasted bitter. It was followed by a grain mush. Shayne managed to get down a few spoonfuls before he groaned and began to dry retch. After he recovered, his body became very flushed. As his face was wiped clean he had a terrible thought that he was going to die, alone and without Peter. He forced himself to think of something that offered hope. He thought of Peter, imagining his face. It helped but he was so exhausted that he was almost catatonic.

He drifted back to sleep, dreaming of something that seemed very long ago…

It had been entirely his idea, although it had been Peter who first told him how a man and a boy made love, how they would both be virgins until they did that. It sounded both fun and funny, improbable even if it was possible. Peter assured him that losing their virginity wasn't going to be easy, if the stories he had read had any grain of truth to them. One rainy Saturday afternoon in late November they even read one of those stories together, lying side by side on the couch. They read the part about anal penetration several times and talked about it at length, until it was time for Shayne to go home. By then, his mind was made up.

He hadn't talked to Peter again about it. Instead, he waited until the time was right. It took several weeks before an opportunity arose, before his mother was scheduled to work the night shift at the hospital. It was a simple matter for him to get her to agree to him staying overnight at Peter's house. She said that staying the night at Peter's apartment was 'habit forming', and he agreed.

That night he made Peter go to bed earlier than usual. It was a simple matter of pretending to be tired. Perhaps Peter suspected something, but he still carried Shayne upstairs and into his bedroom. It was fun as they romped naked and shameless on Peter's bed. Then, they lay down together and cuddled. Taking the initiative, Shayne began to kiss the man he loved. They kissed and kissed, kissed until their cocks hardened and were pointed up, one ever so much larger than the other. Then, Shayne lay down on his back and draped his widespread legs over Peter while he lay on his side. Like that, he could guide Peter's cock to his crack merely by pointing it downwards. He rubbed the head up and down his crack, grinning with happiness because it felt wonderful for both of them. They had done that several times before, but never more than that. It became very slippery between them, both his crack and Peter's cock covered with the shiny slime that leaked out of the latter. It was all very sexy.

Because he didn't know any better, he tried to force it in too early and it hurt. It hurt worse than when he was constipated and trying to poop out hard lumps, and it hadn't even penetrated. Peter immediately stopped him from trying again. They talked again, back and forth between them until Peter yielded. He agreed that they could try it for a while, but they weren't going to hurt him again. It was obvious that Peter didn't expect it to go in.

Then, they did it together, rubbing the big spongy head up and down his crack, at times sharing Peter's cock with one hand each, concentrating their attention on the opening with gentle pushes. His hole stretched gradually, glowing with heat and tingling with delicious feelings until the knob could actually fit into what had become a much larger depression. But it was still too small. And so they kept on, oblivious to the time, intent only on enjoying it. He would never forget the slippery juice that oozed continuously from Peter's cock, the rubbery firm but delicately soft swollen head, the way that Peter's eyes half-closed, the way his body trembled when the head of his cock bulged into his tight boy's body.

After an hour, his opening had become so dilated that the head of Peter's cock suddenly slipped inside him.

It hadn't hurt at all. All it had taken was patience. They gazed at each other in disbelief. It had happened without either of them really trying. Peter hadn't really pushed. He'd just squeezed up against Shayne and Shayne had squeezed back, playing a game whose only goal was to make each other feel good. One moment Peter's huge cock was outside, the next, more than an inch was buried inside Shayne's body. The rim of Shayne's anus tightened quickly, pulling back against the flared ridge of Peter's cock, holding it tightly. Despite the seriousness of the situation, they both giggled. Peter said he wasn't a virgin any more, that neither of them were, but Shayne knew it had to take more that just the head of Peter's cock. He used his legs to pull himself closer. He felt something expanding inside his body, filling him with joy…

It was the middle of the day before Shayne managed to hold some food down. More gruel and mush, and creamy goat's milk that tasted very unlike any milk he'd ever had. It settled his stomach even though he thought it tasted sour.

Chapter 12

Peter Hamilton spent Christmas Day in a hotel room near the Rome Airport. There were no flights to Cairo until the following day. He sent a brief note to Shayne's Yahoo account in the vain hope that he had access to a computer, and then a longer note to his mother at the hospital. Both notes wished them a Merry Christmas. It was all that he could do without sinking into a beckoning chasm that promised nothing except misery. Until the last few days he had never been so happy. Now, his unhappiness had no equal. It seemed insurmountable. He had always lonely, and depressed too, because he had always been attracted to young boys, but after falling in love with Shayne, his entire world changed. Now, it was falling apart.

After reviewing the most recent transactions for Jeffrey Alvin Dalton's Visa credit card, Peter was very worried. Not only was Dalton in Paris, but the two-way airfare from Cairo to Paris took him by surprise.

He had expected Dalton to stay in Cairo, or within the region. It was a logical assumption given that Father Joseph had described the man as 'Arab'. But Paris? Why would he take Shayne to Rome, then Cairo, and then to Paris, only to return to Cairo. Perhaps he was trying to mislead someone in pursuit? Then, why use the same credit card, Peter reasoned. Maybe he was delivering Shayne to someone in Paris, then returning to home. That made sense, except there was no excess baggage charge on the trip to Paris. Of course, the only explanation was that Shayne was still in Cairo. That was it. He breathed a sigh of relief. With luck he might even get to Cairo before Dalton returned. He wished he had a sketch of Dalton. He spent an hour trying to find an email address for Father Joseph, but without a last name, it was bound to be fruitless. Finally, he tried to call St. Paul's Cathedral. The phone rang and rang. He tried to call Shayne's mother. No answer there either.

He checked his email several times. He expected no response immediately to the notes… not on Christmas Day… although he wanted badly to hear some news of the police investigation once they had visited the St. Paul Motor Inn. Until late in the afternoon, he ate nothing except some stale candy bars from the vending machine on his floor. Finally, there was an email from Shayne's mother.

Peter,

No word. I'm so worried for him, but I'm glad you're there. I know you'll bring him back to me.

That detective White came to the motel about two hours after we called the police. She was very angry about you leaving. She said I should have called her and told her you were at the airport. She still thinks you kidnapped Shayne and the story about the credit card is a lie. I pointed out that Dee, the motel manger, rented the room to an Arab-looking person, she said it didn't clear you, because you were probably in it together. She gave Dee your photo and asked if you had been there. Dee said no of course. Then, we went into the room next door and she asked a lot of questions about you. She wanted to know about your relationship with him and the same as last time. I told her you were close to him. She said she didn't that was all, and she implied that you and Shayne were more than friends. Then she asked me if I thought you'd been having sex with him. She knows that he stays at your place, and was supposed to be there over Christmas.

What you said yesterday about loving Shayne has given me a lot to think about. Perhaps you have been having sex with him. I don't know. All I know that he's never been as happy as he's been for the last few months. That's what I told her.

Please find him Peter.

