J.O. Dickingson

The Gargoyle of Male Fecundity

Chapters 21-22

Chapter 21

It was night and raining hard when Kami Wngrrurreye awoke. The thunder clouds were black, almost as black as his naked body. The old man unfolded his long, thin legs and slowly rose from the puddle of dirty water in which he had found himself sitting. Oblivious to the lightning flashing down around him and that he was the tallest object for miles in all directions in the great desert, the seventy-year-old Aborigine headed out across the barren, desolate land. It would be many days walk to the little ranch on the outskirts of Kalgoorlie, and many more days to the mounds at Kata Tjuta. It was January, the beginning of a new year, and Kami Wngrrurreye had gone out into what Australia's white settlers had named the Great Victoria Desert to die. He had entered The Dreaming, Tjukurpa, but he had been told by the Wondjina that it was not his time, and that he was to first assist them in the new creation. And so for seven days and seven nights the sinewy old man walked without food or drink, wending his way through the great sandhills, crossing the dry, cracked salt lakes, and sprinting across the sparse, dry grassland to do what the ancestral spirits had bade him do.

Six-year-old Geoffrey Yeats watched from the parched knoll as the sun slowly sank below the horizon and the dark purples, crimsons and russets faded into blackness. He should have headed home hours ago, but he knew tonight was the night. He didn't know how he knew it was this night, he just did. When the man stepped up beside him from out of the dark, silent as a ghost and as dark as the night, Geoffrey looked up at him questioningly. Kami nodded and stepped back into the shadows. Geoffrey got to his feet and turned to follow. "Com'on, Yeller."

The old yellow dog got to his feet with much more difficulty than the boy, age and arthritis slowing him down, and followed. His hearing almost gone, he hadn't heard the old man approach, and when he'd become aware of his presence he hadn't given warning. He could sense the man meant the boy no harm. As they headed back into the desert from where the man had come, Geoffrey paused once and looked back at the old mining town of Kalgoorlie. It was originally a gold mining town, and they still mined gold there, though only a fraction of what they used to mine. Now instead they stripped the top off the earth and mined nickel in big, ugly pits that scarred the land around the town in all directions. A layer of dust from the mines coated the buildings and streets, and the air smelled of metal, even out here along the edge of town where he and his parents and brothers and sisters operated a small sheep farm to supplement his father's income from the mines. Geoffrey hated the nickel smell of the town and the oily smell of sheep and mutton, and he could tell from the look on the old man's face that he hated it too. He wouldn't miss Kalgoorlie.

His parents and brothers and sisters would wonder what had happened to him. Likely they'd think he'd been dragged off and eaten by the dingos that always came looking for a stray sheep at night, or maybe even by a pack of stray dogs that were always going through their garbage. He'd been warned enough times that would happen to him if he persisted staying out after dark. They'd have blamed old Yeller for not protecting him, and would probably have beaten him. That's why he'd called the old dog to come with them. They'd be sad, and they'd look for him for a while, but they'd never find him, and it would only be for a little while. His father had said they didn't have the money to feed the mouths they already had, and had been angry his mother had gotten pregnant again. So, now they'd have one less mouth to feed, two actually counting Yeller. He only ate scraps and didn't really eat that much, his teeth yellow and rotting with age, Yeller that is, but his father had threatened to kill the old dog anyway and when he'd cried and begged him not to, his father had hit him and told him it was time for him to grow up and face the reality the old dog was dying anyway. He wouldn't miss his father either. He ran to catch up with the old man and the two walked in silence, Yeller struggling along behind them, the distance between them slowly increasing.

The days passed. They walked continually, day and night, pausing only to evacuate their bodies and to sleep and to eat. The old man found them food, roots, berries, grubs, occasionally a snared desert hare or bush hen, and he knew where to find pools of water. Old Yeller lagged behind them but managed to catch up by the end of the day and they shared their food with him. His mother said he was named after a famous dog. Geoffrey had no idea what the dog was famous for. After they had eaten, the old man took out his didjeridu, a real one made from the termite-hollowed out branch of a eucalyptus, not one of those store-bought imitations for tourists, and played a couple songs, one always the same, the other always different from any of the others. Then, as the boy fell asleep, he took out an old slab of wood he had found and carved figures into it and polished it for a while before lying down to sleep himself. There had been little traffic on the road when they'd left Kalgoorlie, and once they headed off on one of the trails into the outback there was nobody. One day they came upon a tribe of Aborigine, Mirning like the old man, and he'd talked to the elders a long time, and when they left they were accompanied by another boy the same age as Geoffrey and whose name was Klah.

Geoffrey lost count of the days they'd been walking following what Kami said were the iwara, ancestral paths that linked the sacred places across Australia. He'd had good shoes, but they'd become worn and cracked and had eventually fallen apart, and his socks had developed such large holes they were of no use, but by then it didn't matter. His feet had hardened and become calloused like the old man's and like the feet of the other young boy. The old man didn't wear shoes himself. Actually, the only thing he wore besides his dillybag, the woven pouch slung over his left shoulder and hanging along his right hip, was a narrow cloth wrapped about his waist and knotted with the two loose ends hanging between his legs in front, leaving his backside exposed. They had discarded Geoffrey's shorts and had ripped his shirt into strips to fashion him a similar cloth, and had fashioned a headband out of the elastic band of his underwear to keep the sweat out of his eyes. The old man had smeared his body with some sort of smelly grease to protect it from the sun, but as his skin darkened they'd had to use less and less of it. In the evenings the old man told the two boys stories about the land and the Ancestral Spirits, and as they and the old dog drifted off to sleep he played his didjeridu and sang.

At last they arrived at Kata Tjuta, the place of many heads, a sacred place consisting of a cluster of thirty large, reddish, conglomerate rocks scattered in a twenty-two-kilometre [14 miles] circle rising abruptly over five hundred metres [1600 feet] up out of the desert plain and supporting in their deep crevices pockets of vegetation and the animal life that depended on it. Kami continued to follow the ancestral path he was following, the iwara making a wide sweeping arc along the edge of the sacred mounds, stopping in the evening of the next day at one of the towering rocks where there was a particularly deep crevice. He could sense the ancestral power deep in the earth, and knew this was where the spirit of a lizard man resided.

The following evening before the setting sun they feasted on roasted witchetty grubs the three of them had dug out of the trunk of an old eucalyptus, the skins crisp and brown and the roasted insides of the two and a half centimetre-long grubs a light yellow and having the firmness of the yoke of a fried egg, and on the flesh of a skink the old man had snared and had roasted on a spit over their fire after he'd given thanks to the spirt of the animal for its life, and performed a ceremony to ensure the smooth-skinned lizards continued to increase sufficiently and so the skink Dreaming remained strong. Old Yeller had even managed to capture and kill a wombat, which he was now happily devouring, and Geoffrey gave silent thanks to the spirt of the marsupial on Old Yeller's behalf, suspecting the old dog didn't know about spirits. Kami had said that all land was sacred and alive, and that it, and the plants and animals that lived on it, were to be revered.

As they ate the lizard's flesh with quandong relish from Kami's dillybag and sucked the hot, fatty marrow from the leg bones, Kami told Geoffrey his name meant Prickly Lizard. Geoffrey observed with his thick, bristly beard and wiry, bushy hair and weathered face, Kami looked like a prickly lizard and asked if that was how he'd gotten his name, and Kami had laughed and said that he had been named long ago, seventy seasons ago, because of a vision of a prickly lizard man, the grandfather of his grandfather's grandfather, saving his people. He smiled and added that, however, he had been told when he was born he had looked like a prickly lizard, and the two boys laughed as they imagined him as a baby with a full head of wiry hair and a bushy, prickly beard. Geoffrey observed that his mother had said his name was German, and that it meant 'God's Peace' and Klah said his name meant 'from the beautiful place' and Kami smiled at the two of them and said that theirs were two names people years from now would remember and revere.

They finished their meal with freshly made bread cakes baked over the fire and spread with bush honey. Kami mixed the ash from their fire with fat he had saved from the lizard and painted his body with white streaks and dotted lines, and the bodies of Geoffrey and Klah with identical patterns of spirals and wavy lines and circles which Kami said represented water, the earth and the moon. And then he played the didjeridu with its haunting drone, singing through the trumpet and dancing at the same time, and Geoffrey and Klah copied his words and steps as they danced behind the old man. The sun began to set, turning the mounds shades of crimson, indigo and purple.

Kami took out the slab of wood he'd been polishing and carving, and tying a cord though the hole he'd made at one end, he stood and swung it around above his head. The air vibrated and a whirring hum began, at first soft but growing louder and louder until it was a roar. Continuing to swing the bullroarer, he began a slow dance around the boys and he sang but neither Geoffrey nor Klah understood the words, though the Mirning boy knew what he was witnessing was taboo for women and for children, and when the night was over, he would no longer be a child. Kami finally stopped and said something to Klah in the language of the Mirning and the boy removed his loincloth and dropped to his hands and knees, and the old man removed his loincloth and knelt behind him, his long, black organ now sticking out stiff and upright. He took a bit more of the fat he had saved from the skink and smeared it over Klah's bumhole, and stuffed a bit inside him with his finger, and wiped his fingers off on his now rigid and swollen member.

Reaching over for his dillybag which Geoffrey knew contained among other things his knife and a flint for making fire, Kami took out a small packet and removed from it an oval, tan-coloured object about two centimetres long. He held it up for the boys to see, and told them it was a Dreaming seed from the Ancestral Spirits and contained a child spirit. Sticking it up Klah's bum, the old man knelt behind the boy and mounted him, like Geoffrey often saw stray dogs do in the alleys in Kalgoorlie and that his father had said was how they made puppies. Geoffrey watched with unabashed curiosity just as he'd watched the dogs as the man's long, black penis, the fat making it shine in the light of the campfire, slowly sank up the ass of his new friend and companion until the man's hairs, just as thick and wiry and black as his beard and the bushy hair of his head, pressed against the boy's backside. Grasping the boy's hips, the man slowly began to draw his stiff penis back out, but before it slipped out he stopped and drove it back in again just like Geoffrey had seen the dogs doing. Unlike the stray dogs Geoffrey had seen, the man pumped his hips back and forth slowly, but otherwise it was the same.

He had not asked, but had guessed that the dog underneath was the girl dog because he knew it took a man and a woman to make a baby, and he guessed then that people made babies in the same way as dogs made puppies. Why it had to be between a boy dog and a girl dog, or a man and a woman he did not know, and he was not interested enough to ask. Though he had seen his younger sister naked and knew she was missing what he had between his legs, he had not asked why and he had not made any connection between that difference and the mystery of making babies. He had assumed the boy dog had done it up the girl dog's bum, and that a man did the same with a woman. After all, he knew a baby formed in a girl's stomach, and he knew the stomach and the bumhole were connected.

So, the only thing confusing was that the old man was doing it with a boy. He had not known guys could do it together, and now as he watched, he wondered if Klah would have a baby like women did, or if he would have puppies like girl dogs did, or, he thought whimsically, perhaps he would have a prickly lizard. He smiled as he imagined that and he wondered what it felt like to have a guy's penis up your bum, and he wondered why the old man's penis had swollen up like it had been bit by a bee or by one of the snakes he'd seen crawling out of the deep crevices in this place and that Kami had warned were poisonous, and he wondered if it was hurting him. He was breathing hard, as was Klah. Whatever they were doing, it had to be hard work.

