Chapter One

Halloween, Zeus Bar, Greenwich Village, New York

Rye whiskey, sweet vermouth, a dash of Angostura bitters; the cocktail suited the three-year anniversary.

 "I keep the family jewels with me. Steffie's jewels, actually." The Lanier patriarch had a tendency to particularize.

He dug in his inside-breast pocket, retrieved a snuffbox.

Still bemused and bewildered from the unexpected invitation, Ransome stared. Anyone could tell it was gold; solid, not plated.

"You bought it to celebrate, huh?"

"It's been in my family for generations."

The classic Georgian cartouche featured an engraved Lanier-family crest set among intricate flowers and scrolls. Crafted in 1830; it was unusually large at 2.6 inches wide, 1.6 inches deep, and one inch high [6,6 x 4 x 2.5 cm].

Precisely pressing his thumb, Lanier opened the lid.  Within, pristine-white satin lining replaced 'snuff', a pillow for two tiny eggs, ornamented in the manner of Peter Carl Fabergé.

"They're beautiful," Ransome admired, wistfully for a detective. A moment later… "I thought you were joking! Those are *his* jewels! Damn! It's a pity Abelard isn't here to see his handiwork."

"He's too busy being Angelique's escort for Halloween. He's wasting his time sucking up to her promiscuous bitch of a mother. As soon as she realizes he's poorer than she is…"

"All he wanted was cash for cocaine. One look at his crotch, I could tell he wasn't interested in Steffen, not one little bit."

With a knowing sigh, Lanier raised the little box to gaze at the miniature portrait under the lid; Steffen, his ten-year-old heir and grandson, was surely the most beautiful boy in the world.

"Little white slaves were always unmanned. Always," he murmured. "Docile and beautiful. What's the point of having one if tradition isn't maintained?"

He inhaled, a sniffle from spring-pollen allergies, not habitual snuffing. He placed the snuff box on the table.

"I've never been into slaves, myself," Ransome remarked. "I can see the attraction in running around with whips and chains, though. A little agony makes the ecstasy that much better."

"Slavery's about ownership, Ransome; having complete dominion over another person, not torturing them."

"Whatever excites you." He gestured at tiny 'Easter' eggs fit for a Tsar's collection. "I guess carrying them around with you makes ownership more meaningful?"

It didn't come out the way he intended. Still, Lanier returned a maudlin sigh.

"It was Steffie's idea, a way to prove he belongs to me. He loves authenticity. He despises Disney World," Lanier added.

The taunt was out of character, though deserved. Ransome found his most recent conquest lost in Epcot. After returning the boy to his parents, they all went off together. Kisses and thigh stroking ensued in Mission: SPACE. He endured dinner with the family at Chefs de France, and enjoyed humping the kid's butt during fireworks. He even escorted the blond preteen back to the Grand Floridian Hotel. By then, anal sex was a forgone conclusion, just ten frantic minutes to steal Junior's virginity before his obnoxious parents arrived.

"You don't have to turn your wine cellar into a dungeon, Mr. Lanier. Try using a ball-gag on him when you fuck him," he suggested, only partly in jest.

Lanier frowned. "Why would I do that to someone I love dearly?"

"A lot of boys like being tied up. You should try it."

"Being his master isn't a game, Ransome. It's my right, a responsibility, too."

Ransome shrugged. "Having sex is like that for me; it's my right to be active,. It's his responsibility to be passive and let me pulverize his fanny."

"It's not about that kind of control; me making him do what I want. He serves me willingly, so I always reward him… Steffen likes being hot and slippery afterwards."

"Ooh, lucky you! You ought to try having him wear a dog collar when he sucks you. It's a real turn on for me."

"It may be for you. Just the thought of it bores me to tears. For me, cutting off a boy's balls makes him far more submissive than making him wear a collar. Actually, he'd do it willingly if I asked."

Having made his point, Lanier sipped his Village-acclaimed Zeus Manhattan. It departed from custom–a blue maraschino cherry replaced crimson; a lark for the handful of people who knew the talented bartender adored boys.

"There's a boy I've been seeing; he's trailer-trash, but cute as can be. I pay his mom in meth, cheap when you think about it," Ransome chuckled. "Only eight, but he has his best cums when I lock his junk in a cage and plow his ass hard. We do that a lot. Not as often as you do, I'm sure."

"Steffie serves me because he loves me. It's his role in life, now. That said, he knows everything I own is held in trust for him. It will all be his one day."

"What about his mom and sister?"

"I'm planning to tell her on Thanksgiving, as she's leaving."

"What he's lost, though…" Ransome countered, the rest implied by lingering silence.

"A necessary sacrifice; not a great one; not when it preserves inordinate beauty," Lanier held forth; he had a tendency to pontificate when his precious boy was involved.

Ransome considered the matched pair, yellow gold with turquoise Guilloché enamel, seven miniscule brilliant-cut diamonds to symbolize Steffen's seven years at the time.

"Those gorgeous blue eyes of his; or blue for a boy?" he posed.

Lanier kept his voice low. "That shade has always been his favorite color."

Ransome reflected. "I remember; he was Aladdin. Same color nylon bloomers. Very sexy."

"Turquoise silk, and they're called harem pants. I figured even you couldn't mistake him dressed like that."

"His little yellow vest showed off his tummy. Really cute." He lowered his voice. "I got a hard-on right away."

"His 'vest' was an antique from the Ottoman Empire, a sadar worn by slave boys. It was made by weaving gold thread, exclusive lamé."

"So much expense. He was erotic and exotic, though. I could barely control myself."

Lanier vacillated; it was easy to say too much, especially to Ransome. He was devious, definitely not stupid.