Alicia

Peter closed his eyes and tried to block out the pictures that wanted to gain entry to his mind. He was like being torn apart, tormented by images of Shayne that were of happy times, when the only worry they had was how to prevent sore lips, and others that pictured his mutilated abused body. He couldn't sleep.

Chapter 13

59345345553 12-26-03
—EGO Petroleum 30 liters.

Abdul Al Ghiran returned to Cairo just as Shayne was waking up. Christmas had come and gone in a hazy memory that drifted between sleep and being awake. The drug had passed through the boy's system and he woke up restless and alert. He glanced around the dusty dingy hut, squinting in the dim light of early dawn. Where was he? The smell alone was unlike anything he'd ever known, yet not unpleasant. The smell of goats and chickens wafted through the open windows. It was mixed with the aroma of dried grasses, and of the arid desert, the first ridge of sand hills less than a kilometer to the south. It was cold. He pulled the green-gray army blanket about him and tried to sleep.

Only minutes passed before the adjacent bed began squeaking. It was quick and forceful, rattling the wooden frame against the wall. He stared into the gloom, listening intently. Shayne fondled his small cock. It was already hard. Had he been dreaming of Peter again? That was usually the cause. His fingers glided slowly up and down, extracting every morsel of pleasure that he was capable of providing to himself without actually masturbating. Of course there were times when he jerked off by himself. He was a boy after all, and boys were supposed to do that, but he far preferred that Peter do it to him instead. It was much nicer that way. Peter liked the way the skin moved beneath his fingers. It was different for Peter, because he had been circumcised, but Shayne enjoyed the difference. It looked smoother, sportier… he smiled, remembering when he had said much the same to Peter. 'The sporty model' compared to 'the natural model'. How they had laughed over that. He closed his eyes dreamily. Peter's hand was so strong and large, yet his fingers were always gentle. Jerking off was always a lot more fun when Peter did it to him and he did it to Peter. However, it fell a long way short of being sucked, or sucking Peter's cock. It was all he could do to fit half of Peter's cock inside his mouth. Peter could take everything of his, his cock and both balls.

His hand moved faster under the blankets, pulling the skin up and over the head of his cock. He liked the elasticity, the free movement, the way his body tingled and grew hot. At ten years old, he really didn't enjoy it as much when the skin was pushed back and the head was exposed. It was much too sensitive for him to do it for more than a minute at a time. His hand began to flutter along his cock. Doing it quickly with a feathery touch was what made it feel the best.

"Hey Ameri-kano?" Abubakar called out. He was agitated, close to breathless. "Come here."

Nervously, Shayne crawled from his bed, aware that he was as naked as the day he was born, but unable to do anything about it short of removing the blanket from his bed. He padded across the floor, stopping when he could go no further. Abubakar turned back, looking over his shoulder. For a few seconds, Shayne didn't understand. The old man was kneeling on the bed. The boy, whose name he thought was Mark, was lying on his back. His hands grapped his ankles and held them next to his ears.

"You Ameri-kano. You know what I'm doing?" Abubakar asked crudely. Awkwardly, Shayne shook his head, denying what his eyes and logic told him.

Abubakar grunted, slamming his pelvis forward and against Maareq's buttocks. The boy grunted back at him. The bed jolted, the springs bouncing, complaining. Another thrust, then another. Shayne stared in shock. The sheer force of it was dreadful enough, but the euphoric expression on the boy's face left him stunned. Bewildered, he tried to look away. Yet, his eyes were drawn back again. The boy looked happy enough. He was making whimpering sounds, gasping every time that the old man jerked back, grunting when he pushed forward again. He tried to see between them. There wasn't a lot that he could see, just the dark skins of a man and boy who were pressed very close together, slapping wet and slippery flesh.

As if Abubakar understood, he pulled away. His cock withdrew from Maareq's small behind, slowly suctioning, stretching until it emerged. It was dark and livid, jutting outward and throbbing menacingly, poised and pointed straight at the small round hole that it had just been inside. It was wet and slimy and the veins were bulging. It looked a lot like Peter's cock, but his had never been so menacing. Peter's cock was fun to play with, not quite a toy, but somehow just as essential to him. And when they had finally put Peter's cock inside him, it had been anything but threatening. It had been so natural and fun, that Shayne could not help wondering why it had taken them so long to do it.

"Well boy?"

Shayne gulped. "You're…"

"Yes? Tell me Ameri-kano! What am I doing to him?" Abubakar wanted the boy to say it.

"You're… fucking him," Shayne whispered shamefully.

Abubakar laughed and pumped harder, hard enough to slam Maareq further up the bed.

"Yes, my precious virgin boy," he gasped. "I'm fucking him. You should watch and learn, because you too will be taking a man's cock inside your pretty little rump. You won't have to wait much longer."

Shayne backed away. He had already taken a man's cock and it was nothing like what he was watching on the bed before him. What he did with Peter was all about making love. It was gentle and sweet. What they were doing, well, it looked like they were trying to hurt each other. But despite how hard and fast the man was thrusting, Maareq wasn't crying or carrying on. In fact, he looked elated, his eyes half-closed in bliss. In shock, Shayne shuffled away, still disputing the evidence of his eyes, until he reached his bed. There, he lay down and tried to make sense out of it. The hammering of the bed against the wall kept on. The sound of two bodies moving together, a man fucking a boy not more than a few paces from where he lay. It was strange and unsettling, yet it was also very familiar. He heard gasps, a boy's soft whining cry of pleasure, then groans. Muffled voices, the slap of wet skin, an attenuated moan. Then, a sudden increase in pace, shaking the bed, bumping erratically against the wall. More groans. Then, silence. Except for the silence, that was how it had been with Peter at the end.

Chapter 14

44546943535 12-26-03
—Cairo Supply case Hedia-baby food 12.32 D
45953005353 12-26-03
—Kqwik Mart 100 ml Betadyne Antiseptic Sol. 4.32 D

Abdul Al Ghiran drove through the village of Medinet just as breakfast was being finished off. Shayne had managed to eat most of a bowl of grapes. That was how Abdul found him when he came into the hut, sitting up on the small bed with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The boy cringed, recognizing his kidnapper as soon as he stepped through the doorway. Abdul chuckled.

"I think the Ameri-kano brat knows what is in store for him today," he said in a guttural voice that made Shayne even more afraid of him.

Abubakar al Sid laughed and slapped the table with his hand, "Indeed he does. He watched me fuck Maareq this morning. He seemed quite interested in it. I hope he'll be as enthusiastic when he meets the Lion in two weeks."

That provoked a laugh from both men.

"There is a problem," Abdul said abruptly, "we do not have two weeks. I'm told that the Lion wants him as soon as possible. A week at most."

Abubakar nodded thoughtfully, "he's such a pretty boy, I'm not surprised."

"It's more than that, although I'm sure that seeing the photos that I took two days ago have gotten his attention," Abdul explained, "the Lion's plans have been disrupted."

"The Ameri-kano pigs?"

"Yes! I don't know all the details, but apparently the CIA managed to intercept some important messages."

"How long do we have?" Abubakar asked cautiously.