Kami was going faster now, pumping his hips to and fro and grunting and snorting as he worked his swollen penis in and out of Klah's bum as if there was some urgency, and Klah was panting and stretching his back and making funny sounds that were neither sounds of pain nor sounds of pleasure but something in between. Although it had reminded him of the dogs in Kalgoorlie's alleys, Geoffrey wasn't exactly sure what was happening having never seen anything like it before and he watched with interest as the sinewy old man thrust his rigid cock in and out of the six-year-old black boy rapidly, the two of them sweating and panting, their dark black bodies streaked with white ash and lizard fat.

Klah suddenly began to shiver violently, like he was cold, and then began to jerk and twist, like he was trying to get out from under the old man, and then Kami began to jerk too, as if Klah was trying to buck him off, and he grunted and snorted loudly. Then just as suddenly the two just sort of froze for a minute, their faces grotesquely contorted, and then Kami drew his penis out. It was still swollen and still glistened in the firelight, and a long white strand sort of like snot hung from the end. The two of them crawled over to the fire and sat there staring at it for a long time until their breathing was normal again.

Finally Kami picked up the rest of the lizard fat that he had saved and glanced at Geoffrey, and Geoffrey knew it was his turn. He got up and removed his loincloth and then got on his hands and knees as Klah had and Kami knelt behind him. It felt strange having the fat smeared over his bumhole and it sort of throbbed pleasantly as the old man ran his pointer finger over it in circles. He then felt the old man pushing the fat up his bumhole which felt very strange, especially when the old man slipped his pointer finger up his bum. It sort of felt like when he took a poop, which was not an unpleasant feeling, except it lasted longer, which was not unpleasant either. Actually, he was a little disappointed when the man stopped twisting his finger and slipped it out of him. A minute later he slipped his finger back in and Geoffrey realized he had to be sticking that oval thing up his bum and he wondered if his spirit had once been in a seed like that and if his father had pushed him up his mother's bum.

He was a little nervous when Kami shuffled up behind him and he felt what had to be the tip of the man's penis against his bumhole. It was hard and very hot and greasy, and as the man grasped his hips and slowly pushed forward and his cock began to stretch open his bumhole, Geoffrey inhaled deeply and worried it was going to hurt. The old black man's thing was very long and very big. The lizard fat made it slippery though, and his bumhole too, and though it did hurt a bit, it felt pleasant too, not unlike when the old man had rubbed his bumhole. Geoffrey inhaled and exhaled deeply as he concentrated on the strangely pleasant feeling as his bumhole stretched wider and wider until at last the knob of the wiry old man's greased cock popped inside him. His bumhole was still stretched open, though not as much now, and it felt like he had a plum or something stuck up his bum.

He felt the man's long, black cock slowly entering him, going further and further up his bum, further than the man's pointer finger had been before, past where he didn't have any feeling at all until he felt the man's coarse, prickly hairs pressing against his smooth backside. His wiry, coarse hairs tickled and his bumhole burned and itched in a pleasant way, stretched by the old man's thick shaft, and the six-year-old boy was vaguely aware of his long, thick shaft and swollen knob buried up his bumhole, but his bum was numb deep inside so it was more like a vague throbbing deep inside him. Kami slowly drew his thick, rigid cock back out and Geoffrey tensed with the burning friction circling his bumhole as the man's shaft eased out of his hole. It was like a ring of fire, prickling like an itch, painful but pleasant also. He felt the man stop, and then slowly sink his cock back up his asshole, keeping up the burning sensation around his stretched anus as he probed the depths of the white boy's bowels with the tip of his cock.

It felt strangely pleasant having the man's hard, hot, black cock throbbing inside him and it was not unpleasant having it stretching open his anus. As the man slowly worked his cock in and out of his body, the six-year-old sighed with the erotic pleasure and wondered if he would have a puppy or a baby or a lizard, and he wasn't sure which he'd like most. His asshole burned pleasantly and his rectum throbbed hotly as the man's thick cock pumped in and out of it. He felt the old man's hot breath panting against the back of his neck, and he realized that he was panting too, just like Klah had been. This was hard work just as he had thought, but it was fun too, and the longer they did it the better it was feeling. At first he had been very much aware of the man's cock inside him, but now it did not seem so foreign. Now, it felt more like it was a part of him, and his rectum throbbed in time with the thick cock inside it. The man's swollen flesh worked in and out of him rhythmically, pulsating in time with his body and Geoffrey closed his eyes as he concentrated on the pleasure.

Kami was sweating, and so was Geoffrey though the night was quickly cooling off. He was breathing very hard now too, which the boy found strange because all he was doing was kneeling there, yet his heart was pounding and he was gasping for breath. There was a strange, new feeling inside him also, just beyond where the old man's cock was probing, like a pressure that was building and building and he was about to burst. He inhaled and exhaled deeply as he concentrated on that new feeling, and then his body began to twitch, slowly at first but each twitch coming sooner and sooner after the other until there was no pause between them, each twitch stronger and stronger until an electric shock suddenly ripped through his loins. He arched his back and began to jerk his hips to and fro, vaguely aware that his penis had gotten hard and had swollen too and was itching and burning like his bumhole. And then Kami was jerking too, and Geoffrey felt something hot and wet squirt up his rectum, filling it as Kami's gnarled, boney fingers grasped his hips tightly and the man groaned in what Geoffrey wasn't sure was pain or pleasure.

Klah sat there by the campfire watching the two of them, the old man and the white boy, their naked bodies streaked with sacred symbols, the two of them trembling and gasping in their ecstasy, and he knew how the white boy was feeling although he understood it as little as his new friend and companion. Though he didn't understand it, he knew he had felt good, better than he had ever felt before, and that what they had done was a good thing, and that what Kami and the white boy were doing was a good thing too. Tonight under the bright stars in this sacred place where the Ancestral Spirits dwelt, the boy Klah had become a man.

Kami finally drew his aching, still stiff cock out of the boy and crawling over to the fire, he lay on his back, his mad lust satiated though his long, black cock, glistening with lizard fat and ass slime and a smear of his cum, pointed up at the stars, still as hard as a gnarled eucalyptus limb. He inhaled and exhaled deeply, his thin, boney chest rising and falling as he stared up at the sky in wonder and with pleasure. The Wondjina had said two boys, one black and one white, one of this land and one whose ancestors lived in a land far away, would bear him sons, one black and Mirning, one half black and half white and equally of both races, and those Ancestral Spirts had said he would live to see the two boys become friends as though they were brothers and grow up to live happily together as it should have been from the beginning, and he would live to see them have each other's child, and to see his children and their children have children.

Kami sighed with contentment as he glanced over at the two boys, sitting side by side and talking softly beside the fire, and he knew all these things would come to pass for the spirits had shown him so in The Dreamtime. Sitting up, he took out his didjeridu and played and sang, strengthening the harmony he could feel between this world and the spirit powers living in it. Just as the Ancestral Spirits had sung years ago to create all living things, he sang now to ensure the continued propagation of all plant and animal life. He sang loudly and proudly, remaining true to his Dreaming and maintaining his connection with the ancestors of his Dreaming. Most of all he played and sang for the creation and connection of the two child spirits now in the bellies of the two boys listening in awe and wonder. Old Yeller, feeling younger and healthier than he had in years and his stomach pleasantly full, drifted off to sleep on the other side of the campfire, oblivious to the humans.

***

"I'm sorry," Rickey said as he paused to catch his breath. "I gotta pee again." He was also tired but didn't want to admit it.

"No need to be sorry," replied Ndabanayi with a reassuring smile. "It is because you are carrying our child now."

Stepping off the trail and walking over to a thicket of willow, the seven-year-old boy slipped his dick out of his loin cloth and directed his stream at the willows. He hadn't stepped away from Ndabanayi out of any sense of shame or privacy, but rather because his travelling companion had taught him where to evacuate his bodily wastes so as not to contaminate the trails they were following nor draw any wild animals to themselves. That made sense to him, more so than the big deal his parents and other adults made about peeing and pooping in private. As he evacuated his bladder, he ran his other hand over his belly. It didn't feel any different, but then it had only been three weeks since he and Ndabanayi had first engaged in what Ndabanayi had said would make a baby. His chest was a bit swollen though, and his nipples were really sensitive. That was one of the reasons he was wearing a loin cloth instead of his shirt and shorts as he would normally be wearing. The other reason was because it was a lot more comfortable in the hot mid-January Zimbabwe sun, as Ndabanayi had said it would be.

"We will rest a little further up the trail. There is a stream, and some trees for shade."

As he followed the tall black man, Rickey admired his muscular body. He was wearing his traditional dress, a loin cloth and a colourful robe draped diagonally from his left shoulder to his right hip because that was what had been expected of him as a guide to add colour and local flavour for the rich foreign clients, but also because he preferred it to the dress of western tourists and the white settlers who had once ruled his country, and besides, for the journey they were making, it was best suited. He was a tall man, six foot six [2 m], with broad shoulders and thick, muscular arms and legs, with thick, braided hair and a handsome, distinguished face. His skin was the darkest black Rickey had ever seen.

The stream was not far and Rickey gratefully dropped down in the shade of a large, gnarled old tree and took a long drink from the waterskin Ndabanayi had just filled. It seemed lately that he was always thirsty, and always peeing. Leaning his spear against the tree beside Rickey, Ndabanayi leaned back and closed his eyes and Rickey again glanced admiringly at the thirty-five-year-old man. He'd been struck by his towering height and bulging muscles the moment he'd seen him and he wished he could grow up to be as big and strong but he suspected he'd probably grow up to be more like his father. Oh, his father was strong, and even at the age of seven, Rickey knew his father prided himself on his masculinity, both in terms of his physique and his personality, but his muscles were the result of workouts in the gym with the goal of developing large biceps and a muscular chest to impress women and other men so his muscles were not as hard nor as well proportioned as those of Ndabanayi who came by his through a life of hard physical work, and his idea of a masculine personality was beer and poker nights with the boys and an arrogant, dominating, sexist attitude, which was evident from his round, hairy stomach, disdain of anything intellectual, and general laziness and vulgarity. Even at the age of seven, Rickey knew most women and many men found his father obnoxious. Rickey would much sooner grow up to be like Ndabanayi.

"What are you thinking about?" Ndabanayi asked, half opening his right eye and glancing over at him out of the corner.

"How strong and good you are."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," he said with a broad smile, flattered by the boy's words and evident admiration nonetheless. "You are going to have to walk yourself. I'm not carrying you and our baby."

Rickey giggled. His father never joked. Never. He could not recall the last time he and his father had laughed, or that he'd heard his father and mother laugh for that matter. Mostly when he and his father did talk it was his father complaining that he was not boy enough and how disappointed he was in him. He didn't have any of the interests his father had, interests his father said boys were supposed to have, like hunting, cars, sports, and whatever else his father liked and he didn't. His father didn't care about computers or books or school stuff like history and ancient civilizations. Conversations between his father and mother were mostly arguments about his father always criticizing him and always thinking only of himself. This hunting safari to Zimbabwe was a good example. The outdoors and wildlife were the only two things the two of them both liked, but even that was different. Whereas he enjoyed the beauty of the outdoors and the majesty and wonder of animals and nature, his father saw both of them as conquests, the outdoors as a test of man's ability to survive in the rugged wilderness, and animals as wild beasts to be dominated and killed as proof of man's superior abilities.