"A beautiful little eunuch deserves the very best; recompense if you will." He was always fanatical when it came to Steffen's attire.

Ransome raised his glass in good humor. A musical clink, fragile like a tinkling bell, or Steffen's crystalline treble.

"Whatever! Those pants were a real turn on, though. Gorgeous fanny, especially after I took off his Spiderman undies. His little dick always made a tent in front. And the silk or whatever, it kept clinging to his butt in back. I swear I could see the hole in his crack. A lot bigger now, I bet."

Lanier's fantasy asserted itself, only now it was real. His face flushed at the thought–just three years earlier, it was merely a delicious dream that kept him awake.

"A sex slave should be both demure and utterly shameless, Ransome."

"Demure… what?"

"Modest?… Shy? I want Steffie to be naked as often as possible, or dressed to reveal his boy parts. He has a delightful body; and I love to see it, but he has to be shy about it. I despise slutty boys."

Relishing memories of three weeks of seeing Steffen constantly bare in a Queens' basement apartment, Ransome reverted to his usual egotistical self. The problem was he couldn't think of a more beautiful boy; even his favorite Instagram model paled in comparison.

"Seeing him dressed like that made grabbing him a joy. Damn, it was easy, though! Halloween couldn't be better for kidnapping. Kids and strangers in cars everywhere," he mused.

"This Halloween, he's going as Cat Boy. A catamite in black latex, or showing off his boy-pussy; either is apropos."

"Did I tell you his mother was making out with Abelard while I was snatching her kid?"

"I told you she's a promiscuous bitch."

Ransome smirked knowingly. After meeting her at Lanier's Tudor-provoked mansion on a secluded Long Island estate, firsthand experience replaced any doubt; not that he was interested in middle-aged delusional women.

"How was she to know Abelard would geld the poor kid while her Thanksgiving turkey was in the oven?"

Intended as humor, it was sarcasm tinged with cynicism. Sitting in a gay bar with the kid's grandfather, celebrating his abduction; that was creepy, not just in his view, anyone's. Then, realizing he may have gone too far, Ransome leaned in, and peered closely at the miniature likeness of Steffen Lanier.

"He still as pretty as he was?"

"Not pretty, Ransome; perfect!"

"I still say Abelard should've frozen his nuts. What if you changed your mind?"

Lanier resented the suggestion. He plucked up the snuff box, contemplating the precious contents.

"Ransome, my little soprano will never come, and never get hairy. Plus…." He relished the idea. "… his little boy-jewels will be treasured forever."

"If you enjoy that, sure."

"You enjoyed him for three weeks. I've enjoyed him for three years, with no change at all, and many more years to come."

"I didn't exactly enjoy him, Mr. Lanier. The deal was I turned the kid queer, but returned him a virgin. You have no idea how much I wanted to ruin his rectum."

"Being larger back there is a good thing at his age. As it was, your beer bottles almost made him wear a colostomy bag. For a while, I was afraid he'd never leave the hospital."

Ransome reddened, and went with police humor. "At least no one can accuse you of destroying evidence!"

He flicked at the snuff box, to make his point extra clear.

"I would never destroy these…" Emotionally soppy, Lanier slid the tiny casket closer, contemplating the most precious jewels of all. "Who'd suspect they're looking at little-boy gonads?

"True for me. I'd nearly forgotten how tiny they were in the zip-lock bag."

Ransome had seen them without decoration. Freshly harvested, they were the size of cardinal eggs. They were much smaller after Abelard stripped away epididymis and spermatic cord. Then, as now, they reminded him of eggs in a wren's nest. He'd discovered it a month after the kidnapping, hidden in a Christmas wreath he'd hung on the front door. Wren eggs were tiny, pale; little boy testicles with flimsy shells, instead of tunica.

"Did I mention Steffie's mother had the unmitigated gall to tell Abelard he must have implants?" Lanier nudged a precious egg with his fingertip. "Not these, of course… More realistic."

"Why wouldn't she? Any parent would worry about how a boy looks down there."

"Abelard didn't bat an eye." Lanier air-quoted for effect. "'Putting in fake ones for aesthetic appeal just makes it worse, Jackie. Far better for Steffen to accept being a eunuch.'" An ahem, and he switched. "I wish I could imitate him like you do. Of course, I agreed."

Ransome looked at him blankly.

"To annoy her, I suggested Abelard remove his scrotum," Lanier went on. "I told her I read somewhere they used to do that to choir boys when they castrated them. Once the gonads were gone, it served no purpose."

"It certainly looked empty without them, just loose skin."

"Abelard said it would shrivel. He was right; a year later there was only a little flap and a few wrinkles left. This way, the end result is natural; plus there's nothing left to remind Steffie." He touched the snuff box. "Except these, of course."

"I take it you're pleased with how everything turned out?" Ransome prodded.

Hinting that a bonus was long overdue wasn't blackmail; he'd never sink that low, although Abelard might. He decided not to mention it right then.

Lanier looked up from his snuff box. "I envy you. I wish I'd been there when it was done."

"You needed an alibi; what better than being at home for Thanksgiving dinner? At least you were there for his circumcision."

"Why my son married a moron like her, I have no idea. She insisted on keeping him 'au naturel'." He cupped his forehead. "There's 15,000 years of tradition; the prettiest slave boys were properly circumcised, even if they weren't always castrated."

"Silly of her not to get it done when he was born," Ransome agreed. "Sucking's much nicer without foreskin getting in the way."

"That's why I had to make sure Steffen's was properly removed. Only one chance to get it right, and tight!"