"As I said, a week for him to recover. No more than that. You have to do it today, whether he's ready or not. We must leave here in a few hours for Port Said."

"You're taking a ship?"

"It's better that you don't know, uncle," Abdul replied arrogantly, "how soon can you do it?"

"Immediately, if that's what you want. You're saying that he must be healed with a week?"

"Or sooner."

Abubakar rubbed his chin. He lifted his small coffee cup and drank liquid that was of the color and consistency of pitch.

"It could be done. I've seen boys heal within a few days if the pouch is left intact. If not completely healed then at least enough to take a man's cock between their cheeks."

They tied him down to the table. Not that Shayne had much strength to resist with, but they were taking no chances. His legs were bent down at the knees. His thighs were pulled wide apart so that each leg could be secured to a table leg. That alone left his genitals very exposed. To make matters worse, his outstretched arms were placed over his head and cords were tied from his hands to the opposite legs of the table. He was effectively immobilized, completely displayed before them. Despite the snot that streaked his face, he was a very beautiful boy.

Abubakar began by examining the Shayne's penis thoroughly. The old man, who had no less that 40 years of experience in the art of circumcision, retracted the little foreskin from the pink head with a quick flick of his fingers in order to tear any remaining adhesion. Like Abdul before him, he noted the ease with which it came down. There was definitely a lack of adhesion, which was unusual for boys who were not yet sexually active. He commented on the fact to Abdul.

"Perhaps he's already learned to pleasure himself by playing with it?" Abdul suggested lightheartedly. He had all but forgotten about the gold ring until then.

The old man laughed, continuing his inspection. Maareq, who had attended numerous circumcisions, brought sesame oil for the old man to swab the head and inside the foreskin. Its purpose was to facilitate movement of the foreskin over the tender head. For most boys the retraction would have been painful. Instead, Shayne tolerated the manipulation with clenched teeth and closed eyes. With expert fingers, Abubakar soon had a good idea of the size of Shayne's erection and the amount of skin that he would remove. Abdul watched over his shoulder, giving instructions that went largely unheeded.

"Such a perfect little zabb. And the nozzle is so long that there is still enough skin left to completely cover the head when it's standing up," Abubakar observed with relief .

It was a comment that was made as much for himself as it was directed to reassure Abdul. He was becoming tired of the interruptions and the procedure had barely begun. Indeed, perhaps he should not have waited the extra day until his nephew returned, and now it had to be hurried because the Lion wanted the boy brought to him as quickly as possible.

"Then surely the foreskin can go all the way down. I would like the ring of Allah to be right at the base?" Abdul asked hopefully, "it makes not only for a more tender organ, but one whose stiffness is unyielding."

"Have no worry regarding that, Abdul. Even you will find the hardness agreeable I think. This boy's cock is short and his foreskin is as long as yours was before I cut you," he observed, tugging at the boy's unwavering cock so that the foreskin pulled back again to conceal the little acorn head, "there's plenty here to work with. It should end just where you want."

"It had better."

"You must trust me to do what must be done. I know best how to make a good job of the Lion's boy, Abdul."

The old man flicked Shayne's stiff little cock with cruel pleasure. A second flick was needed before the stiffness began to diminish. For good measure, and all but oblivious to the boy's whimpering, he added a third and fourth flick. Shayne's eyes teared up. He gritted his teeth. He squealed with the fifth and final flick, harder than the rest. Then, the old man picked up a small brass ring that he selected from among several others. Only one was smaller in diameter. It was rounded and polished smooth with a central groove that ran all the way around. He pinched the boy's foreskin, pulling it outwards so that he could slip the ring over the puckered tip. He twisted it and pushed down, sliding the ring down the boy's now limp cock until it reached the base.

"And now my nephew, I think we are ready for Allah to leave his mark," the old man chuckled. He winked at Maareq, "be glad that I preferred the traditional look for you my darling. For your circumcision I put the ring just inside the sheath instead of all the way down on the outside like this."

Maareq grinned back at him. He had been circumcised two years earlier when his parents had delivered him to Abubakar. All Moslem boys in that part of Egypt were circumcised before they turned eight years old. Dimly, he could still remember the pain that attended the ritual of becoming a 'man'. His pleasant memories of the presents he received and the festivities afterwards were far stronger, almost as memorable as being deflowered by the old man just a few days later. However, there would be no such celebration for the boy on the table. He almost felt sad for the boy. There was no one to hold his hand or wipe the tears from his cheeks and encourage him to be brave. His pity was quickly consumed by boyish brashness.

"He's small," he snickered, pointing between the boy's slender pale legs, at the one thing that all boys had in common.

Abubakar looked up. "And he will be even smaller when my job is done," he remarked.

"Why?"

Abdul stifled a laugh, "a capon is always small. You know what a capon is, Maareq?"

Maareq smirked and nodded. He pointed at the boy on the table.

"Not yet, dear boy, but he'll be gelded soon enough. He will be a little man for a while longer," Abubakar said callously.

"But why will he be smaller?"

"Ah, without eggs, a boy's zabb will always stay small, as with the rest of his body, though sometimes his arms and legs will be longer," Abubakar answered, "and with nothing left within to stretch his pouch, it will soon shrivel to a prune."

"If I eat his eggs, mine will become large like yours," Maareq announced gleefully.

Abubakar laughed. "Perhaps. It's often said that the vigor of a male comes from the balls. However, you'll have to be patient for your snack, Maareq."

Abdul growled impatiently. Abubakar was never one to hurry.

"Regretfully, the Lion has asked for the eggs from this one."

Maareq scowled with discontent, but he was ignored.

"Then that is as it should be." Abubakar nodded. Tradition was important in the making of a eunuch, and the man who paid for the eggs to be removed had every right to claim possession.

Abubakar's fingers began to ease the skin through the ring, pulling it down a fraction at a time. At first the oiled skin moved easily under the ring. The foreskin retracted smoothly just as it was supposed to, again exposing the pink head. Then, as the once-puckered rim edged downward, the inner skin came into view. It was pinker than the skin that normally covered Shayne's cock, and moister too. Another fraction of an inch caused the head to be levered downward slightly, but not unattractively so.

"If you want it down all the way, the lip will have to be cut completely off on this one," Abubakar stated without compassion.

His finger pointed to the underside of Shayne's cock, then came closer until the fingernail scratched the frenulum where it was close to being taut even before the foreskin was fully retracted. Abdul nodded disinterestedly. It was not unusual. A lot of boys had the same problem. It wasn't that hard to fix. Just painful. Abubakar picked up the traditional bone-handled knife of the circumciser. The blade was small but disproportionately long and thin, rather like a filleting knife. Only that morning it had been honed on an oilstone to the necessary razor sharpness. His hand moved slightly, expertly making an incision right below the head. It was as deep as possible so that the transition from the flared head to the shaft would be very smooth. Better that than to have the skin tear of its own accord and leave an open wound. The boy's sharp cry echoed around the dingy room. He managed to lift his head far enough from the table to be able to see what had been done to him, the source of a searing pain where before he had known only pleasure. There was blood trickling down his cock. His tear-filled eyes opened wide with fear and shock. It was a time of utter disbelief.