The reason he was on safari with his father was to teach him how to be a man, how to kill a lion with a rifle hundreds of metres away and from the safety of his landrover, and how to rough it in the wilderness with his air mattress blown up each night and his meals cooked and served by their porters, whom he clearly saw as nothing more than servants, or even worse, as slaves. The only reason his mother was along was because his father expected her to be, and so she could see what a man and father he was. Ndabanayi hunted too, but face to face with an animal with just his spear, and not for a trophy to hang on the wall and show off and brag about to his buddies, but only when he had to, for their food or to protect them, or for clothing. He was glad Ndabanayi had taken him away from his father. He was glad he was going to have the man's baby.

A smile curled his lips. It had been a great day. Early that morning they'd spotted a herd of giraffes feeding and had paused to watch the gangly animals until a leopard had chased the giraffes off. Then, just before lunch, they'd spotted a group of antelope and impala peacefully grazing on the tall, lush grass of the savanna, and in the distance, a herd of elephants walking single file across the grassland toward them. This was a great place to life, and would be a great place to raise their baby.

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Looking at me with those big googly eyes," Ndabanayi said, opening his eyes wide and staring at Rickey. With his dark skin, his eyes looked especially bulging, causing Rickey to laugh again.

"I was just thinking how great life is, and how great it is that I'm going to have your baby, and wondering if he is going to look like you."

"Our baby, not just mine, and I think he will look like both of us," Ndabanayi said, "with black and white stripes, like a zebra."

Rickey laughed again as he tried to picture such a baby. "And I was thinking how much fun it is making a baby," he said with an impish grin and sparkle in his big blue eyes.

"That it is," Ndabanayi agreed with a laugh as he looked over at the boy. He opened his pack and handed the boy a strip of biltong and the boy eagerly bit off a piece of the spiced dried meat.

The big Shona guide never thought he'd laugh again, or be having another baby. When his wife had been diagnosed with the HIV virus, the result of coming in contact with contaminated blood while helping a mother give birth, a danger they knew she faced despite all her precautions as a nurse, they'd hoped it would not develop into AIDS, and had been relieved their two children had tested negative. But it was not to be so. She'd died seven years ago, and within two years so had his son, then four, and his baby daughter. At least his wife had died not knowing she'd passed the virus on to them. He'd left the city and come out here to work at the Henry Avery Zimbabwe Safari Company and Conservatory, a private game preserve away from the city crowds and the disease, away from the life he'd lead as a computer analyst and memories of the past, good and bad. He'd been thirty back then. With the austerity programs implemented by the government, health care and health funding had been cut back. The average life expectancy of men was forty and of women forty-four. AIDS was the leading cause of death of children under five now, and twenty-five percent of the population was estimated to have the virus. He likely had ten years left to live, and the chance of finding another woman who wasn't diseased and who could bear him healthy children was next to zero. Even if he did, he'd never see them grow up to have children of their own. He enjoyed his work and admired the conservatory for its efforts to save the land and the animals. He did not enjoy guiding the big game hunting parties even though he knew hunting was necessary to maintain the population on the conservatory and brought in much needed funding to keep the conservatory operating, but he considered himself fortunate he at least had a job.

Two months ago, the beginning of the rainy season, an ancient oriental had come to the conservatory to photograph the animals and by chance, or as the oriental had claimed, by fate, Ndabanayi had been assigned his guide. He'd informed the surprised and sceptical thirty-five year old that he'd not only be having several more children, sons, but he'd live to see grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and 'the dawning of a new beginning.' Even more surprising and unbelievable was that the bearer of his children would be a seven-year-old white boy. Now, like more than just a few adolescent boys, he had engaged in sex play, including mutual masturbation and anal sex, with other boys. He knew that at one time, before the arrival of the Europeans, such play between adolescent pre-marriage boys was expected and considered normal, an attitude still held in the more rural parts of the country. That activity had declined with the arrival of the Europeans and their restrictive sexual attitudes, and since the present government had taken over the country, the practice had declined even further due to their vicious, homophobic dictator's homosexual pogroms and efforts to discredit the European settlers by blaming them for homosexual practices in the country. The onset of AIDS further curtailed what had once been a common practice among teenage males.

Ndabanayi had however, despite his dalliances with other teenage boys, never in his life had ever thought of having sex as an adult with a boy, and certainly not a white boy. He was not racist, but given the history of white settlers and the white government before his country gained independence, and the subsequent tension when the new government reclaimed the land held by the rich white settlers, having anything to do with whites other than taking the money from fat Americans and Europeans who came to the conservatory was foolish. Having sex with boys of any race with the present oppressive government would be suicidal.

Then, almost four weeks ago, Rickey arrived with his parents from America. He took an immediate disliking for the boy's father, an arrogant, macho, chauvinist who treated his wife like his personal slave and his son like he was a piece of shit. He also felt an immediate attraction to the boy, an attraction not unlike the one he'd felt for his wife but far stronger and more immediate. His heart ached for the innocent boy and he wanted to hold him and protect him from the evils of the world, and when he saw how his father treated him, his heart ached even more and he wanted to take him away from the man. Whenever he looked at the boy, his loins caught on fire and he felt a lust for him that he could not believe nor understand. As absurd as it was, he could not stop thinking of the boy having his children, the thoughts coming to him at all hours of the day and in his dreams at night.

On the third night of the family's arrival, after a particularly trying day in which the boy's father in his haste had blown an opportunity for the trophy he had come for and then in his frustration had turned on his wife and his son, he'd heard the boy praying in his tent that his father be eaten by a lion 'like the Christians in Roman days' and end his misery. The next day had been just as futile, and in his anger the father had again lashed out at everyone around him, his abuse becoming increasingly worse the more he drank that evening, and as the boy had cowered after being told how weak and useless he was because of a spilled glass of milk, his father had observed perhaps the next day they should stake the boy out like they did lambs as bait for the lions and at least make him useful. The mother, in her fear of her husband, did nothing, not even attempt to console the boy as he was sent to his tent. That was when Ndabanayi had made his decision. That night he'd lead the boy into the savanna, and after he'd explained to the boy his intent, and the boy had eagerly and happily agreed, he'd hidden him in a tree.

When the boy's disappearance was discovered in the morning, Ndabanayi reminded the father of his drunken threat and suggested the boy, fearing it would happen, had fled in the night. Of course the father declared that preposterous and would take no responsibility for the boy's disappearance, and threatened law suits if the boy was not immediately found. Ndabanayi of course knew that all the evidence pointed to the boy running away, and that in the end the conservatory management and the travel company could not be found negligent. So, he organized a search for the boy, and while the searchers spread out he returned to the boy and the two of them had headed out, Ndabanayi leaving his own trail but being sure to hide the boy's. The next day they'd come across fresh elephant tracks where something had evidently stampeded the herd. He smashed the rifle he'd taken and trampled his backpack into the mud, and shredded and bloodied the clothing he'd been wearing and scattered it, making it look like he'd been caught in the stampede and his body had been dismembered and scattered by scavengers. If not discovered for a few days, it would be convincing enough, ending any suspicions there might be that he had anything to do with the boy's disappearance and being natural enough that none of the animals on the preserve could be suspect and endangered. That night he'd inserted the first of the suppositories the ancient had given him and he and the boy had sex, the most awesome sex he'd ever had. That had been three weeks ago to this day. They had left the conservatory behind and had entered the Hwange National Park, Zimbabwe's largest game reserve, their new home where he hoped to obtain employment again as a guide, but this time only for the viewing and photographing of the park's wildlife.

"It is too hot to continue walking," he said with a serious look, "but perhaps not too hot to have sex, unless you are too tired."

The boy's big blue eyes sparkled. Ndabanayi knew that was something the boy would never be too tired to do, and, it was too hot for walking. Taking the boy in his arms, he kissed him, long and gentle, the boy's breath smelling of jerky and his lips tasting of the spiced meat. The boy returned the kiss, just as long and gentle, and caressed the big man's muscular back, pressing his fingers against the solid muscle with boyish wonder and awe. The man similarly ran his long, black fingers over the boy's back, caressing and massaging his shoulders and his back muscles, and then following the curvature of his chest, gently squeezing and caressing his breasts, avoiding his swollen and sensitive nipples. The boy had grown stronger each day over the past three weeks, and his muscles had become firmer, especially his legs and his back, the result of three weeks of hiking across the veldt. His skin had gotten browner too, increasing his appeal in Ndabanayi's eyes, though it still contrasted with the tar black backs of his own hands. His chest had gotten fatter, regaining the fat he'd had as a baby, which increased his appeal to Ndabanayi also. It was the first evidence of his pregnancy, besides his tiredness and his constant need to pee.

Ndabanayi's hands continued down to the boy's loincloth, which he quickly removed, and over the boy's still flat stomach, the pink flesh contrasting even more sharply with Ndabanayi's black hands. He could not believe that a baby was developing in the boy's belly, their baby, but all the signs were there that he was indeed pregnant. That fact, that he was carrying their baby in his belly, was what made him the most attractive of all. Ndabanayi's large, black snake began to stir in his loincloth. Rickey noticed the movement, and immediately reached down and began to untie his lover's garment. He loved the feel of strength in his lover's muscular back, and he loved the feel of his firm chest muscles and their smoothness, finding his father's hairy chest repulsive, and he admired the firm six-pack abs compared to his father's hairy beer gut, but most of all, he delighted in that black snake that hung between his legs. He'd seen his father's penis once, when they'd showered at the pool together. It was stubby and ugly. His father had reprimanded him sharply for looking at it and told him that wasn't something boys did. His father would never let him do what Ndabanayi let him do, not in a million years, not that he'd ever want to.

Having exposed the man, he wrapped his fingers about the thick, black tube and slowly drew the skin back, revealing the man's knob, a delicious, purplish-black plum. Rickey immediately bent over and took it in his mouth and gently sucked on it, delighting in its unique, spicy taste and meaty, reptilian odour. He ran his tongue over the spongy flesh and the sensitive peehole as his mouth filled with saliva. Basting the man's knob with his spittle, he swallowed the cock-flavoured saliva with delight, and delighted even more as he felt the man's cock swelling in his mouth, knowing it meant the man was enjoying it. Rickey was enjoying it too, his own little cocklet quickly swelling in response until it was jutting out from under his belly, as long and as hard as his lover's little finger. Slipping his mouth off the man's swelling cock, he held it by the base, his tiny, pink fingers contrasting sharply with the man's dark skin. Snuggling down, he stuck out his tongue and ran it up the man's thick, black shaft, following the dark vein along the underside. He ran the tip of his tongue around the man's cock just below the swollen plum, causing the man to inhale with the pleasure, and he swirled his tongue over the spit-slick knob and the peehole. A droplet of clear fluid oozed out of the tip and he flipped it up with the tip of his tongue and savoured the sweet nectar.