"Tighter than tight. Abelard didn't leave any excess. Every time Steffen got a stiffie, I worried he'd pull out the stitches."

"The worst part was I had to stay at home at the end," Lanier lamented. "It's the most sacred ritual a man can witness, don't you think?"

"I never thought about it before then, but yeah. Cutting off a boy's balls… it's…"

"Primal," Lanier proffered. "It excited you, didn't it; seeing Abelard cut them off?"

"I nearly came, seeing him make that first incision and insert his little forceps. When he pulled out a nut; that was a shock." Ransome chuckled. "But once I got over that, yeah… It was singular."

"Gelding boys used to be quite commonplace, you know." Lanier itched an ear and leaned closer. "I took Steffen to the Rialto Market when we were in Venice last year. We stood in the same place where slave merchants sold boys his age."

Ransome smirked. "Let me guess; he wanted to know what was done to slave boys to make them behave."

"He's known about that since he was seven. We play a game where I pretend to cut off his balls before I sell him as a slave." Lanier smirked. "Sometimes, I wrap a rubber band around his penis and scrotum until it gets dark. He pretends they're numb, already dead."

Ransome swigged his beer, not tasting a drop. "Did he like being there, at the slave market?"

"Oh, most definitely. Steffie's a real history buff when it comes to eunuchs. He even lay on the stone bench without being told to."

Ransome was blushing before the image sank in. "He got hard, right?"

"Impossibly hard, which is unusual for him. I sat next to him and told him how eunuchs were made in the twelfth century. The same as Ancient Rome, of course, either crushing or excision. A little boy like him, he would've been crushed back then."

"Crushed how?"

"It's really quite simple. The boy sat in a warm bath so he loosened down there. A man, quite often a relative, massaged his testicles. Apparently, if you do it hard enough, they become numb. Then, you gradually increase the pressure until they feel spongy. A good hard squeeze and the tunica splits."

"So once they turn to pulp, you squeeze the contents through a break, huh. Then, what?"

"It's done. They gradually dissolve and the skin shrivels. From what I've read, it isn't painful enough to require laudanum."

"And by the time the poor kid realized his balls were done for, it was too late. You should've done that to Steffen and skipped Abelard."

"I considered it. I could've done it by myself in the bathtub, even in the Jacuzzi. However, actual castration is far more invasive. A slave will never forget he lost his freedom and manhood at the same time."

"But if a boy's unconscious like Steffen was; is it still a momentous event in his life?"

"It is for us. After we have sex, Steffen likes to talk about how he was done," Lanier countered.

Flustered, Ransome blurted, "You actually tell him how Abelard did it?"

"All the details, exactly like the video you took. The slit down the center-line. Opening his sac. Using those cupped forceps to pluck them out, one at a time. How tiny they were. Steffie can barely control himself."

Lanier licked his lips, replaying his favorite scene, the cherished moment when surgical scissors snipped, his grandson's remaining testicle dropping onto a tray. There was a delicious finality, a sense of completion and possession, unforgettable.

Ransome gulped beer. "Hearing you makes me remember. Abelard was real particular about the incision… 'Underneath so it's well back. Adrian doesn't want to see a scar.'" It was a fair imitation of Abelard, conceited Ivy League.

"Talking about it like this; does it excite you?" Lanier pressed.

"It's creepy; reminiscing about your grandson. But yeah, I got a hard-on, same as then."

Lanier hesitated, a final fond look inside the snuff box before closing it and returning it to his breast pocket, next to his heart. He lowered his voice.

"You know what excites me? Making love to him, knowing I made him a eunuch."

'What if someone finds out?"

"The man who gelded my grandson is still his pediatrician, Ransome. No one will find out."

"What if Abelard blackmails you? I could… ah, take steps…"

"I have a video of him finger-fucking Angelique in the ass. From last Christmas. It was all rather droll; he didn't even flush her first. Poop and no passion; it was gross. Definitely no multiple orgasms like Steffie gets."

"I could tell he was going to love anal. Some boys are fixated, even at seven."

"Just between us, he begs for cock every day." Lanier smirked, quite out of character. "You will join us for Thanksgiving, won't you? I can't promise he'll beg with you there, but he very well might."

Ransome chuckled. "I'm afraid I'm holding down the fort until three."

"Not a problem. Bring your boyfriend, from the trailer park. Steffen will be overjoyed and his mother will be furious. Couldn't be better."

Chapter Two

Thanksgiving, Music Room, Lanier Estate, Long Island, NY.

Angelique Lanier had movie-star aspirations. Trained by her pretentious, some would say profligate mother, she possessed charm, grace, and wit, enough to make her middle-aged admirer swoon. She was a snow princess for Thanksgiving, for no other reason than she adored being the center of attention. She strutted in the impressively Italianate Lanier Music Room, presumptuous and resplendent. A double-slit dress in glittery lavender satin revealed seven-year-old thighs, surprisingly tanned for that time of year. Flimsy and shiny, the cloth molded her chubby pudenda, offering an occasional glimpse of white lacy panties. A sequined bodice and attached glitter train drew the eye, accentuating beneath.

She was appraising her family's silver-framed photographs when Irma Cleavenger chose that very moment to peek in the doorway. There was something about a child in a lace-up back that whetted her matronly appetite. Of course, Steffen had lace-up in his closet. Engraved and filigree leather boy-corsets, others in slick-black latex, Chinese-style embroidered silk, even floral-tapestry–they were Ottoman-Empire antiques…

It was only with effort that her voice didn't waver. "Isn't that a delightful photo of Steffie?"

"Mommy, Steffie, and I were picking cherries for you to make a cherry pie."