Abubakar spit on his fingers and rubbed across the open gash. It was deep enough to sever a tiny artery but not so deep that the erectile tissue was damaged. The blood welled out, dripping constantly.

"Bring the iron," he instructed Maareq.

The iron was in reality a screwdriver whose slotted blade had be ground away to form a small knob. It had been heated in the fire until it was white hot. Gingerly, Maareq handed it to him. It touched twice, staying a moment longer in the groove beneath the boy's glans since definition of the acorn shape was the intended goal rather than preserving sensitivity. Satisfied that the cauterized depression was sufficiently deep to emphasize the ridges came to form the tiny slit opening, Abubakar used the iron to sear the other side of the incision. There, the goal was to minimize the scar. A surgeon would have used stitches but the quick touch of sizzling metal had much the same effect.

Even as Shayne's appalling shriek ended Abubakar's fingers took hold of the collar of skin that had formed close to the base of the boy's cock. He began to drag it back over the ring, pulling swiftly. Freed of the restrictive frenulum, the oily skin continued to ease down the boy's now blood-covered cock, eventually reappearing on the underside of the ring. There was a distinct difference between the pink moist inner skin of the foreskin and the almond-colored outer skin. Increasingly, there was more of the former and less of the latter. Over two months, the opening in the foreskin, which had been sufficiently exercised both by Shayne and Peter, to be able to comfortably retract past the small rounded head. Despite the boy's agony, it was slowly being pulled down the middle of his shaft. The opening was still narrow enough that the little cock was noticeably contracted inward, changing the color of the upper portion from pale pink to a darker shade. When erect, the opening would be even tighter, the natural constricting band that it was intended to be, but even limp it looked painful. From Shayne's increasingly terrified expression, the pain from being cauterized, the realization of his impending circumcision, all of what had happened to him, was quickly becoming unbearable.

Abubakar nodded his head and turned to meet Abdul's glance of approval. Even though Shayne's cock was contracted, the skin had still become taut. It occurred just as the constricted band reached the brass ring barely a quarter on an inch [5 mm] from the boy's smooth mounded pubis. The effect was not unlike a cock ring, but one of flesh as well as metal. The flow of blood from the seared gash on the tip had ceased, but not for that reason.

"It will loosen somewhat when the ring comes off, and a little because the skin stretches, Abdul," Abubakar suggested.

"I told you that I wanted it done tightly."

"It will be tight. Trust me, nephew, it will be much tighter than yours," Abubakar replied less than confidently.

"It had better be."

A cock could never be tight enough for Abdul, or for the Lion either for that matter. His own cock had almost no movement at all between the skin and the thick shaft underneath, but even that was too much for him.

"It will be," Abubakar laughed, pinching the cocklet just above the ring. It had the effect of pulling another quarter of an inch [5 mm] under and over the ring. "The Lion will savor this one for years to come."

Abdul smiled. "I hope so. The last one didn't last very long at all."

"Wait until you see it healed, nephew. I always give you what you want. It will be very tight, Abdul. It's not as if his prick will grow much bigger so it must be tighter than any boy I've done for you."

"The American pigs call it Wysiwyg, you know," Abdul joked in a moment of uncharacteristic levity, "what you see for the boy, is what you get for the eunuch."

Abubakar did not appreciate the humor much more than offer a world-weary smile. Although his experience of the effects of castration was largely with sheep it was common knowledge that a boy would be similarly affected. That part of the boy's body would never grow much beyond its current size. However, his knowledge of computers was close to non-existent.

Instead, of using the knife as he had always done in the past, he picked up a piece of nylon fishing line. He made a quick double loop around the boy's cock at the base and formed a knot. Using both hands, he jerked the two ends of the fishing line, causing the knot to take up the slack before it tightened. It compressed the skin into the groove of the brass ring, pulling the skin even further down the shaft. Then satisfied that no more skin could be removed without tearing the boy's flesh when he became erect, Abubakar jerked the ends of the cord as hard as he could. Several seconds passed before Shayne let out a horrified scream. His pelvis lifted completely off the table as he writhed in agony. It felt as if his cock was on fire, as if it had been severed from his body. Abubakar looped the nylon around the ring once again, formed yet another knot but on the opposite side, kept pulling the cord tighter and tighter, until it all but disappeared into the flesh. Shayne flailed, screamed, bucked frantically, but to no avail. With his legs firmly secured to the legs of the table and his hands tied behind his head, there was nothing that he could do. His head shook from side to side. It was his only means of resisting. The color of the band of flesh that had been pulled back over the ring began to change color immediately. Within seconds it was purple. A fine line of bright red blood appeared where the nylon cut into the skin.

Abubakar nodded in satisfaction, "there… it's done."

"You're not going to cut if off?" Abdul asked impatiently.

Abubakar shook his head as he applied a powder made from crushed paracetamol tablets to the small cock. It would stop the bleeding and help to reduce the pain. Shayne's eyes stayed shut, his face contorted as the pain grew even stronger, exceeding his threshold, becoming agony. But even as the pain throbbed through his body, the crushed nerves were losing their sensitivity. The gray flesh that was on the wrong side of the knotted line was becoming numb. A part of Shayne's body was dying and there was nothing that he could do to stop it.

"The cord will do the cutting just as well as the knife. It's better this way, Abdul," Abubakar said flatly. "This way it will heal faster and have less chance of infection. Anyway, it's not as if he's a Muslim."

"You don't have to cut the excess off?"

"No. I will leave the skin to die by itself."

"How long before he's ready?"

"You said a week. He'll be ready for the Lion in a week. No more than that."

"Even with the gelding?"

"A week will be sufficient. This is how I did that boy last month, Abdul. The one you brought for the Prince," Abubakar said, observing with relief that the boy's struggles were already fading. "It's a pity you had to leave so soon. He was horny after a day or two."

There had been some boys who had laid on his table and lost consciousness just from the circumcision. From his experience he wasn't at all certain that the boy on the table could survive prolonged pain. It did little to stem his anxiety.

"A week will please the Lion."

"You like the look of this one now, don't you Abdul?"

Abdul nodded thoughtfully. At first glance, the boy's cock appeared quite strange. It was as if the foreskin had been relocated from the head to the base. Only the exposed and reddened inner skin that covered the little finger-sized shaft indicated how it had been achieved.

Abubakar said, "and now that this boy has to travel before he heals, there's the added benefit of it not needing to be bandaged. Besides, this way the scar will be minimal."

Abdul reflected for a moment. He appreciated the appearance of a pink skinned shaft that would end abruptly. There was usually an unsightly band of scar tissue that resulted from the making of Allah's ring.