Smiling down at the boy, Ndabanayi rolled him over on his back and kissed him, delighting in the taste of his own pre-cum on the boy's lips. He kissed him again and again, and then began to work his way down his body, kissing his neck, his swollen breasts, and his tender, sensitive nipples, causing the boy to squirm with delight and with arousal, his little pink pecker jerking excitedly and causing Ndabanayi's monster to wag excitedly also. He continued on down, his lips skipping lightly over the boy's smooth, firm flesh. He was tanned a golden brown from being in the sun these past three weeks, except for where his loincloth covered his stomach and his delightfully pink dicklet. Ndabanayi kissed the boy's belly, conscious of the fact that their baby was growing inside, the thought causing his cock to wag once more and another droplet of pre-cum to ooze out of the tip.

He continued down to the boy's stiff little pricklet, which he now took in his mouth and gently sucked, causing the boy to squirm with pleasure. He pushed the boy's foreskin back with his lips and ran his tongue over the boy's exposed little cherry, causing the boy to raise his hips and quiver with desire. He played with the boy's dickey a few more minutes before rolling him over and kissing his smooth, rounded, golden-brown buttocks. He had once read a report from an early Christian missionary, one of the first to reach this part of Africa, that said the native people wore loincloths that hung down only in the front, leaving the back exposed so they could more readily engage in the perversion of sodomy. That, of course, he knew was nonsense and the reason for leaving the back open was more to do with the other function of that back opening and keeping one's garment clean, though he did have to admit it would make what he was about to do easier, not that it took all that long to remove a loincloth.

He pulled apart the boy's compact cheeks and ran his tongue along the boy's ass crack, his breath now faster and deeper with his own arousal. He kissed the boy's smooth backside, and his little asshole. Pressing his lips against the back opening, he filled his mouth with saliva and blew it into the boy's rectum, and he wormed his tongue into the quivering opening, giving the boy a perverse deep kiss. His mouth filling with spittle once again, he grasped his aching, black cock and drooled his spittle over it, the bubbly slime oozing over his knob and down his thick shaft. He worked up another mouthful and drooled it over his cock also until his dark purple-black plum was glistening with his spit. He had one more suppository left, but he would wait until tonight to insert it, for he knew that they'd be doing this again that evening.

Unable to hold back any longer without risking popping off a load, he rolled the boy back over onto his back and having him raise his legs and his hips, he knelt between his legs and prepared to impale him with his long, black spear. He almost shot off with the look of arousal and eager anticipation on the boy's face and his cock jerked wildly with arousal, spattering the boy with spittle. Placing the tip of his spit-slicked cock against the boy's anus, he slowly pressed forward and Rickey immediately pushed out with his stomach from experience, opening up his hole to the man's cock. The boy gritted his teeth and pushed out anxiously as the man's big plum-shaped knob brutally stretched open his straining sphincter and he grunted and gasped like a stuck little pig, desperate for the man's cock. Ndabanayi inhaled deeply as he strained to penetrate the seven-year-old boy, just as eager to feel the boy's hot, moist flesh envelop his cock as the boy was to feel his thick, hard organ deep inside him.

Their mutual lust, the slimy lube of pre-cum and spittle, and past experience won out and Ndabanayi's blood-engorged plum popped into the boy's rectum. He paused to regain his breath and his composure, and so he and the boy could enjoy the delight of penetration. Inhaling and exhaling deeply, the two closed their eyes and savoured the moment. Then, ever so slowly, Ndabanayi pushed forward again, sinking his long, thick cock up Rickey's rectum, stuffing the boy with his aching, throbbing flesh until his coarse black hairs brushed against the boy's smooth, pink little marbles. He paused again, now to relish the pleasure of having his thick, aching cock surrounded by hot, moist, pulsating boy flesh from tip to balls, and to allow Rickey time to relish the pleasure of having his asshole stuffed with eight and a half inches [24 cm] of rigid, throbbing man cock.

Regaining their composure once again, they began to fuck, Ndabanayi slowly drawing his long, black cock back out of the boy until his knob reached the boy's tightly clamped sphincter, and then sinking it back in as the boy relaxed his anal muscle. They worked together, the thirty-five-year-old man and the seven-year-old boy, thrusting and withdrawing, clenching and relaxing. It was an act mutually engaged in and mutually enjoyed, each revelling in bringing the other pleasure as much as in his own physical pleasure. Their breathing slowly began to grow deeper and more rapid once again, but not because of exertion but rather out of the pleasure pulsating between their legs. As he felt his lover's cock throbbing deep up his rectum, Rickey reached down and began to jack off, slowly drawing his foreskin down until it was stretched right back to expose his sensitive, cherry-red knob, and then slowly pushing the skin back over the little swollen bud, sending piercing ripples of arousal through the irritated little knob while his abused asshole throbbed and burned as his lover's long, thick cock pistoned in and out of his body.

It had been three weeks since he'd first experienced this pleasure, and he could not get enough of it. Fortunately, nor could Ndabanayi so they fucked at least twice a day, and more frequently three or four times a day, and each time they did it the better it felt. The seven-year-old boy's chest rose and fell rhythmically and more and more rapidly as he felt the delightful pleasure pulsating through his stiff little dickey and up the core of his ass. Ndabanayi was beginning to breathe harder also as his thick, blood-engorged black cock pumped in and out of the boy's tight, delightfully hot rectum. The six-foot-six [2 m], hundred and eighty-five pound [85 kg], thirty-five-year-old black man pounded the tight ass of the three-foot-eleven [1.20 m], fifty pound [23 kg] seven-year-old white boy openly and fervidly and the boy clenched and relaxed his anal sphincter and groaned and gasped as if in heat, the two of them rutting there on the savanna in the heat of the afternoon like two wild animals.

Sweat beaded on their foreheads and trickled down their sides and dampened their armpits as they felt the pressure increasing between their legs. The black man began to thrust his cock in and out of the boy even more rapidly as he felt his climax approaching, and the white boy rapidly wanked his swollen little cocklet as he felt that still mysterious and awesome peak of physical pleasure approach. Faster and faster the thick, black piston up his asshole pumped, and faster and faster he rubbed his dickey until the two arched their backs and grunted in ecstasy as they reached their peaks. Ndabanayi shuddered as he felt his cum rush up the core of his swollen, aching cock and gush out the tip, and Rickey trembled and jerked uncontrollably as his thighs quivered and he felt his rectum being flooded with hot, thick, slimy gunk as jolts of sweet pain pierced the knob of his swollen little cocklet and shot up the swollen shaft while deep inside him a spring uncoiled. The dark skinned thirty-five-year-old Shona guide and the lightly tanned American boy gasped and snorted with the exquisite pleasure ripping through their loins and they grasped each other tightly as they threw back their heads cried out with joy there in the lush Zimbabwe veldt.

***

Tonpa Nyigay added more dried dung to the fire and returned to his scroll. A fierce wind was blowing through the pass, bringing with it more snow, but it was warm and cozy in his little hut built into one of the many grottos on the ridge across from Mount Kailash and looking down at the now snow-blocked path the faithful followed to circumambulate the mountain. Despite the harsh winds and even now in the dead of winter the occasional prayer flag along the path could be seen, and the wind kept the stones inscribed with their colourful mantra swept bare. The scroll the Tibetan monk was reading was an ancient Tantra on raising the curled serpent power, or Kundalini, one's psychosexual energy, from the lowest chakra at the base of the spine to the highest chakra at the top of the skull. The scroll had once been in the monastery in Lhasa but had been smuggled out and saved when the Chinese had invaded and was now, with many other scrolls, in Tonpa's safe keeping.

It was not a topic the monk was conversant with and, until recently, interested in. He tried to concentrate on the writing, but to his dismay he could not. His mind kept returning to past events that had shaped his present. When he had entered the monastery nearest his village at the age of six, he had dreamed of becoming a great Khenpo, perhaps the head of a great monastic college providing training and guidance to other monks in some remote corner of Tibet. A year later, the Chinese soldiers invaded. His was a small, remote monastery and it had not suffered the destruction and pillage of other monasteries, but their studies were greatly curtailed and they had to practice their faith in secret. Nine years later the Dalai Lama fled to India and even the minor monasteries were being demolished and ransacked and the monks imprisoned, even in his remote village. So at sixteen he and a few other novices made their way to Bhutan in disguise where he entered the ancient and imposing seventeenth century monastery Takstang Lhakang, the Tiger's Nest, and twenty-five years later he graduated a Geshe, but there were no monastic colleges for him to head, and his religion was being brutally crushed in his homeland. He could have gone to India like many others had to continue to study and to teach, but his dream of having his oral finals administered by the Dalai Lama and other venerable Gulug masters was not to be. He instead felt compelled to return to Tibet to help the peasants and monks who remained in his native land in whatever way he could, daring to wear his saffron robe and risking his life as he scrupulously avoided the authorities and anywhere where it was rumoured a revolt was brewing. In time he found himself in the high Himalayas at the foot of Mount Kailash where he constructed his little hut and assisted the pilgrims who came to circumambulate the mountain, collected for safekeeping scrolls and other artifacts that had been hidden away during the purge, and in the many caves and sheltered places away from prying eyes instructed young aspiring monks, most of whom to his dismay lacked the drive and stamina needed and that he demanded of them.

Then one day, in the middle of a winter blizzard, a frail, ancient Chinese scholar appeared at his door. He was not like other Chinese visitors whom he knew were spies for the military and the Peking authorities and their local puppets, but still he was suspicious and guarded, especially when the man knew things about him he did not know anyone knew yet revealed nothing about himself. The man told him of unbelievable and remarkable things to come and Tonpa was sure the man had been sent to undermine his beliefs. They debated long and vigorously, reminding Tonpa of his training at Takstang Lhakang, and he thought longingly of the lively debates he had engaged in with the masters there as a young man. Those had been pleasant times, the days spent in discussions of philosophy, logical reasoning and critical analysis far from the cruel realities of the Chinese repression in his homeland.

Two months later the child arrived at the mountain just as the elderly visitor had said he would, sickly thin and alone with calloused, frostbitten feet and almost frozen to death, cruelly orphaned, his parents having been killed demonstrating against the invaders the previous fall. Only six years of age, the child had walked to the mountain seeking to purify the negativities of his past and seeking direction for his future, making the long trek alone. The old man had not said what the boy's name would be nor when he would arrive, only that Tonpa would know the boy when he saw him, and Tonpa knew this was the boy the philosopher had spoken of. He also knew that when he told his tale, the boy was speaking the truth and not saying something he'd been told to say. He could sense a karma about the boy like none he'd ever sensed before, and an attraction for the boy that was all encompassing.

He found it most interesting the boy bore the name of the first and second Dalai Lama, Gedun, and he could not help wonder if that was a sign. He had treated the boy's feet and fed him hot soup and buttered tea and warmed him by the hearth and the boy, afraid of the darkness and to be alone even in the same room, had slept with him under his thick, feather-down blanket, curled up against his body like a kitten. They had talked for a long time the next day and he had shaved the boy's head and dressed him in a patched maroon robe, symbolizing the boy's renunciation of attachment to external appearances and ordinary comforts, his first step in becoming a Buddhist priest.