Her voice, as vibrant as her older brother's, annoyed Ms. Cleavenger. Even more so, when Angelique pointed at a wicker basket of shiny cherries, an elegant long sleeve emphasizing a pencil-thin arm. She really was a spoiled, unpleasant little bitch, like her mother.

"I remember." Ms. Cleavenger smiled slyly. "They were too sour. Steffie threw them away after you left."

The photo, from two years earlier, was temporary, placed mid-center on the lacquered Napoleon III cabinet. Lavish, even obsessive detail, and unfettered gilt contrasted the silver Art Nouveau frame, yet neither seemed out of place.

"You can tell your dear grandpa took the photo from how Steffie's sitting," Ms. Cleavenger resumed, cynicism scarcely checked.

Suddenly wet, without doubt provoked by the photo, she forced herself away. Pretty as a girl, Steffen always stole her breath, quickened her pulse; arousal building until she had to look back. Able to stop herself, she lingered on the photo, his baby-smooth gazelle-firm legs, no silken panties showing. Almost bare arms bearing a tan from wherever he'd gone with his grandfather for Spring vacation.

Angelique divulged a secret without realizing. "He always rests on his heels when he kneels."

"Yes, he does. It makes his thighs stronger, and other things."

"What things?"

Ms. Cleavenger smirked behind her hand. Tempting as it was, it wasn't her job to explain why a gay boy needed firm buttocks, even if she had the time, or the desire. Far more appealing was Steffen's T-shirt–it had the usual low neckline, revealing enough immaculate flesh to whet her employer's appetite, distract him from the dull inanity of New York aristocracy.

Angelique frowned at the photo. Something about it held her eye, increasingly perturbed that her brother was in the middle, where she belonged. It wasn't because he was simply attired; T-shirt, loose shorts, flimsy slippers; something else. He smiled at the camera, unlike her mother with a sourpuss face. Her face wasn't much better; however, she never liked her hair braided.

"He's wearing all white, Ms. Cleavenger."

"Your grandfather likes him to look virginal, even if he's not."

"Virginal," she repeated, pondering until a frown appeared. "Boys don't have that thing inside them."

"It's true there are no hymens in little boys; however, they have something else just as special."

Angelique crooked her head, the same curious sideways look that Steffen perfected. Sensing a naughty question lurking beneath long flaxen curls, Ms. Cleavenger felt a flutter, a tickle, another ooze of vaginal excretion–he was much better looking than his sister. She licked her lips, unadulterated anticipation of later that evening, the celebration of what transpired three years earlier.

"Unlike little girls, a boy can still be virginal after he loses his virginity," she confided.

"Is that why Grampa likes boys more than girls?"

The same 'Grampa' resisted her cuddly embrace, but hugged and kissed her brother for hours at a time, most unbecoming.

"Little boys can be loose, without being loose." Always oblique, never outright admission.

Taking Angelique's small hand, Ms. Cleavenger guided her towards the fireplace. Segueing from the facts of life to the photos on the mantel; they were enduring mementos, vague, enigmatic, private. She stopped before Steffen at seven years old, sallow, short ashen hair, fresh from the bath and wrapped in a Pooh-Bear-yellow blanket.

"Mommy said we didn't have Thanksgiving that year," Angelique murmured. "Because of the awful thing that happened."

"Awful… yes, it was; however, it was also a good thing. It brought Steffie to Lanier Park to live with us."

Ms. Cleavenger turned as if cued. Steffen peeked shyly around the door, a seraph with a Bermuda tan and long wavy hair. His sister beamed as he stepped into sight.

"Steffie's wearing an Aladdin outfit for Thanksgiving, Ms. Cleavenger!"

"And you're the Ice Princess…"

"Grampa wanted me to be a lady bug for Halloween!" Angelique was indignant. "I'm Elsa! From Frozen!"

"Of course, you are. But Steffen's not wearing an Aladdin outfit! Are you Steffie?"

Steffen offered a perfunctory shrug along with a soprano-pitched, "Um, not exactly."

"What are you, then? The genie?" Angelique challenged, now headed to her brother for the obligatory hug.

Steffen chewed his bottom lip, a bashful peek at Ms. Cleavenger, her pugnacious gaze now locked and loaded.

"Tell her, Steffie; or I shall."

"It's what… um…"

He took a breath, hugging his sister ambivalently. He could feel her almost-naked warmth, his silky pants and her satiny dress offering almost no separation. She hugged even tighter, resting her head on his rib-indented chest, his pubis and pulled-in penis pressing uncomfortably close to her navel.  

Ms. Cleavenger cleared her throat, as much as saying 'get over it'.

Steffen separated, unaffected by intimate contact. "It's what boys like me wear."

With a sly look at Steffen's middle, Ms. Cleavenger added, "Only very special boys can wear eunuch pants."

Not understanding, Angelique demanded, "What makes him so special?"

"Boys like Steffie have a secret, don't they?" An eyebrow elevated, she waited for him.

"Um… See, Angie,… well, s-some boys don't have all their b-boy p-parts," he murmured.

Angelique regarded him, his shoulders naturally submissive. "Like what?"

She couldn't remember him being so nervous, except after the incident. He was mopey for weeks, even though he lived at Lanier Park with their grandfather.

"Eunuchs are boys who don't have testicles," Ms. Cleavenger clarified, adding, "Most people call them balls."

Angelique frowned. "Was Steffie born without balls?"

"A few boys are; not him, though," Ms. Cleavenger said, a reassuring glance at Steffen. "Mostly, boys lose them when they're older, don't they Steffie? Sometimes they get cut off after an accident, or they get sick, or…"

"Mommy said some boys really want to be girls, so they get operated on."