What could be seen of the skin that covered Shayne's cock was now of a very different appearance to what had been there before. It had taken on a sheen that was shiny and moist rather than soft and dry. It would always be very sensitive. The delicate inner skin was easily damaged, particularly when the cock was erect, but that was of little concern to the two men. In the erect state, the skin would be so stretched that it would appear polished. Yet, when all was said and done it would not matter very much. Boys who were castrated prior to puberty usually had problems both in achieving and maintaining erections.

For good reason, the priests of Ancient Egypt considered the method of circumcision that was later to be referred to as the Ring of Allah, to be a sacrifice, for it was a forsaking of 'sinful pleasures'. A boy seldom masturbated when he was circumcised in the manner that Shayne had been circumcised. It had become an organ whose primary function was to be sucked or abused in the act of sodomy.

"As you can see, Abdul, I have taken as much as possible of the outer skin," Abubakar indicated. Indeed, there was nothing left of the almond colored outer skin except a thin strip where the cock and balls were joined.

"There should be absolutely no movement of skin along the shaft."

Abubakar nodded in agreement. "It is as tight as it can be without shortening the shaft."

"Then, the Ring of Allah will be just as the Lion prefers," Abdul said breathily, recalling his own boyhood as the Lion's catamite.

"Let me show you, nephew," Abubakar suggested proudly.

His fingers gently fondled the now very exposed head of Shayne's cock, carefully avoiding the scorched flesh. The flared rim had become very pronounced, unnaturally so. What been done had the effect of making the little head stand out from the rest of the shaft, but it would soon become even more so. The boy winced, but not in pain. The sensitive flesh, so seldom touched in the past, began to tingle, sending tremors through his body. He tensed as the rough fingers massaged the swelling knob.

Abubakar grinned at Abdul, showing a mouth of yellowing and missing teeth. His thumb raked back and forth over the delicate crown, agitating, stimulating barely known sensations that easily overwhelmed the foreign boy's lingering pain. The bloodstained organ began to slowly lengthen. Abubakar spit onto his fingers, transferring thick slimy saliva to the shaft of the small cock, sliding his fingers up and down and squeezing against the bulging head. Shayne whimpered as pleasure burned in his throbbing child-sized cock. He shook his head and gritted his teeth, fighting against it. How different it was compared to Peter's confident gentle stroking. This was torture, but it was also intensely pleasurable, a pleasure that he had never really appreciated before. He dared not look down, but it felt as if his cock was becoming very stiff. It hurt almost as much as it felt good.

Abdul stared. The gray flap of outer skin concealed about a quarter of the boy's erection, but what he could see had become glossy as the delicate skin was stretched to painful tightness. The color changed from pink to shiny crimson-purple. It was a joy to behold.

His hand groped between his thighs, finding his zipper in the way. He opened it hurriedly, shamelessly exposing his own cock. Although very much larger than Shayne's cock, there was a remarkable similarity between the two. Like the boy on the table, the skin on the man's cock was pulled as tight as a drum. The head of the man's cock resembled a plum that was exaggerated in importance. It was both threatening and exposed, yet strangely arousing.

Shayne, barely cognizant of what was happening, was stunned as much as what he was feeling as by what he was observing next to him. Abubakar had followed Abdul by exposing his own withered organ to view. It seemed smaller than it had been early that morning when it pulled free of Maareq's bottom, but seeing the man's hand stroking back and forth was no less distressing to him than when the old man had been embedded inside Maareq's rectum. And Maareq too was affected by witnessing the circumcision. His hand was in his pocket, rubbing vigorously. Every man and boy in that hut, with the exception of the boy lying on the table, was pumping on his erection, either openly or under his gelaba (Egyptian caftan). They seemed to have no cultural taboo about doing it in public.

The situation around the table was one of such powerful sexual excitation that surely Shayne would have been brought quickly to orgasm had Abubakar continued to manipulate his cock, but he moved closer to Maareq, encouraging him to lift his robe before Abdul. There was no lessening of Shayne's erection despite the lack of attention. The band at the bottom of his cock would not allow the blood pressure to diminish even if he wasn't highly aroused.

Had he not been sobbing with the residue of pain, he would have noticed Abdul coming closer, grasping his engorged shiny cock with both hands and pummeling it vigorously. The man ejaculated without more warning than a sudden gasp, shooting copiously over the boy's narrow chest and belly. Thick strands of creamy-white cum came out in gushing spurts and splattered over equally creamy white skin while the man groaned in ecstasy. Only when he felt the man's hands smearing the slimy mess into his skin, did Shayne turn his head to look.

For a second or two he did not understand. Then, he stared, aghast. It wasn't that he hadn't seen semen before, or even that Peter had never discharged over him. That had happened often enough over the last two months that he had lost count after a while. It was either that way or in his mouth. It was the expression on the man's face that he did not understand. When Peter shared his semen with him, his face was glowing with happiness and pride, of knowing that they had become as close as two people could be without actually penetrating his bottom and putting the semen there. Abdul's expression revealed nothing pleasurable. It was nothing short of hatred.

Even as Abdul stuffed his shrinking organ behind his trousers and closed the zipper again, he glared at Abubakar. To any other man, it would have brought fear. Instead, Abubakar left Maareq's side and approached the table.

"Finish Allah's work so that we may leave," Abdul instructed impatiently.

"And so I will." Abubakar gestured to Maareq to bring the bowl that had been warming by the fire. He leaned over Shayne's blanched face, enjoying his fear.

"I fear my precious boy, that it's time for you to lose your precious eggs. I will take from you the things that make a boy become a man so that you may serve the Lion of Islam," he announced harshly.

He dipped his fingers into the warm dark-as-tannin antiseptic. The color quickly spread over Shayne's scrotum, onto his perineum, streaking the insides of his thighs. He continued to massage the boy's small pouch, all over his groin until the antiseptic reached to where the cord was knotted. The scrotal pouch, which until then had been as wrinkled and small as an unshelled walnut, relaxed and loosened. Abubakar continued to fondle the skin, tugging, squeezing on the immature eggs contained within the delicate folds.

Although he was very familiar with its function, or perhaps because of it, Maareq smirked knowingly and callously handed the old man a leather cord with a loop in one end. The cord was only a year old, but it had been used a thousand times. One end of it was dark and stiff with blood. As part of his apprenticeship, Maareq had used it on a dozen sheep only a few days earlier, his inexperienced hands gradually learning the old man's skills. He had never used it on a boy, but he had watched Abubakar use the cord several times and it always gave him an intense thrill. He stayed close to get a good view yet out of the way.

Abubakar expertly placed the cord around the boy's pouch and firmly pulled on the free end after making sure that only a single testicle was captured behind the loop. Castrating a boy like Shayne was no different to castrating a sheep. It was possible to take both at the same time, but then the incision needed to be much larger. It was far better, if a little slower to make two small cuts with his knife. It would also be more painful, at least if the boy's screams were any indication.

"Hold the Ameri-kano down, nephew," Abubakar ordered heartlessly.