Together they cleaned the simple little hut for the Tibetan New Year and set out new prayer flags, the rotund sixty-six-year-old Geshe and the skinny six-year-old novice boy. They made khapse, pastries made of braided dough and deep fried in yak butter, for the altar and for each other, and on New Year's Eve they dined on thick butter tea and thick, rich ninth soup. The next day they had thrown handfuls of tsampa in the air as they'd prayed for the future of Tibet and all mankind, wearing the new silk scarves they'd given each other, and they'd sung and danced while Tonpa had shown the boy how to play the yak hide drum and he played the hand bells, the dril-bu, and that night he'd burned juniper and cedar at the altar, and he'd inserted the first of the suppositories up the boy's rectum as he'd been instructed and they'd had sex for the first time. He had inserted the fourth and last a week ago.

"Venerable Geshe Nyigay, why are you looking at me so?"

Tonpa smiled to show he was pleased. Despite their intimate relationship, proper reverence and respect between pupil and teacher, youth and elder, should always be shown, even in private. Gedun had learned well and had quickly adapted to their life of contentment, simplicity and modesty. For the past five weeks since the boy's arrival they had risen at daybreak and prayed for two hours, Tonpa chanting from memory and Gedun repeating his words. Following a simple breakfast he had taught the boy Tibetan language and grammar, for the boy had had no schooling, and after lunch they had strolled along the path at the base of Mount Kailash in contemplation and then taken a nap. They prayed again at four, and in the evening they alternated praying with instruction in counting and sums and in Tibetan literature and history for another three hours. When the boy went to bed, Tonpa turned to his scrolls for several more hours of memorization and analysis and meditation.

It had only been five weeks but Gedun had already shown great forbearance, self-discipline and introspection. And of course ever since that New Year's Day, they'd had hot, passionate sex, usually before their afternoon nap, and again before Gedun went to sleep. That troubled Tonpa greatly. Ever since a child he'd been taught that celibacy was fundamental to spiritual development. The ancient philosopher from China had said the opposite. While agreeing that marriage divided one's attention and distracted one from meditation, he had argued that chastity prevented one from the perfect understanding of the ultimate nature of natural phenomena by depriving the individual of an essential experience needed to comprehend life itself. After all, he had argued, was not analytical awareness grounded in love and compassion, and should not the agreement to engage in the sex act be so similarly grounded? It was a powerful argument, and a point he could not deny.

"I am concerned for your well-being, Novice Gedun," he finally replied to the boy's question. That of course was not the full reason he'd been gazing upon the boy, but it was one of them. The boy had been feeling nauseous these past two weeks, and tired, and had been having dizzy spells. They were good reasons for concern.

"I am feeling well, thank you. I feel no inclination to vomit tonight."

"And here?" Tonpa asked, touching his head, concerned the boy was not as disturbed by the events of the past four weeks as he had been.

"I am at peace," the boy said, "mind and body." The boy paused and looked pensive for a moment before continuing, "well, except here." He touched himself between his legs as he looked up at his teacher and lover.

Tonpa smiled as he got up and put away his scroll. The boy was never at peace there, and, admittedly, nor was he. That was of great consternation and had caused him much turmoil. The second of the Four Noble Truths revealed by the Buddha was that life on Earth is filled with suffering. One of the causes of that suffering the Buddha had said was the craving for worldly pleasures, including sexual pleasure, and one's enslavement by those cravings. The fourth of the Four Noble Truths was that the way to Nirvana and the end of suffering is the Eightfold Path. The second step of the Eightfold Path was to renounce the pleasures of the senses, which for Buddhist monks including sexual pleasure which was why they swore celibacy so they could focus on their mental and spiritual development. The fourth step and the third of the five precepts all Buddhists, lay persons and monks alike, were expected to follow was to abstain from sexual misconduct. The teachings of the Buddha were clear and explicit. So what, one might ask, was the problem?

Had not the Buddha also taught that the deed which causes remorse afterward and results in weeping is ill-done, but the deed that causes no remorse afterwards and results in joy and happiness is well done? Did not the sex he and the boy were engaging in bring great joy and happiness? And was it also not written that the loss of self in the sex act can lead to the awakening of the spirit? He had never felt so alive and so motivated, and his life had never had such purpose since the Chinese had invaded his homeland fifty-nine years ago as now. Did not the Buddhist scholars in Japan tell of the deity Kannon taking the form of a beautiful novice and becoming the beloved of an older monk? Who was to say this boy was not Kannon himself, or the reincarnation of that monk? Perhaps those who claimed that celibacy referred only to relationships between a man and a woman were correct, which is why it was a boy who had come to Mount Kailash and not a girl, so he would not be breaking his vow of celibacy.

If having sex with the boy did not contravene the second step of the Eightfold Path, then could what they were doing be considered sexual misconduct? The Dalai Lama had said not that long ago that all forms of sexual engagement other than the uniting of male and female sex organs was unsuitable and prohibited. However, he had also said at the same time that relationships between the same sex can be of mutual benefit, enjoyable, and harmless, and four years earlier he had said he did not know if sexual congress between members of the same sex was misconduct or not. It was not impossible that fifty years in exile and living in a foreign land had clouded his mind, and that his comments had been influenced by political and other worldly concerns. These were not normal times. At this very moment there were even two who laid claim to being the Panchen Lama, the one chosen by the Dalai Lama and the one chosen by the Chinese government. Which was one to follow, and what was one to believe?

The Buddha had said to determine if something was not to be done, one must consider the consequences: the effect doing it had on oneself and on others, how one would feel having it done to them, and if it interfered with achieving Nirvana. Their sexual involvement had been by mutual consent. No harm was being done to anyone including themselves, there was no breaking of commitment to another, and their intention was to express affection with respect and to give pleasure to each other. It brought both of them happiness and contentment. He only did to the boy what he would have the boy do to him and vice versa, and rather than interfering with the achievement of Nirvana, it would seem that it was enhancing it. There could be no misconduct.

Tonpa had spent many hours in contemplation on the matter ever since the Chinese philosopher had visited him, and each time his sixty years of study and training arrived at the same conclusion. Change was never easy and life was filled with many choices and uncertainties. One could only do what one thought was best. Sitting down beside Gedun on the bed that the two of them shared, he untied the inner ties of the boy's maroon robe and slipped the garment off his shoulders. The boy was still a bit underweight, but he had gained eight pounds [3½ kg] in the six weeks since he'd arrived and looked much healthier and much more how a six-year-old boy should, except his chest was fatter and flabby, like Tonpa's, and his areola much darker than a normal boy's. A week ago his face has broken out, but they had cut out the butter in his tea, and his complexion was clear now. The boy stood and Tonpa removed the boy's robe and set it aside, and then untied the ties of his own robe and removed it also. He had an old man's breasts, flabby and drooping, and he had long ago lost his waistline, but appearances were deceiving. Despite his age he was still stronger than many men half his age and his mind and senses were as sharp as they had ever been, and despite his weight he was still as agile as he'd been at the age of twenty. His walking staff and his hands were lethal weapons, should he choose to use them.

It was a different staff that he and the boy were interested in however, and his stamina and mental powers were about to be used for making love, not fighting. The staff in question was not particularly impressive in size and looked like any other man's, and had not been used for making love for its first sixty-six years, but that did not make it, nor the man, any less able. As for the boy, at the age of six, his organ was smaller than the man's little finger and until four weeks ago he'd known nothing of physical love between a man and a boy, but that did not make it, nor the boy, any less eager nor any less appreciative of the pleasure of physical love.

The two lay down on the narrow cot facing each other and caressed each other, their caresses soft and tender and loving, the man's skill coming from his knowledge of the body and the chakra and from ancient writings written in a time long past, the boy's skill from copying the man. Old, fat fingers caressed the boy's silky smooth skin, running over his smooth back and down along his spine to his firm, compact buttocks and down the backs of his young thighs. Young, slender fingers caressed the man's sides and followed the curves of his rotund body, unable to reach completely around the old man. Eventually both hands slowly made their way to the body's centre. The boy twined the man's curly hairs about his fingers, his pubic hair almost as white and fine as the man's wispy beard and long moustaches, and the man gently caressed the boy's smooth pubes. They reached further down together and as the man's stubby fingers picked up the boy's tender, limp organ and gently and lovingly began to stroke it, the boy's hot, slender fingers slipped about the man's swelling cock and began to stroke it also. Both began to swell, and feeling the other's organ swelling caused their own to swell even faster. The man caressed the boy's smooth, tender balls with the tips of his fingers and the boy cupped the man's larger, hairy eggs in his hot little hand and rolled them. Their motions were slow and deliberate, intended to arouse but also to prolong their pleasure beyond the wildest dreams of ordinary men.

Their fingers returned to each other's staff, the two now rigid and jutting up from between their legs, the boy's the length and thickness of the man's thumb, the man's three times the length and thickness of the boy's. Grasping the boy's stiff little noodle by the base, the man gently tugged on it and the boy inhaled with the pleasure as he wrapped his fingers about the base of the man's swollen organ and squeezing tightly so he could feel the three bones that had somehow entered it, he slowly slid his fingers up the rigid shaft to the man's sensitive, mushroom-shaped cap. As his fingers touched the rim of the flared cap, the man squirmed with the pleasure the boy's touch brought him. They played with each other's organ, pausing occasionally to allow the mind to focus on the pleasure and for the pleasure to subside, extending their foreplay by tenfold and increasing their pleasure by as much again. Even in this the man had taught the boy, not just how to arouse with the fingers, but how to control the pleasure emanating from their organs so it did not overpower them.

Reaching for the jar on the night stand beside their bed, the man removed the lid, and dipping his pointer finger into the honey-like paste, he smeared it over the boy's anus, coating the little pucker and then slowly inserting the tip of his finger and coating the inside. The boy closed his eyes and concentrated on the pleasure, on the smoothness and warmth of the lubricant, on the gentleness and stimulation of the man's one finger caress, and on the joy of penetration as the man's finger slipped into his body to the first knuckle. His eyes still closed, he dipped his pointer finger into the jar of lubricant and scooping up a small dab, he began to spread it over the man's spongy knob, concentrating on its firmness and heat, and on its strength and power, using his sense of touch enhanced by the lack of sight as he'd been taught. The man dipped his finger into the ointment again and dipped it back into the boy, inserting it further and concentrating on the pleasure the boy's finger was bringing him and on the warmth of the boy's rectum, anticipating the pleasure that was soon to come. The boy applied the lubricant to the rim of the man's flanged knob, and to the top of the man's shaft, willing his heart to slow and his sexual desire to dampen, and the man eased his finger deeper up the boy's rectum as he too used his mental powers to quieten his body and quell the psychosexual urge building in his loins and in his mind.

Ready at last, the boy lay on the bed on his back, slipping a folded blanket under his hips to raise them and spreading his legs. The old monk knelt between the boy's raised, outspread legs and with an elbow on either side of him, leaned over him and slowly lowered himself. The tip of his lubed serpent found its lair easily and naturally, not just from practice but because of the natural alignment of the two. The Dalai Lama may have observed that nature had arranged the male and female sexual organs in a manner that was very suitable whereas the sexual organs of the same sex were not, but he either did not know, or most likely chose not to mention, that nature had arranged the male sex organ and the anus in a manner whereby they could manage very well themselves. Not only that, nature had placed in the man the prostate so it lay up against the rectum where it could be easily massaged by penetration, by finger or the male organ, an arrangement which could not have been by accident. Tonpa had not found that mentioned in any scroll, and considered perhaps he should make mention of it himself in his own treatise on making love to a boy.