An amused downward look as she fixed on him. Anxious since his abduction, his natural meekness made it worse. He was almost pathetic. She preferred him like that, a timid little eunuch who was hers to command.

"… or somebody takes them," Steffen finally muttered, now looking anywhere but at his sister.

"Why would someone take them?"

Ms. Cleavenger gave Steffen another of her domineering looks. "If boys have their balls cut off, their skin stays soft and they don't get hair everywhere." She paused. "They can never become men, can they Steffen?"

"Are they like Peter Pan?" Angelique mused as she studied her brother; he wasn't anything like the brash and vibrant Peter Pan.

"Actually, eunuchs are dainty and very obedient, like some little girls. Not all girls, of course; some are cranky and rude, and very disobedient."

Steffen very nearly smiled. "Some little girls are so spoiled, they're unpleasant."

It was totally unexpected from the docile boy who sat immobile and compliant while she brushed his long hair, plucked his eyebrows, manicured his nails, rubbed his skin with Oil of Olay before she dressed him every morning.

It was then, when Ms. Cleavenger regarded him fondly for the first time. It was only for a moment; any longer and he might assume she actually liked him.

"What else can't you do after you lost your balls, Steffen?"

Blushing furiously, he murmured, "I-I can't make babies, Ms. Cleavenger. A lot of slaves are eunuchs because of that."

"And there's one more reason, isn't there Steffen?" Ms. Cleavenger prompted, now relishing his embarrassment.

"Some men prefer eunuchs to women." He swallowed, face burning hot, a pressing need to pee, nervous excitement that wouldn't stop. "Like in a harem, if a boy's really pretty, he's kind of like a wife." When Ms. Cleavenger turned her gaze on him, he added, "He's called a catamite, or a sex slave."

Ms. Cleavenger snickered. "Angelique doesn't know what a catamite is, Steffen."

"It's a kind of slave… A b-boy…" He caught her gaze. "Um, he has s-sex with his m-master."

"I think Steffen is talking about himself, don't you?"

Angelique giggled, peeking at her embarrassed older brother.

"We'd know Steffie is a sex slave if we heard…?" Ms. Cleavenger posed, an eyebrow lifted. "Tinkle, tinkle. Now, what goes tinkle, tinkle?"

Vacuous like her mother, Angelique merely shrugged if off, primping her ice-princess dress.

Steffen glowered, clearly perturbed. "He wears a bell so his master can find him," he mumbled.

"Are you wearing your bell?" Ms. Cleavenger's tone tolerated no defiance.

He looked down, dainty slippers of traditional-soft camel leather, trimmed with silver-metallic thread and gilded sequins. They made almost no sound at all, just a faint 'click' if he jumped up and down.

"Of course, you are," she went on. "I put it on you this morning, but I can't hear it tinkling. Let me see it, Steffie."

"In f-front of h-her?" Steffen's stunningly tanned face was crimson.

"You've got nothing to hide, silly boy. I'm Matrone, it's my job; and your dear little sister has seen your pitiful penis before."

"I w-was s-seven, Ms. Cleavenger. She wanted to know what happened to me while I was kidnapped…. P-please d-don't make me."

Matrone Cleavenger's stern countenance was resolute. It still took several long seconds of Steffen's awkward fumbling with the golden cords at his waist before his translucent harem pants slid to his knees.

Angelique gaped at his middle, a delicate lace bikini, the hue matching the silky harem pants bunched at his knees. Nothing she hadn't seen before; although unlike the last time, his perky little penis made a noticeable bump. However, the tip was yellow, glistening gold beneath silk filigree–that was new, and bizarre.

Ms. Cleavenger gestured, a single finger signaling 'down'. Obediently, a very embarrassed Steffen opened the bow, pulling away privacy before his sister could point out it looked like her bikini, only smaller.

Angelique clapped her hands with delight. "There really is a bell on the end of his dicky."

Like a little gold helmet, the bell covered his glans, flaring out at the rim like the delicate flesh beneath. A loose red-silk ribbon tied to a ring on the very tip, its other end knotted under his glans.

"It's supposed to dangle when you're in public, Steffen," Ms. Cleavenger said sharply.

"I was looking for Grampa, Ms. Cleavenger. He likes to take it off."

"I'm sure he does," she snickered, gesturing. "Well, come here."

She pinched the gold bell between her thumb and two fingers, and tugged. Steffen jerked, whimpering. She grumbled under her breath, and with a deft tug, plucked off the bell.

Steffen was still whimpering as she held it for Angelique to see. She was more interested in…

"He still has his widdler, only it's even tinier than the last time he showed me."

"That little ball is called a clapper." Ms. Cleavenger pointed it out. "It goes inside his dicky."

"You mean… in the little slit where he tinkles from?" Angelique giggled.

"The knot's way too tight. It really hurt coming out," Steffen pouted.

"It's supposed to be tight so your pee can't get out. You either tinkle, or you can't."

Angelique giggled again, her gaze fixed on her brother's little penis and its dangling gold bell.

"Make it tinkle!"

Steffen risked a glance at Ms. Cleavenger, instinctively cowering as she glared at him. He did what she expected, and in the end, enjoyed every moment. La danse de l'almée, staccato movements of his hips, flowing and sinuous undulations, kinesis that gave his abdominal muscles a workout, shimmies, shivers and vibrations that shrieked sexual desirability.

With no G-string to hold his penis, the little boy slave was no longer captive. No music either, yet his tinkling bell was ample accompaniment. Ms. Cleavenger ogled, as infatuated as Adrian Lanier, who watched and waited at the doorway.