Shayne didn't understand, but he struggled to get off the table. He felt something pulling against his pouch, almost tearing it off. The ropes didn't budge. He slumped back, his strength easily exhausted, shaking with fear. He dared not look down. He had to look. He strained to lift his head. He saw his scrotum stretched away from his body, the cord pulled so tight that the little egg shape that was captured by the loop was turning dark and shiny. He shook his head, begging incoherently, pleading in a foreign language that went unheeded. If anything his frantic beseeching increased Abubakar's resolve. There was no mercy allowed for Americans, not even for ten-year-old boys.

Shayne watched as the knife came closer. In amazement he saw the pointed blade like an oversized needle sticking into his scrotum where the skin was stretched around the captured egg. At first, he felt nothing more than a pin prick. It was only a small cut, not even a half-inch [1 cm] long. He shrieked loudly, even though the pain wasn't that great. It was the sight of blood oozing from the narrow gash, of realizing what was going to happen to him and being unable to do anything to stop it. Abubakar smirked. There was a special pleasure in it for him, unmanning the little dark-haired American boy.

His fingers closed on the skin pulled taut around the boy's testicle, pinching hard. Then, the pain multiplied a hundred fold. Shayne lurched, lifting his body up to meet Abubakar's squeezing fingers. There was no sound at first. His mouth opened wide, but nothing came out. Finally, when the compression had become so great that the egg was about to burst, it popped through the tiny opening. Only then did Shayne's scream begin. He dropped back onto to the table with a loud thud. He screamed again, gaining strength as shock became agony, shuddering uncontrollably as the realization struck hard. He had seen his own testicle. It wasn't where it was supposed to be. Instead, a small whitish mass that was variegated with fine red lines was caught between the old man's blood-smeared fingers.

"Hold him down," Abubakar commanded.

He waited until Abdul had a firm grip of the boy's shoulders. Maareq assisted by putting his hands on the boy's slender thighs. Abubakar placed his free hand on the boy's belly to hold his hips down. A doctor performing a bilateral orchiectomy would have closely incised the spermatic cords, or opened the enclosing sheath or tunica and left it within the scrotum after the testis were removed. In the tradition of Islamic eunuchs, Abubakar's fingers clamped on the testicle. He paused, meeting the boy's frantic eyes for a moment or two, and then he savagely jerked his hand up. The cords gave way when the testicle was several inches away from Shayne's scrotum. It came away cleanly, breaking at the root where it was supposed to occur. Shayne choked, gagging on the fluids that heaved from his stomach. It felt as if a branding iron had been rammed into his abdomen.

"There is the first one!" Abubakar said pitilessly.

He dropped the egg and the attached cords onto the boy's belly where they could all see it. Maareq leaned on the table between Shayne's thighs to get a better view. The size of a boy's eggs fascinated him. They were always smaller than they appeared when they were still inside the pouch. This ball was noticeably smaller than the others that he'd seen. It was little different to what he took from the lambs.

"His cock is even harder now," he pointed out, much to Abdul's amusement.

Shayne's cock throbbed relentlessly. It did not discriminate between pain and pleasure. It needed the release of orgasm, and it was close, so very close that the boy strained to get it out. He heard himself, gasping, imploring, moaning as the pain abated temporarily. Relief seemed only moments away. If only someone would rub his cock. Little did he know that there would be an almost unbearable ache in his groin for days to come.

"Get the iron," Abubakar said as he wiped his bloody fingers on a towel.

He fingered the scrotal skin, removing the leather cord and easily finding the cut. Then, he pinched the sides together to stem the bleeding. He took the reheated iron and touched it briefly to the incision. Shayne screamed once more as his tender flesh was seared. There seemed to be no end to it.

There was a brief pause in the otherwise well-rehearsed procedure as Abubakar moved to the other side of the table. Shayne's remaining testicle was quickly captured by the looped leather cord. Again, the cord was pulled tight. Again, Shayne begged, but as before, his pleas were unheeded. Tradition ruled every aspect of life in that part of the world. The Lion preferred his catamites to be eunuchs as much because it made them compliant and less aggressive than preventing the physical changes of puberty.

It took only a few seconds for Abubakar to complete the gelding. The boy screamed for much longer the second time that the cauterizing iron was used to close the incision in his pouch. Perhaps he achieved orgasm before the gelding was completed. Given his wild bucking and frenzied struggles it was impossible to tell. Perhaps it was merely the frenzied throes of agony, of knowing that his scrotum had been emptied, that he would never become a man.

Maareq certainly made up for whatever the boy on the table lacked. He shuddered, clutching the two severed testicles in one hand and rubbing frantically at his cock with the other, his thighs jerking wildly in a fruitless effort to release his seed. The two men shared a knowing glance. The unmanning of another male always had a powerful effect on anyone who saw it, even a boy.

Finally, unable to withstand the pain, the crying boy on the table lost consciousness. He would never know that castrating a sheep was actually more difficult than what had been done to him, that his testicles were already in a small glass jar that had once been used for baby food, soaking in a mixture of brine and vinegar.

Chapter 15

95696464646 12-27-03
—Port Said Fem-Boutique. Veil 7.98D

Peter Hamilton was only a few hours away from where the boy he loved was emasculated. Perhaps it was being so close to Shayne that caused the feeling, perhaps it was being in a foreign country surrounded by people jabbering in a language he did not understand, but he knew that something bad was happening. He felt it in his stomach. He felt it as a queasiness that seemed to get worse as the day progressed. Everything that he tried to do became a struggle against ineptitude and couldn't-care-less attitudes that reflected contempt for Americans.

Tracking down the company where Abdul had rented a car was relatively easy. Less easy was finding out what model of car had been rented. Only when he rented a car for himself did the arrogant clerk provide the information. A Mercedes G320, two-door, in white, for Dalton. He rented a Fiat 1500 for himself for a week.

His second stop was at the headquarters office of Telecom-Egypt. There, the language barrier prevented further progress. It did no good at all to raise his voice, or point to the telephone number that Dalton had called from. His frustration grew steadily. He even considered contacting the American Embassy and asking for their assistance, until he realized that the police might have issued a warrant for his arrest. He had not heard anything more from Shayne's mother. The last thing he wanted was to be sent back to Minneapolis on the next flight out of Cairo. So he struggled on trying to make himself understood.

Only when he placed a fifty-dollar bill on the counter did he receive a meaningful response. A hand reached out and pushed the bill back to him. Yet, the hand stayed there, fingers extended almost to the money. More was needed. Peter used the only money that he had. He emptied his wallet and placed $76 on the counter. He folded his wallet back to show that there was nothing left. This time the hand closed around the money. He waited with bated breath as the money was put out of sight. Then, the man left, disappearing behind the wall. He waited nearly ten minutes, imagining the worst.

"You have a question?" The voice was English and educated.

Peter spun around. The man was young, perhaps mid twenties. He smiled warmly.

"Yes. I'm trying to find out where a phone number is located."

The man examined the page of credit card information that Peter had written out long hand during the flight from Rome.

"This one?" he ascertained, pointing at the charge.

"Yes, that one. I need to know where it was made from."