He pressed forward, slowly stretching open the boy's anus, and the boy pushed out with his abdomen, opening up his hole for the man. Ever so slowly the greased knob stretched open the boy's opening until it popped inside, and ever so slowly the man continued to push forward, sinking his staff up the boy's asshole until the boy's hairless little marbles were nestled in his curly white hairs. He paused and the two savoured the pleasure and delight of penetration, the man closing his eyes and marvelling at the heat and moistness of the boy's chamber and how tightly it squeezed about his now throbbing, yearning cock, the boy closing his eyes and marvelling at the hardness of the man's organ and the pleasure that came from having his body stuffed by the man's throbbing cock.

Tonpa slowly drew his hips back, easing his stiff, throbbing cock back out of the boy, and Gedun clamped his sphincter closed, squeezing the man's prick as it withdrew. As the rim of his knob reached the boy's tightly clenched sphincter, he reversed, sinking his aching cock back up the boy's rectum and the boy relaxed his hold. For the past four weeks they had done this at least twice a day, once upon waking, and once before Gedun went to sleep, thrice if the weather prevented them from their afternoon walk, but each time was as delightful as the previous. It was easy to become seduced by worldly pleasures, and especially this pleasure, and pleasure distracted one from his mental and spiritual development, but still, why would nature have made this particular act so pleasurable if nature did not intend for a man and boy to engage in it? The Buddha said much about suffering in this world and how to avoid it, but had said little about pleasure and how to use it to achieve Nirvana. Perhaps with this dawning of this new age that the ancient Chinese philosopher had talked about he and the boy being part of, there was a need for such a treatise. Tonpa smiled. Even in the midst of such pleasure, his mind was not far from the teachings of the Buddha. That was a good thing.

Gedun saw the smile curling the lips of his teacher and lover and he was glad. His master was always so serious, always so meditative. It was good to experience the physical side of life besides the mental and spiritual. In all things there should be a balance. He smiled too as he felt the man's swollen organ pumping in and out of his body, and he concentrated on the physical pleasures assaulting him, on the spiritual pleasure he got from the sight of the old man's smile and the knowledge how sex always relaxed the muscles of his face, and on the pleasure he saw in the old man's eyes. He concentrated on the sound of their slow, laboured breathing, increasing ever so gradually, and the pleasure that rhythmic breathing brought him, and he concentrated on the pleasure he felt with the success of being able to control his breathing and the throbbing of his blood. That was pride, he knew, and pride would prevent him from achieving Nirvana, but he was only six, and he had his whole life ahead of him to achieve Nirvana.

He could hear his heart pumping, and Tonpa's, and the throbbing of his blood through his swollen little pricklet and through the man's swollen member. He could feel it deep inside him, throbbing in time with his rectum, and he could feel the waves of pleasure pulsating out from it and through his body as waves of irritation, pleasurable and painful at the same time, rippled out from his stretched anus and from his swollen cockhead. He inhaled deeply with delight, the fragrance of their sweat and their lust mingling with the fragrance of the candles they'd lit. His lips parted as he threw back his head in ecstasy and he could taste the sex-laden air filling the small hut.

As their pleasure increased, they succumbed to it, becoming totally engulfed by their pounding lust, becoming one with it, one with each other, throbbing as one, the pressure in their loins building together as they worked toward that peak of ecstasy. Tonpa thrust his swollen, aching cock in and out of the young boy's ass, pounding his slim body, his rotund stomach bouncing against the boy's belly, his hairy balls now swollen and drawn up tight beneath his aching cock. He thrust with all his might, causing the small cot to creak as the storm grew outside, the winter wind buffeting the little hut and drifting the snow up against it. Gedun worked his anal muscle in time with his lover's thrusts and withdrawals, and as he felt the tension building deep in his loins he reached down and began to rub his little, swollen cocklet vigorously, sending thrills of irritation through the throbbing flesh as he bounced on the bed, pulling away on the massive cock thrust up his asshole as he pushed his ass against the folded blankets, and riding up on the throbbing organ as he thrust his hips forward. Faster and faster the two of them fucked, grunting and snorting, sweat trickling down their naked bodies, and they arched their backs as they reached that ultimate peak.

Tonpa groaned and gasped with the ecstasy of his climax and the old man threw his head back as he felt his seed spring from the depths of his groin and rush up the core of his benumbed, swollen cock. It spurted out the tip of his pulsating organ with a sweet, burning pleasure, shot after shot erupting from his loins and filling the boy's asshole as he continued to thrust his organ in and out of the boy, in and out of his hot, thick slime. Gedun trembled with his own orgasm as he opened and closed the opening to his numb cock in a desperate attempt to spurt what his six-year-old balls were not yet able to produce, feeling like he had to pee though his bladder was empty as he felt his lover's hot, thick seed flood his rectum. They gasped in ecstasy with their orgasms, sucking in the sex-laden air, the nutty fragrance of hot, fresh cum mingling with the fragrance of their flushed, sweating bodies and the flickering incense candles. Something that brought such immense pleasure and satisfaction not just to oneself but to one's partner, that elevated one's consciousness and magnified one's senses equal to the deepest contemplation could not be something the Buddha would have prohibited.

***

"Did you see the stacked chick in the low-cut red blouse near the front? What a fucking pair!" observed Mirohiro as the band began stripping off their sweaty performing clothes in the backstage change room.

"Imagine the lucky baby who gets to suck on them."

"If it was my kid, he'd have to fight me off for them," observed Mirohiro, causing the others to laugh. "And what about the screamer? She looked like she was having an orgasm throughout the whole performance."

"And how would you know what a woman looks like when she's having an orgasm?"

"Don't you know? Mirohiro gets his kicks spying on his mother and father through the crack in their bedroom door."

"Oh yeah? And I suppose you know what a woman looks like having an orgasm?" Mirohiro retorted, opening a can of Pepsi and downing half of it.

"Of course."

"Yeah, Toshiki keeps his eyes open when he's screwing his mother."

"His mother? I thought it was your mother!" They all laughed. It was a good one, especially the way it had been said with such seriousness and surprise.

"Up yours," came the retort, punctuated with the middle finger gesture. Toshiki's response was not as polished as the jocular insult had been, but then Mirohiro was the song writer in the group. Nobody could match his wit.

It had been a great performance before a sold out crowd and the band was hyper and horny, riding an adrenaline high after two hours of singing suggestive lyrics and gyrating before several thousand screaming teenage girls, half of whom would have readily spread their legs for any one of them. They were one of Japan's current top rock bands, if not the top.

"What's with you, Yoshinobu? You're being awfully quiet."

"Probably trying to imagine what a woman having an orgasm looks like."

"Probably trying to figure out what having an orgasm means," observed Mirohiro to the amusement of the others.

"No," Yoshinobu said after a long pause and looking around at his band mates seriously. "Just been trying to figure out how to tell you clowns what a person really looks like when they're having an orgasm." They laughed and punched him in the arm and Toshiki put him in a fake headlock and tousled his hair.

"Seriously," said Mirohiro, "you're been as sombre as a Shinto priest these past three weeks. Is there something wrong?"

Yoshinobu smiled. He was the band's lead singer and they all knew the main reason for their climb in the charts. He loved singing, and he especially loved singing with the band. They made great music together, as the sales of their records and the sellout crowds at their gigs showed, and a close comradery had developed among the five of them. Mirohiro had become his best friend, and of all of them, was the most sensitive and intuitive. Leave it to him to have noticed that things had changed. "No, nothing is wrong. Nothing at all." He paused, and added, "I think a friend of mine is pregnant."

"Oh yeah?" Mirohiro replied and the band immediately stopped their joking around. "With your child?" He was intuitive. Yoshinobu nodded. "That's too bad," Mirohiro said sympathetically, placing his hand on Yoshi's shoulder.

"Oh no, not at all," Yoshinobu replied. "We, well, did it with the intention of having a child."

"Well, in that case, congratulations," Mirohiro replied with a grin and shaking his hand, and the others all added their congratulations.

"So, are you going to tell us who the happy mother is?"

"Well, not yet. We aren't sure about the pregnancy."

They weren't, but they were fairly certain. The tiredness, the vomiting, the dizzy spells, and now the gain in weight around the middle, his beloved's waistline having disappeared and normally flat stomach now visibly protruding, it all pointed to pregnancy. If they were right, the band would never meet his bed partner though. Contrary to what they were thinking, the twenty-one-year-old singer's bed partner was not female. Skipping a shower and not even changing out of his sweaty performing clothes, Yoshinobu bid his band mates goodnight, and having the security guard check the backdoor of the performance hall for fans, he made a dash for the waiting taxi where his beloved was waiting for him.

"You were awesome tonight," the boy said, beaming up at Yoshinobu as the taxi pulled out.

"Thanks," Yoshinobu replied, taking the boy's hand and holding it. As the taxi swung out of the alley and pulled into the traffic, Yoshi dared bend over and give the boy a kiss, hoping the driver's attention would be on the traffic ahead. Takamori Saigo noticed the furtive kiss out of the corner of his eye in the rearview mirror and frowned but said nothing. Young people today were all immoral, and performers, musicians and actors, were all hedonists and drug addicts. The address he took them to was the apartment of the boy's parents, but of course he did not know that, and didn't really care. He'd been doing this now for a month, parking in back entrances of Tokyo-to's performance theatres and halls where he was joined by the boy, and then his famous passenger, and driving them always to the same address.

At first he'd had no idea who his famous passenger was and had thought the boy his kid brother. With the cost of living in Tokyo-to these days it was the norm for both parents to work, and it was not unusual for the eldest to have the responsibility of looking after younger siblings. That they were not brothers quickly became evident. They could not keep their immoral lust hidden until they were behind locked doors. His next obvious conclusion had been that the younger boy was a boy for hire, a young teenager making use of his effeminate and prepubescent looks, and that the apartment block was where the youth lived. As a taxi driver he knew where such boys cruised and he knew for some men the younger they looked the more desirable they were and the higher they would pay. It was disgusting, but such men tipped him well. Who was he to judge?

Having three teenage daughters and with all the publicity the band had been getting, Saigo soon discovered who his furtive older passenger was, and after a month of picking the two up, he changed his mind again and concluded that the two really were lovers. Considering the reputation of boy bands, his was not an unreasonable conclusion, though he would have been surprised at the age of his younger passenger. Even if he had known the boy was only ten, it would not have mattered. He was being tipped extremely well, three times his daily wage, for each of these trips, and for his discretion. What did it matter to him as long as they kept asking specifically that Saigo be the one to pick them up? Boy love had a long history in Japan, dating back nine hundred years ago to the Buddhist priests, the nenja, and their teen and preteen katsujiki in the Kamakura period, and probably long before that. It was just not the monks and their strange and secret ways either. There had been the rich and powerful aristocrats openly dallying with their young, notoriously homosexual, and painted no-theatre performers, and the samurai and their wakashudo, ten years old to twenty years old professional boys, four hundred years ago when Tokyo-to was known as Edo and was the capital of the Tokugawa shogunate. The glorious and honourable days of the samurai were long gone, and even the glory and might of the empire of the setting sun. Now the powerful were industrialists and CEO's of megacorporations with their Western ways, and the nation's heros and superstars were rock singers in tight jeans and with black eyeliner and rings in their eyebrows. And in the parks, and behind closed doors, there were still beautiful young boys to entertain the new elite. Life changes but stays the same. Saigo smiled as he navigated the busy city streets and waxed philosophically.