"Bravo!" He clapped when Steffen finally turned around. "The cook informs me that dinner will be served when we're seated."

Chapter Three

Thanksgiving Dinner, Lanier Estate, Long Island, N.Y.

The dining room was not of the House of Tudor; nor was it mock-Tudor, or Tudoresque. It was a mish-mash of Jacobean and Chinois, infected by an Art Nouveau chandelier and a passion for trompe-l'œil–all four walls featured gardens, white blossoms, and unlikely finches. A fireplace, massive and marble with gilded fire-irons and guardian onyx lions consumed one wall. Above, was a life-sized bleached-pastel of Steffen in the orchard. Opposite, the obligatory spindly sideboard displayed heirlooms, including funerary urns for two Lanier generations.

Angelique headed to the sideboard, six silver-framed photos of Steffen. With none of her, or their mother, she fiddled with an unusual box, padded red leather, embossed, with brass dragons, and hinges.

"Why is this here?" she asked of no one in particular.

"It's a Ming-dynasty stool," Lanier said from behind her.

He cast a sideways glance at Steffen, a late arrival who was now attired in creamy-satin fly-less trousers, and a not-quite-militaristic jacket–tuxedo-style tails behind and vest-like in front, gilt braid and buttons, suitably pale blue long wrist cuffs, and an upright collar. A high front for both trousers and jacket emphasized his narrow middle and minimal crotch.

Unaware that her brother wore the uniform once worn by Pierre Santacreu, a ward of the Vicomte d'Aubeterre, Chevalier of the Ordre des Ouvertures, Angelique pointed at an etched rondelle plate in the center.

"It looks like a candlestick holder."

"Steffen sat on it it when he first arrived. He's used to bigger things now, so we keep his valuables in it."

"You must mean like a jewelry box, Grampa?"

She lifted the lid to unlock her brother's keepsakes, revealing a compartment between cylindrical sides. Within, dark lacquered ebony with subtly detailed Chinese gongbi, colored inks on yellowing silk, allegorical 'passions of the peach.'  Originally, the cylinders housed an assortment of pegs. The center, intended for towelettes; contained Steffen's yellow Pooh-Bear 'blankie.'

She opened the drawer beneath. Five hundred years earlier, it housed unguents; now, it preserved Steffen's special memories; however, before she could ask about the dog collar, Lanier headed off.

Jacqueline was already interrogating her son, an apprehensive Abelard standing beside her.

"What, exactly, are you supposed to be?" Jacqueline flicked at the elaborate jacket. "A Teutonic princeling?"

Steffen vacillated, meekly peeking around.

"Everyone, if you've noticed Steffen is dressed as un jeune huissier, it's because he's my slave," Lanier proclaimed. "Which I expect will teach him not to bet with his grandfather."

"What was the bet?" Jacqueline demanded. "Something demented, I'm sure."

Lost for words, Steffen looked like a deer in the headlights. Lanier enjoyed every moment.

"My bad. Should I tell them, Steffie?"

Steffen shook his head, so nervous he was certain he'd pee his pants.

"Oh, my pretty page-boy is bashful," Lanier teased. "It's quite really simple. Steffen said he couldn't; and I said he could, if he really wanted to. So I made him a bet, and he lost.."

"Don't! Please don't, Grampa. You promised you wouldn't."

"Let's ask Dr. Abelard?"

Steffen shook his head. "He already knows it doesn't last very long. Please?"

Unsupervised, and unimpeded, Angelique rifled through the drawer, discounting her brother's silver-blond locks, rings and bracelets too small for his hands, and…

"Why is his pacifier so big?" she demanded loudly.

Ms. Cleavenger was on a beeline. "It's not for a baby." She lowered her voice. "If you must know, he learned some bad habits during the incident. He wouldn't open his mouth far enough. Or his tongue would get in the way. Plus, it helped to calm him down."

Angelique put it back in the drawer and picked up a tiny glass tube partially wrapped in delicate leather…

"Steffie's baby teeth. They're so tiny!" Angelique held up the tube for all to see.

Jacqueline's derisive snort got the attention it deserved. She quickly segued to, "Really, Adrian, you kept his baby teeth?"

Lanier placed a possessive hand on Steffen's bony shoulder, squeezing firmly, calmly.

"Why wouldn't I? They were part of Steffen. I happen to love him very much, all of him. Besides, I paid the Tooth Fairy good money for them."

The elderly cook, another Lanier heirloom, politely proclaimed from the doorway. "Excuse me for interrupting. Dinner will be served momentarily."

Snippy was only to be expected from Jacqueline, although she waited until the cook withdrew.

"Do you keep everything of his?"

"What I choose to do in my house is not your concern. That said, I keep everything of his that's important, from his most treasured relics to the Spiderman underpants he was wearing when he was kidnapped."

She grimaced, without realizing the inconsistency–her son was returned without foreskin, testicles, and underpants.

"Detective Ransome brought Steffie's clothes to me after the investigation added," Lanier added, just to be sure. "I didn't keep the grubby old sheet he was wrapped in. It wasn't his."

To an outsider, the Lanier Thanksgiving dinner would appear ostentatious, if not outright stuck-up. The dinner set was English, Royal Doulton cobalt and gilt; the silverware was Tiffany, antique engraved. The dining table, English walnut and pedigreed, which sat up to six blue-bloods per side, was intentionally sparse when family sat down to dinner.

With seats assigned by turkey-inspired figurines, Lanier sat at the head, his favorite in pride of place, to his right; Angelique on his sinister- left. Then, Ms. Cleavenger sat opposite Steffen's private tutor. Lastly, Jacqueline sat opposite Abelard, as if framing the view of terraced parterres and Long Island Sound. However, at two pm, Detective Ransome and his 'nephew' had yet to arrive.