"It's not from Cairo."

"I know that," Peter said dryly. He had checked the first telephone book he found as soon as he was through customs and immigration. He felt on firm ground. "It's very important that I find out where it is."

"Why?"

Peter breathed out. He took a risk. "The man who made this call raped my son," he said bluntly. "Now he has AIDS."

It was remarkably easy to say and it had exactly the effect he wanted. The other man's shocked expression lasted for a long while. Then, he turned and went behind the wall. He returned with a roll, a map which he spread out on the table. Colored zones differentiated the country like counties. A legend on the side displayed different prefixes for colors.

"Here," he said, stabbing his finger on the eastern side of Cairo. It didn't look that far away.

Remarkably, his fingernail stopped directly above Medinet, but it would take several minutes before Peter was handed a sheet of paper that listed the telephone number and an address.

Less than an hour later, Peter was driving down the main street of Medinet looking for the inn just as another car turned left in front of him. Unlike the other shabby and neglected vehicles he passed, the car was in very good shape. It was covered with a thin layer of dust much like his own car. It went past so quickly that he didn't recognize the Mercedes G320. Not that he would have paid it any attention. He was looking for a white sedan, not a box on wheels. Indeed, it was many hours later when Peter realized how close he had come to the boy he loved. At the time, Shayne was drugged and lying on the rear seat. Had he been conscious, he might have thought he was wrapped in a blanket. Instead, he wore Maareq's gelaba, with nothing underneath so that the air could reach what remained of his genitals.

Peter swiftly located the telephone where Dalton called Paris from, yet it did him little good. It was but another piece of the puzzle. He tried to find out whether Dalton had stayed at the inn, but gave up because he could not make himself understood. It took several hours of fruitless searching and asking questions before he managed to find an interpreter and guide. Despite a thick muslin veil and a strong accent, the schoolteacher was more than happy to spend her lunchtime with someone with whom she could practice her limited English. Fortunately, she wanted nothing in payment, and other than his credit cards, Peter had nothing to give her except his thanks.

He became increasingly worried. He was close to Shayne, that much was certain. There had to be a reason why Dalton called Paris from the tiny desert village. Indeed, there had to be a reason why he had gone there in the first place. A logical explanation eluded him, yet he instinctively realized that it somehow involved Shayne. And then there were the other charges on Dalton's credit card that had occurred when he returned from Paris. It was likely that one or two of them provided additional clues as well, but what? Where was Shayne? It was winter, but that close to the equator, it might as well have been summer. He sweated and swatted at a perpetual cloud of gnats and flies.

Peter could think of only two reasons why Dalton had purchased a bottle of antiseptic on the outskirts of Cairo, one of which he liked, and the other that chilled his spine. The obvious explanation was that Shayne had been injured in some way. For that reason, he breathed a sign of relief when the teacher confirmed that there was no doctor in Medinet. However, there was a midwife who provided some first aid to the villagers when the need arose. There was also an old man who lived on a farm on the outskirts of the village who sometimes took care of sick and injured animals. Peter dismissed both of them with a shrug. It was just coincidence that Dalton had purchased the antiseptic on the way out of Cairo that very day. There was nothing to be learned from the purchase of a bottle of antiseptic, and even if there was, it made more sense that Dalton was treating himself, or was taking care of Shayne without going to someone else for assistance. Still, he followed the schoolteacher's directions to find the midwife, grateful to be doing something else besides sitting in an airport.

As soon as they stopped outside the midwife's house he knew he was wasting his time. The house was deserted and had been for some time. Angry, he stumped back to his car.

"She's not there," he said bitterly.

The schoolteacher nodded understandingly as she climbed into the passenger seat. It was as if she had known all along that the midwife was gone. Peter shook his head in frustration. He was tired even though he had managed to sleep for a while on the flight from Rome. What was it about these people? They were arrogant and conveyed the impression that they wanted him dead. The heat was affecting him badly. He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead.

"Now you go to see the circumciser?" the woman next to him asked.

"To see the what?" Peter asked, not quite believing what he had heard her say.

"The cir-cum-ciser," the teacher repeated as if Peter was hard of hearing.

"Yes, I heard you. What do you mean by that?"

The woman smiled and pulled her veil closer to her face. She didn't answer for a while. Some things were not supposed to be shared with outsiders. Eventually, her higher level of education intervened.

"The village boys are taken to him, so that they can become men."

Peter nodded vaguely. It did not make much sense. Cutting off a boy's foreskin did not make him a man.

"I thought you said he took care of animals?"

"Yes, mostly he does do that."

"Why not the midwife?" Peter asked.

The woman snickered softly. "It is forbidden by Allah for a woman to touch a boy between his legs. It must be a man who cuts the skin from a boy to make him pure."

"Oh. Yes, I suppose so. What else does he do?" Peter asked. It didn't sound right, yet he accepted the logic of it. For the moment he was fascinated by the local culture.

"Here. You turn here," the woman directed. "He who wields the knife for Allah has many skills. When sheep will not become rams, or horses are to be gelded, they always go to Abubakar."

"Abubakar? The circumciser?"

She nodded and repeated the directions. Without knowing why, Peter, began to drive faster. The car came to a sudden stop outside the farmhouse. There was no reason why Peter felt a strange sense of déjà vu. Not really. The ramshackle farmhouse had never occurred in any of his dreams, yet, it was very unsettling. A plume of smoke drifted lazily from the stone chimney. The door was closed. Like the midwife's house, it too appeared deserted. And then he stopped and stared at the two lines that continued from the chicken coop all the way up the dusty footpath. Two lines made by wheels not quite two feet [50 cm] apart. His heart began to beat faster. He started to walk, following the two lines to the front door. Perhaps the woman sensed that something was wrong. She stayed behind saying something to the effect that she was not allowed to enter the hut.

Peter opened the front door without knocking. He looked inside, half expecting to see Shayne, wanting more than he could stand, to find him safe. During the days and nights since Shayne had disappeared, one thing had become very clear. He loved Shayne more than he had ever imagined it was possible to love another person. It sounded hokey, even to Peter, but Shayne was the only beautiful thing in his otherwise dull existence. He lived for Shayne's happiness.

Instead of finding Shayne as he so desperately wanted, he found an old man having sex with a boy. He stared in disbelief with the door still open behind him. The boy was young, no older or larger than Shayne. He was dark skinned with straight black hair. He squatted over the man's thighs. No, higher up than that. Right over the man's groin. It was obvious what he was doing, what the man was doing to him. Peter had never seen it done like that, although many of the stories that he had read, described the position as ideal for giving a boy a less submissive role.

The boy's head rocked back and forth as he pumped his hindquarters up and down against the man lying underneath him. He was anything but submissive. He seemed to be a very different boy to Shayne who lay on his back with his legs draped over Peter. Perhaps it was all a matter of experience. The sound they made reminded Peter of when he made love to Shayne. It was slippery, wet, loose, sucking, slapping. Gasping together, grunting when their bodies came together too hard and the cock was forced in deeply, working towards the inevitable climax that made life worth living. At the very end, he and Shayne had made the same sounds. He had never imagined that Shayne's body could become so loose, so sloppy, succulently loose that his cock glided effortlessly back and forth inside the boy's rectum.