As their driver was thinking of Japan's past and bemoaning the present, his two passengers were thinking of a past much more immediate, their own, and rejoicing in the present. Kiyotsugu, the only child of working parents, his father a musician and his mother a singer, both in Roppongi, Tokyo-to's nightclub district, bore the same first name as a famous No dramatist from the fourteenth century and aspired to be a great actor. Drama was his favourite subject at school. About two months ago, the ten-year-old had accompanied his parents to the Tokyo National Museum, one of his parents' favourite places. A large painting called The samurai, the katsujiki and the plum blossom caught his eye. The warrior was impressive, carrying a large sword and wearing his decorative armour, and even more impressive was his penis, almost as large as his sword. It was stuck up the exposed behind of a beautiful young boy about Kiyotsugu's age. He had long, loose hair and was wearing an elaborate, open kimono and holding in his hand a plum blossom which he was happily smelling, his own penis exposed and erect and jutting out from under an impossibly large belly.

"So, what do you think of the painting?"

To Kiyotsugu's surprise, a very old Chinese man in a plain, black robe was standing beside him. He hadn't heard him step up to him. Glancing around, he found his parents nowhere in sight.

"The artist isn't very good."

"No? Why do you say that?"

"The samurai's penis is much too large, and so is the boy's stomach."

The old man took the boy's hand and placed it on his crotch. The boy was surprised at the hardness and size of the tube he felt in the man's robe. His eyes widened as the man guided his hand up along the tube as it extended past his stomach and ribs to just below his chest. "Some men have very large swords," the man whispered, "and as for the boy, he is pregnant with the samurai's child."

Kiyotsugu laughed. "A boy can't be pregnant."

"Some boys can, if they are lucky, and if they really want to be, and if they have these," the man said, handing him an envelope. Inside were four tan, cylindrical objects about two centimetres long. "They are a hundred and forty thousand yen."

"Kiyotsugu, there you are!" It was his mother with his father. They were looking very worried.

"You have to keep up with us," his father reprimanded. "It is very dangerous to be by yourself." Kiyotsugu knew that. His parents and his teachers had warned him about men who preyed on young boys and did bad things to them, though Kiyotsugu didn't know exactly what those bad things were, and what he did know some men did to boys didn't seem that bad to him.

"I was just looking at this picture," he said, turning to it. There was a picture of a shrine to Chimata-no-kami, the god of crossroads and footpaths, beside a moss-covered stone wall and thicket of thorn bushes surrounded by cherry trees in bloom in the Shinjuku Gyoen National Gardens. The shrine to the god was engraved with phallic symbols, and superimposed on the wall and bushes like a jigsaw puzzle was an image of the god with a mischievous smile and a large penis. The painting he'd been looking at was gone, as was the old Chinese man, but he could feel the envelope in his pocket, and he could still feel the size and hardness of the old man's penis.

Arriving at the boy's apartment, Yoshinobu paid the driver and they went inside. As soon as the door was closed, they embraced and kissed and began to unbutton each other's shirt and pull down each other's fly, their lust pounding in their veins and in their swollen cocks, the stink of sweat from Yoshinobu's body and clothes intensifying their animal passion. They had four hours before Kiyotsugu's parents would be expected home, plenty of time, but they planned on using every minute of it. Stripping naked, they embraced and kissed, Yoshi's tongue darting in Kiyo's mouth and then Kiyo's tongue slipping between his twenty-one-year-old lover's lips, caressing his tongue and exploring the inside of his mouth, and as Yoshi's mouth filled with saliva, Kiyo eagerly sucked the spit slime into his own and swallowed it. The ten-year-old's slender cock throbbed and jerked with arousal, eager to begin, and he pressed his swollen little pecker against his lover's stomach, pinning it and his lover's longer, thicker cock between their bellies. Yoshi's cock throbbed hotly with arousal feeling the ten-year-old's slender cock pressing against it. It seemed the young boy was growing hornier and hornier with each passing day, and he knew for a fact that he definitely was. Every waking moment was spent thinking about the boy, thinking about his beautiful body and swelling stomach, about his hot, tight ass and the joy of plunging his cock up it.

With Kiyo's tongue still in his mouth, Yoshi picked up the boy, who immediately wrapped his legs about his lover's waist, his lips still pressed tightly against the twenty-one-year-old's, and Yoshi carried the boy to his bedroom. It was a tiny room, barely bigger than a closet, with only enough room for a small bed, a desk, and a narrow dresser. The walls were decorated with pictures of samurai and manga, calligraphy and art being the school boy's other passion. Quickly stacking up his pillows under his hips, the horny ten-year-old boy spread his legs, and his just as horny lover knelt between them. Reaching into the drawer of the desk beside his bed, Kiyo took out the tube of gel he kept hidden behind his tray of calligraphy pens and brushes and India ink, and removing the cap, he handed it to his lover who quickly lubricated his stiff, aching cock and the boy's eager hole.

Placing the tube on the desk, he knelt between the boy's outspread legs, and placing the tip of his stiff cock against the boy's greased hole, he pushed forward, slipping his cock into the boy's bowels. As the boy's hot, moist rectum enveloped his stiff organ, Yoshi sighed with pleasure, marvelling at how great it always felt penetrating the boy. He pressed forward until his cock was completely surrounded by the boy's pulsating flesh and the boy's smooth, hairless balls were nestled in his coarse, curly hairs. As Yoshi began to withdraw his cock, his ten-year-old beloved clenched his sphincter about his shaft, and as he plunged it back into the boy Kiyo relaxed. In and out the twenty-one-year-old thrust his aching organ and the boy alternatively clenched and relaxed, the two working as one not just for the pleasure each was feeling, but to bring the other pleasure also. The small bedroom was soon filled with the erotic stink of their sweat and they inhaled the humid, erotically-scented air deeply as they thrust their hips, the boy meeting his lover's thrusts and drawing back as his lover withdrew. The boy's small bed creaked with the force of their passion, the pressure quickly rising in their loins, the need too great to delay. Faster and faster Yoshi pumped his hips, thrusting his blood-engorged, throbbing cock in and out of the boy's pulsating rectum, fucking the ten-year-old's boy cunt with a furious lust, and as he felt his cum race up the core of his aching cock and spurt out of the tip with a burning pleasure, Kiyo shuddered with his own orgasm. Samurai in elaborately detailed robes and with raised swords and wide-eyed manga boys in ninja costumes and bandages stared down at the gasping, writhing couple.

The next day they met at the Shinjuku Gyoen National Gardens with a thousand others, tourists, families, and lovers out for a leisurely stroll or an afternoon picnic in the shade of the cherry trees now in full bloom. They walked hand in hand like the other lovers, some even more obviously pregnant than Kiyotsugu, ignoring the raised eyebrows and the looks. The boy was in love, and his lover was famous and audacious enough to flaunt their forbidden love knowing nobody would believe they'd be daring enough to openly display their affection if it was sexual. They paused before the statue of a handsome young man, Musubi-no-kami, the god of love and marriage, said to live in the cherry trees, and offered silent prayers of thanks, both thinking of a grotesque six-legged frog-like statue and offering prayers of thanks to Rana Shankar also. Leaving the god a small offering, they continued on to the shrine to Chimata-no-kami, the phallic god of crossroads and footpaths, where they again left an offering and silent prayers. Tradition was important to both of them and maintenance of tradition expected, by their heritage and their Shinto faith. Squeezing around a nearby thorn thicket that had grown up against an old stone wall marking the border of the oldest section of the gardens, they endured the scratches and painful pricks with the anticipated pleasure of two other pricks in mind.

There in their secret little bower they quickly disrobed and embraced and kissed, free from inquiring eyes and disapproving stares. As Kiyotsugu reached out and cupped his lover's large, dangling balls and rolled the tender eggs in their hairy sack, he thought back to watching the band's latest video and imagining Yoshinobu as the father of his yet to be conceived child and the reaction of the ochre statue that had mysteriously appeared in his tiny bedroom the day he'd met the old Chinese man. As Yoshi caressed the young boy's smooth, compact buttocks, the handsome young singer thought back to the first night they'd met, the strangeness of a ten-year-old boy in the front row with dozens of screaming teenage and preteen girls and the immediate lust he'd felt for the boy, a lust he'd never felt for any girl, and the boy's strange proposal after the concert.

As they lay down on the fresh green grass and their lips met for a long, lingering kiss, their naked bodies pressed together, their stiff cocks brushing against each other, they thought back to the wild, unbelievable night of passion their first time, and to the hot, sweaty sex they'd engaged in yesterday. Over the past six weeks Kiyo's passion for Yoshi had grown with each day, and Yoshi's love for Kiyo had grown with each ounce the boy had gained. As he ran his fingers over the boy's firm belly and where his waist once used to be, he marvelled that the boy was carrying their baby, and his heart ached with a love as strong and as painful as the ache of lust in his groin.

Kiyo lay on his back and spread his legs, and Yoshi knelt between them and raising the boy's hips, he lubed up his eager hole with the gel he'd brought with him, and that he carried with him at all times the two were together, knowing that he could not resist the boy any more than the bees could resist the fragrant cherry blossoms filling the park with their sweet perfume. The park had always been one of their favourite places, and after Kiyo had told him of the meeting with the strange man from China and of the painting of the park in bloom that had not been a painting of the park, and they had discovered this secret bower that had been portrayed in the painting, it had become their favourite and very special place within the park. Lubing up his stiff, aching cock, Yoshi glanced down at the boy, now six weeks pregnant, and as the boy smiled up at him he eased his hips forward, penetrating the boy's hot, moist love channel with his aching, swollen staff, the two of them thinking of Tokugawa Yoshinobu, Japan's last shogun, and imagining him and his young wakashudo trysting in that very bower long ago.

Their stomachs met, twenty-one-year-old Yoshi's stomach flat and muscular, the handsome young singer's six pack abs the result of hours of practising his routines and performing on stage, Kiyo's belly firm and round, the result of their baby growing deep inside. Both could not help thinking of that son to be, curled up only inches away from the tip of Yoshi's throbbing cock now buried deep up Kiyo's rectum, the result of their passionate lovemaking six weeks ago. They had been raised to believe tradition was important, and that it was by raising a family that tradition was passed on and preserved. Thanks to the gods, they were going to be able to do so.

They kissed, the twenty-one-year-old singer and the ten-year-old boy, there in their secret bower, and they both wondered what the pop singer's female teenybopper and preteen fans would think of him if they knew he was a boylover, and would rather sink his shaft up the preteen boy's asshole than between their legs. Their lips still pressed together, Yoshi began to work his hips to and fro, working his stiff cock in and out of his beloved's body, performing that age-old act of love. They inhaled and exhaled deeply, the spring air filled with the sweet scent of thousands of cherry blossoms. High above them looking down from the gnarled branch of a cherry tree, hidden behind the leaves and blossoms, a handsome young man smiled down upon them, while Chimata-no-kami watched from behind the thorn thicket and stroked his swollen phallus and beside him an ochre coloured frog with six legs stroked his impossibly large cock. The air was filled with love and the five of them inhaled and exhaled deeply as one as lust throbbed hotly between their legs. Such was the way of youth. Such was the way of the gods.