With a ten-course dinner to announce, the cook took a deep breath and waited for table mutter to dwindle away to expectant smiles.

"To begin, the hors d'oeuvre is le coq crostini with goat cheese and fig-olive tapenade. The soup is leek with chipotle cream. To follow, an appetizer of candied carrots with honey, cumin, and paprika. The salad, pears, pomegranate and persimmons in dressing. The main course is pheasant…"

She went on to finished her gastronomic menu with butter madeleine biscuits and tea or coffee. By then, Angelique had turned up her nose.

"Sit with me, Steffie," Lanier said, yearning to cuddle his little slave boy.

As Steffen climbed aboard his favorite 'couch' and nestled in for their usual snuggle, Jacqueline grumbled under her breath, but kept her mouth shut.

"Three years ago, I was living a nightmare. We all were. I was very afraid I'd never see you again…"

He paused as Steffen offered his first kisses, on his master's cheek, another on the tip of his nose. Relishing ravishing boyhood, Lanier fondled silvery-blond locks, inhaling sandalwood-scented soap.

"… Now, here you are, safe and sitting my on lap."

Hidden by the table, yet Steffen still surreptitiously rearranged the white-lace tablecloth over his middle. Meek more than shy, he parted his thighs. Only a few moments to wait before his grandfather's fingers stroked sensitive skin under thin-satin page-boy pants. Utterly and forever hairless, and small, a forefinger investigating a fold in the cloth, easily recognizing a familiar little 'worm', shriveled wrinkles below. Tugging gently on the miniature skin flap, empty but for mushy epididymis, nothing firm, nothing resembling tiny bird eggs.

"My precious little eunuch, I love you so much," he whispered in Steffen's ear.

With a playful tickle, his hand retraced to a flat little belly.

"My seed's in your tummy, isn't it? Or is it in your pants? Where did I put it this morning?"

"You bent me over the bed, Grampa," Steffen murmured, secretly eager for his master's caresses, yet keeping a watchful eye on his sister, far too close to play properly.

"I filled you up with Grampa's cream, didn't I?"

"Did you say something, Adrian?" Jacqueline inquired sourly.

"If you must know, I was asking how his rash is doing," Lanier said coldly. "Poor thing, I'll put another dollop there after dinner."

He tickled his favorite–a flurry of wriggles and giggles made it even more harmless. His sister scowled at being ignored. His mother glared daggers at Ms. Cleavenger, busily devouring crostini while ranting about New York's mayor. Abelard finally ahemed, half stood, holding Lalique Coutard crystal, perfect for Lanier's Sauvignon-blanc.

"If I might, Jacqueline and I want to make an announcement."

"Before you do, I have something I must say," Lanier interrupted.

He beamed down at Steffen, never happier. Three wonderful years behind them and many more to come, with never a droplet coming from his sex-slave. He salivated at the thought, a tiny penis that was always sweet and fresh, never salty, never bitter.

"As everyone is aware, poor Steffen was kidnapped three years and three weeks ago," he went on. "It was a somber Thanksgiving at Jacqueline's house when the courier arrived."

He hugged Steffen, inhaling, relishing the aroma of ten-year-old boy.

"Your little testicles were in a Ziplock bag, dear boy. The note said they'd send your penis the next day if the ransom wasn't paid."

"There's no reason to be so morbid, Adrian." Jacqueline grimaced. "Besides, it was that detective's fault! All that nonsense about Steffen not being returned if we paid up. We should've paid right away."

Lanier grunted. "Actually, Jacqueline, I paid. And Ransome was right. It took me three awful weeks to find out who set up the account in the Caymans. Then, I transferred the $10 million. However, what you don't know is that the account was changed to Steffen's name. As soon as the kidnapper realized, he skedaddled back to Pakistan."

Jacqueline's surprised showed. "So, the money is where now?"

"In this dear boy's account, of course." Lanier tweaked Steffen earlobe. "It's his money, now. The stipend you've been receiving is paid from the interest."

He raised his wine glass, smiling at Steffen as he gazed up at his master and lover.

"It hardly seems fair," Abelard muttered. "Shouldn't Angelique get the same?"

"Angelique wasn't kidnapped and castrated," Ms. Cleavenger intoned haughtily.

"And that wasn't the worst that happened to him," Lanier added obliquely.

Jacqueline's anger ignited. "Whatever happened to him, it's no reason to penalize his sister. It's not fair."

"Mom, I was sodomized with beer bottles until I couldn't live without it."

Never prouder, Lanier gave Steffen a reassuring nod, and extra-strong hug.

"What's sodomized?" Angelique asked loudly.

"Instead of him sticking his finger up your butt, it would be his cock," Steffen said with quiet authority.

"I hear your pain, Steffen. However, there's no reason to be vulgar about it, dear."

"Steffie, I think it's time everyone sees what was done to you. Only then, will they understand why you're the way you are. Why you want to live here with me," Lanier said with quiet equanimity.

"Must I take everything off, Grampa?"

"Wouldn't you rather be the same as you were for three weeks, naked?"

"Yes Sir. It's just… I want to belong to you. I don't want to live with them."

"What would be the best way to show absolute submission?"

Steffen stood beside his grandfather, obedient little slave boy fiddling with his golden buttons. Surely, Pierre Santacreu, ward and sex slave of the Vicomte d'Aubeterre did the same over two hundred years earlier. And the boys who preceded him, and proceeded him. Hundreds if not thousands of boys…

"Performing an intimate act without hesitation before others is a sure sign of submission to a master," Lanier commented.