"Abu, oh Abu… put your seed in me," the boy pleaded in words that Peter could not understand, yet his tone, the urgency of his downward thrusts was enough to express his desire.

"I'm close," the man gasped. "Ride me faster, Maareq. Faster, boy!"

Peter pushed the door closed behind him and coughed, and then he watched with amusement as the boy jumped. It took a few more seconds before the old man became aware of his visitor.

"Ameri-kano," the old man grunted.

He shoved at the boy, pushing his light weight off. His slimy cock popped free, loudly slapping against his belly. Peter took a step closer and picked up a red-stained knife from the table without thinking about it. There were other things lying on the table as well, but he did not realize their purpose, not until much later. There was a piece of leather cord. A screwdriver without a blade. A bowl of dark brown liquid that gave off an odor like strong disinfectant. There were streaks and spots of red and brown on the unpainted wood planks of the table. It looked as if someone had beheaded a chicken.

"You speak English?" he asked awkwardly.

The old man scowled. He didn't answer. The last Peter wanted to do was to open the door and bring the schoolteacher from the car in order to have her translate what was said.

"Do you?" he demanded. "English? Do you speak English?"

"Some he speak," the old man mumbled, gesturing absently to the boy who had crawled to the far corner of the bed. He glared back at the man who had interrupted them.

"Don't be afraid. I'm not going tot hurt you," Peter explained. The knife felt very strange in his hand. He realized he was never going to be able to use it. It was only for show.

"I not fear you. You Ameri-kano dog--" The boy stopped himself in time.

Peter smiled. "You must be a smart boy. You're English is very good," he complimented the young boy.

The boy was looking at him curiously. He was handsome, not beautiful like Shayne. His body was brown all over, unlike Shayne whose summer tan was long since gone.

"We learn at school. She teach us."

Peter nodded. Of course, it made sense. The teacher who was standing outside the hut was the boy's teacher. What would she think of her little truant if she knew what he had been doing that morning instead of sitting in the classroom?

"Your teacher is waiting outside."

"How? How you know her?"

Peter smiled slightly. The boy's demeanor had instantly become less aggressive, almost respectable.

"She said you would answer some questions for me," Peter said in a quietly authoritative voice. "If you do, I won't tell her about this," he gestured towards the bed where the boy was lying with the old man.

The boy scowled. He nodded slowly. "Maybe." He moved away a few inches.

"I want to know about a man," Peter began. "His name might be Dalton?"

"I don't know him," the boy answered quickly.

Perhaps he didn't know him. Peter looked around the squalid hut. It was almost impossible to conceive of Shayne being in that room, yet instinct said otherwise. He thought for a few seconds, wondering once again why Shayne had been brought there. He put the knife down again. It didn't belong in his hand.

"Maybe not by that name. This man came to Medinet two days ago? He had a little boy with him. He was about your age."

"I know no one like that," the boy snarled.

"Yes you do. I know you do. Tell me about him."

"Who?" the boy replied, glaring back.

"The man. The boy if you prefer. You can pick which one you want to tell me about."

The boy shook his head abruptly. His expression changed. "The boy? He's sexy. You do it with him, Ameri-kano? Do you put your cock inside his butt?" he asked with a bold smirk.

Peter had not expected that and his face showed it. He remembered the look on Shayne's face when he'd asked Peter to have sex with him. Shayne had been so nervous, but he had still shocked Peter when he'd asked him to put his cock inside his butt. The boy before him kept smirking, reading whatever he wanted to read. Knowing the boy had the answer to his question made Peter even more uncomfortable.

"I don't think that's any of your business," he sputtered. "Now… will you tell me about the man? Where did he go?"

The boy shrugged indifferently. The old man moved very slowly. Peter didn't notice the pistol until it was too late. It came from underneath the pillow. It pointed directly at his chest. Peter didn't know anything about firearms. All he knew was that he wasn't going to leave the hut alive. He swallowed his fear.

"Tell your friend that I have someone waiting outside for me," he said as calmly as he could to the boy.

Without being told to do so, he stepped back from the knife on the table. It would have been foolhardy to make a grab for it. Only then, when he saw the red and brown marks again did he realize that while most of the stains were old, the most recent ones were very recent. It was Shayne's blood. It had to be. He groaned inside, feeling as if the air rushed out of him. His shoulders slumped.

"Tell me. Please."

The boy jabbered in Arabic. The old man laughed suddenly and shook his head.

"Ameri-kano, you ask Maareq to tell about Abdul and the boy? If I tell you…" he snorted in derision, "… I have to kill you."

Peter glowered in response. Apparently, American jokes had reached Egypt.

"He is very sexy, that pretty Ameri-kano boy is. He has an ass just like a girl, that one," the old man snickered. "So we fuck him. First is my boy, Maareq. Of course, he barely stretch the hole. When he is done, your boy is very hungry for a man to fuck him, so I take him. I do him hard and your boy squeals and begs for more. So does Abdul. We fuck him good. Your boy, he says he likes big cocks."

"I… I-I don't believe you," Peter muttered.

For some reason it did not sound true, although it was obvious that something had happened to Shayne in the hut. The fresh blood and the knife on the table worried him a great deal. There was no blood on the floor, just two short pieces of rope. Peter glanced back at Maareq. The boy regarded him curiously.

"Where is he? What happened to the boy?" Peter asked quietly.

"Abdul leave two hours ago with your boy. They went to Port Said," Maareq answered before the old man could intervene.

"Why?"

"They go to meet the Lion," Maareq's pride was very evident.

"Who's the Lion?" Peter asked uncertainly.

"Enough talk, Maareq," the old man roared. "You should know better."

His finger tightened on the pistol's trigger. Was it Peter's imagination that he heard something click? It made no sense at all to tense his body, certainly not against the impact of a bullet, yet he still did so. He waited for the noise of the gun being fired, vaguely wondering whether he would even hear it given the speed of the bullet, or what it would feel like to be shot. The face behind the pistol smiled slightly, relishing the other man's terror.

Only a second or two saved Peter from certain death, that and a coughing fit that distracted the old man's attention. The pistol wavered as the old man began to hack. Peter sprang back with surprising agility, yanking open the door behind him. For a moment he thought about turning, then running as fast as he could towards the car. Instead, in that fraction of a second that is the difference between life and death, he picked up the knife and threw it. He had never thrown a knife before, yet luck intervened on his behalf. The knife struck hard and deep, its thin sharp blade penetrating between the man's ribs and skewering the heart. He might have survived for a few minutes had Maareq not tried and succeeded in wrenching the knife free. By then, Peter was long gone.

He dropped the teacher off at the school and after a few minutes of hurried conversation, he headed towards the west on a path that would hopefully bring him to Port Said before Shayne arrived.

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