Steffen shed his jacket, turning slowly around, revealing the seat of his trousers. Embroidered for all to see was, 'Chevalier des Ordre des Ouvertures.'

Angelique pointed, smirking.

"I live to serve Grampa, the Knight of the Order of the Openings," Steffen said, meeting Lanier's stern gaze as he unfastened the buttons on his trousers.

He shimmied slender hips, sleek creamy satin sliding down smooth shapely thighs. The bright flash of gold held everyone's attention.

"That's his eunuch bell, so Grampa can hear him coming," Angelique giggled.

Jacqueline gulped. Across the table, Steffen's private tutor leered at his only pupil. He'd waited three years; it was worth every moment. Of all of them, Lanier excepted, Abelard was the least surprised after his monthly examinations.

"Some shrinkage of the genitals is normal even if a boy's castrated before puberty."

"Underneath is where his balls used to be, right?" Angelique pointed in case it wasn't clear.

"Angelique, why don't you look closer," Lanier said.

He clasped his grandson's right buttock, his thumb pressing into the divide, seeking warm malleable flesh, a delicate not-so-little funnel that opened into him.

"Let her feel your little scrotum, Steffie."

Angelique reached, pinched baby-soft skin between her thumb and first finer, a sharp fingernail exacting a muted squeal. Then, feeling around, tugging down, stretching out wrinkles. The small flap of skin with its remnants of boyhood amused her as much as it appalled her mother.

"Now, my beautiful boy, show her where you get sodomized," Lanier continued.

He was eager to move on. Thanksgiving dinner meant roasted pheasant, with wild rice, truffles, brandy, and a touch of tarragon.

Steffen hesitated, took a deep breath, and turned about. With his hands on his buttocks, he exposed his 'Ouverture'. A gaping aperture, it was more like a little mouth than a ten-year-old's anus.

"His hole is really big and red, compared to mine, isn't it Doctor Abelard?" Angelique observed.

"She was irritated there, so I showed her in a mirror before I gave her some ointment," Abelard spluttered, avoiding Jacqueline's dark look.

"Steffen's is big because a bad man jammed beer bottles inside it," Lanier expounded. "And once a boy's hole gets nice and big, it's best if it stays like that so he can have sex whenever he needs to."

"Is that why it's red? Because a man puts his penis inside him?"

"Doctor Abelard, you're the medical expert; given the redness, when was the last time Steffie had sex?" Lanier pressed.

A gentle pat on the bottom was enough to get Steffen headed around the table. He passed close to his tutor, bare inches between them. He stopped before Abelard, facing away as he 'presented' the way Ms. Cleavenger had trained him, one hand per buttock, splitting and bending over so his anus was completely exposed.

"Steffen! Really! Stop being disgusting."

Lanier clinked a spoon against crystal.

"Steffen, come here my dear." He waited for him to return. "I wish to offer a special toast to a very special boy."

"For God's sake, stop fawning over him, Adrian!"

"To Steffen, will you always be as perfect, and as happy as you are now." Lanier sipped and then held his glass to Steffen's precious lips, the same lips that suckled on his erect penis at every opportunity.

"As a symbol of my deep love, I give you this tiny trinket."

Lanier lifted it from his pocket. Chic and covetable, 1980s vintage, a Tiffany choker of 18k yellow gold 'X' motifs and one diamond-set white-gold 'X' motif. It shrieked privilege, 'love', and 'possession'.

"I've been putting off telling you, my dear boy. With this, no longer are you my legal ward. I claim you as my adopted son."

"What on earth are you talking about?" Jaqueline demanded, her face turning crimson.

"If you remember, you relinquished permanent guardianship after Steffen returned to us in return for a temporary stipend that has kept you and Angelique in style and comfort ever since."

He paused to fit the choker on Steffen's slender neck.

"You look absolutely scrumptious," he whispered.

Steffen giggled. "Being your son is worth not keeping a stiffy for longer than a few minutes."

Lanier resumed, now cuddling his new son, and grandson. "Three weeks ago, Steffen asked me to be his father. My attorney filed a petition to the court, using your previous letter of consent, Jacqueline."

"What if I object?" Jacqueline snapped.

"Why would you do that? You're perfectly happy raising Angelique. You've never loved Steffen, not like I do. Besides, he needs someone who understands and appreciates him exactly as he is."

Affronted, she simply stared back, taking deep agitated breaths.

"I'm loathe to say this, Jacqueline…. You're the last person who should help him make important life decisions."

"Such as?"

Lanier sat down. He pulled Steffen onto his lap again, murmuring, "This is your chance to tell her what you want, Sweetie."

"Mom, I don't want to have hormone shots next year. I want to grow up a eunuch."

"Steffie, sweetie, we already talked about it. You have to go through puberty. It's not an option! Besides, you're not in the position to decide these things."

"But you are?" Steffen shot back. "I don't have balls because of you, Mom. If you were paying attention, I wouldn't have been kidnapped, and I wouldn't have been castrated."

"I'll nurture him in ways you cannot," Lanier added coldly. "I will continue to allow visits with you for certain family events; however, I may restrict them if they're not in Steffen's best interests. Next, if you've read the contract conditions awarding me Steffen's guardianship, you'll know that the stipend is terminated if you remarry, or cohabit."

Jacqueline came close to exploding.

Steffen kept his head down, submissive and toying with crostini, doing his best not to giggle and wriggle as adult fingers inveigled, invaded, possessed the stubby remnant of boyhood. Eventually, it hardened and grew a little larger. It was enough to make his bell jingle.

The End