Chapter 22

He left the Hebrew University, where he was the head of the Department of Philosophy, after his last class and caught a taxi to the edge of the city. He walked along the road a while, the only person heading south while those in the surrounding towns were streaming into the city to mark the occasion. After an hour, he cut along a trail heading southwest, up into the Har Yehuda, the Judean Hills, away from any significant historical or religious site where others might be gathering. It was still spring and the temperature only slightly above twenty degrees Celsius [68°F] , but the trail was steep and narrow as it climbed up above the ancient city, and there was a sharau, a hot desert wind, blowing up from the desert below, and his dark black suit absorbed the heat. He was only fifty, far from being considered past his prime yet, but his job as a lecturer and philosopher did not prepare him for the arduous climb in the early evening heat. He was perspiring profusely and out of breath only half way up the donkey path as it twisted up the treeless hill. He had his staff though, and his broad rimmed hat protected his face and eyes from the glare of the sun, and he'd left himself plenty of time to make the ascent before the sun set. Still, the climb was steeper than he'd anticipated, and he was more out of shape than he'd realized, and he found he hadn't left as much margin as he'd planned.

As he climbed, he thought of the long conversation he'd had that day with a philosopher and religious scholar from Peking which helped pass the time so the ascent did not seem so lengthy. The man had agreed with him that everything has meaning and a purpose, and that the world, and the universe, are governed by a natural order. They agreed too that there was a causal connection between human behaviour and human destiny, all basic principles of the Jewish faith. Even when he said such behaviour determined whether or not the individual was admitted into heaven, the man agreed that one's behaviour determined one's destiny, which he said was "to become one with everything." It was not exactly the same, but the concepts were similar. However, while he argued that the world, and life on it, was intelligible as it had behind it a single, divine intelligence, the man had argued that it was undefinable and unexplainable, as was the force which governed all things, not a divine being, but an undescribable force he called Tao. To deny the existence of Yahweh was of course unthinkable, but the man had argued he did not deny His existence, only claimed that the force that governed all things, whether that be Yahweh or Tao, was too great and too mysterious to be known by mankind on this plane. That Yahweh at times acted in mysterious ways unfathomable to man Solomon could not disagree.

They had talked of other things, of morality and of human frailness, of the nature of good and evil, of the spiralling decline of the human condition, of the war between Hamas and Israel and the occupation of Tibet by China, of celibacy and responsibility to ancestors, and the need for a drastic change in the world order if humanity was going to survive. They had together explored alternatives proposed by one or the other and by other philosophers and theologists, some practical, some wishful, and others fanciful and sacrilegious. It had been a lengthy and far reaching discussion, one that challenged his beliefs and values and the very way he looked at things, which had been invigorating and delightful in its rarity, and he hoped he had similarly challenged the other. As with most such discussions, they had found much to agree upon, and much to disagree about.

Finally arriving at the top of the rise, Solomon leaned against his staff and gasped for breath as he looked across at the ancient city straddling the peaks and valleys of the Judean Hills to the north. It was an imposing sight for any man, whether he was Christian, Islamic or Jewish, all who laid claim to this Holy Land. He slowly turned to the west, the sky just beginning to tint with the setting sun to find a shepherd boy approaching the summit from the steeper western side, using his shepherd's crook to aid him up the steep incline, his flock of sheep spread out behind him. The boy wore sandals, a simple, black, full-sleeved kaftan extending to his ankles with a simple braided cord about the waist, and a black, felt, peaked cap, a kashket, with a flap of cloth hanging at the back to cover and protect the back of his neck. From his manner of dress and his long, curly sidelocks, he was of the Hasidic faith, perhaps eight or nine years of age. Solomon was disappointed for a second, having hoped to witness the setting of the sun on this momentous occasion alone and in contemplation, but he quickly admonished himself. What better company on this historic day than a shepherd boy, his youth symbolic of the future and hope of Israel, his livelihood following in the footsteps of his ancestors thousands of years before him. The boy bowed respectfully and greeted him good evening and he did likewise.

"You have come to observe the sun setting on this Birkat Hachama?" the boy asked.

"Yes," he replied, impressed by the boy's knowledge and his respectful demeanor. "And you?"

"Yes, me and my sheep," he said, turning and gesturing to his flock below. "Though I think they are more interested in the fresher grass on this side of the hill," he observed with a boyish grin, and Solomon had to smile.

The boy was a handsome lad in the bloom of his youth, dark-eyed and olive-skinned, his hair black as the night and his complexion smooth and unblemished. Solomon, on the other hand, was a severe, frightening figure with his long, bushy, wiry beard, still jet black but beginning to frost with grey, his thick bushy eyebrows, and his piercing, steel grey eyes. He looked as one might expect one of the ancient prophets railing against the sinfulness of the people and promising brimstone and hellfire. The boy removed the kinnor strapped to his back, and his backpack, and offered the man his waterskin before taking a drink himself, but Solomon declined, having brought his own. Opening his backpack, he took out two small loaves and a hunk of cheese, and breaking off a chunk of the cheese, he offered it and one of the loaves to Solomon who, though tempted having not thought to bring any food himself, declined.

"Go ahead," the boy encouraged, "I have plenty. I was expecting you."

"You were expecting me?" Solomon asked, raising a bushy eyebrow.

"Well, not you specifically, but someone, a man."

"This is a good location to view the sun this Birkat Hachama," he observed, though he suspected that was not the boy's meaning.

"And a good location and time for a new creation, for the conception of a son, a prophet for a new world," the boy said solemnly, looking directly at him as if he were testing him.

Solomon looked at him in surprise. Weighty words for a boy of nine, and strange ones. The philosopher stared at the shepherd boy as he considered his response carefully. "The Messiah?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps another to walk in the path of Abraham and Jesus and Mohammed, and of the Buddha, in preparation for the Messiah."

"You are Hasidic?"

"Yes."

Strange for one of the Hasidic faith, and especially one so young, to mention not just the prophet of his faith, but the prophets of the Christians and the Moslems too, and even stranger yet, to mention the Buddha.

"The conception of a son would require the presence of a man and a woman, not a man and a boy," Solomon observed, choosing not to pursue why the boy had mentioned the prophets that he had.

"Would it? Adam was created from dust, not born of a woman, and Eve was created from the rib of a man not in the womb of a woman, and the seed that created Jesus came not from a mortal man. Perhaps what the new world needs is a miraculous conception."

Solomon stared at the boy. These were not the words of a nine-year-old boy. Nor were they new ideas. The philosopher from Peking had said something very similar if not so concisely. "Where have you heard such things?"

"In a vision. From Yahweh."

"And how did Yahweh appear to you? As flames from a burning bush? A whirlwind? A dove?" Or, he suspected, as an elderly man from China, but he'd let the boy reveal that lest he be putting words in the boy's mouth.

"No. A brownish-yellow, six-legged frog."

As the sun began to set, they donned their prayer shawls and recited the Shema together, the shepherd boy and the philosopher, the boy's alto blending with the man's bass. "Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God is one Lord: And thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thine heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy might. And these words, which I command thee this day, shall be in thine heart: And thou shalt teach them diligently unto thy children, and shalt talk of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou risest up."

As the sun slowly sank below the horizon, they sat in contemplation, saying nothing, the shepherd boy thinking of the vision he'd had, and the scholar and philosopher thinking of the discussion he'd had that morning. As he looked over at the boy he felt a love and compassion fill his heart like he'd never felt before, and a desire rise between his legs that he had long ago subjugated. The boy spread out the rolled-up blanket he'd brought with him, and gathered dried twigs and began a fire, and when the boy toasted the bread and cheese over the fire and offered them again, the man accepted them and they talked of Yahweh and visions and conflicts in the world. The boy was an orphan, his parents killed 'in the war' and the boy now living with an elderly grandfather and looking after the sheep of the village.

They talked of their desire for a better world and of love and compassion and of Yahweh's awesome majesty and boundless goodness. The stars had come out, bright and sparkling in a black satin sky away from the lights of the city and the boy strummed his kinnor and sang, his beautiful, sweet voice full of innocence and purity and hope drifting down from the hilltop and over the sleeping city. The man had not considered the impossibility of following the trail back down off the hills in the dark of night and knew he would be spending the night with the boy on the hilltop. He glanced over at the boy sitting cross-legged before the fire again, and again his heart was filled with such pure love and his loins with such fiery passion it had to have a spiritual genesis. As the sheep settled down to sleep, the man and boy embraced and kissed, and did Yahweh's Will there in the Judean Hills above Jerusalem.

A bachelor and deeply religious man, Solomon had never been interested in girls or marriage and he certainly had never entertained sexual thoughts about those of his own gender. He left the matter of family and continuing the family name to his brother and had immersed himself in ancient scrolls and a life of scholarship and study. He had never kissed nor caressed anyone in his life. At the age of nine, the boy, Immanuel, had never had thoughts of sex of any sort, with boys or girls, men or women, though he'd always imagined he'd grow up and marry a woman and have a family as his father had. His father had never been a warm man and he'd never seen his mother and father kiss, but he was a kind man and a good father and husband, that he knew, and there were times he missed him and his mother. They had been killed three years ago, when he was six, in a mortar attack on the city. He had been buried in the rubble with them but had survived, and his mother's father, who lived alone in a nearby village, had taken him in, supposedly to look after the boy, but in reality, the boy looked after the elderly man heartbroken by his daughter's death and bitter about the war. Immanuel had never gone to school and did not know how to read nor write. He did know how to look after sheep, to brush his teeth and wash behind his ears, and to fear God.

He did not know how to kiss nor caress, but as he and Solomon began to make love, it came naturally to him, as it did to Solomon. Their lips met and parted and they ran their hands over each other's body, removing clothing and caressing naked flesh. With each kiss and with each caress their desire grew. Solomon found the young boy's breath sweet and fresh, smelling of bread and toasted cheese, as, he imagined, did his own. The boy's lips were delightfully smooth, as were his compact buttocks. Spending his days hiking up and down the Judean Hills in the hot desert sun had darkened his skin and strengthened his muscles, the boy having firm muscular thighs and biceps though still boyishly rounded and lacking the definition that came with age. His naked body was a delight to behold, and to hold. He ran his fingers over the boy's smooth, unblemished skin gently and with reverence, caressing his firm buttocks and firm flat stomach and his muscular thighs. He fondled the boy's small, dangling, hairless orbs and he gently stroked the boy's slender member.

Immanuel found Solomon's body no less desirable. Spending his days before classes of students and his evenings bent over scrolls and books, he spent little time outside and his skin was pale in comparison to Immanuel's and the boy's darkly tanned fingers contrasted sharply with his flesh as the boy caressed his back and his pale buttocks. Despite his sedentary lifestyle and being slightly overweight, the man was fit and his muscles firm, particularly his legs and back from standing for much of the day lecturing. His pubic mound was covered with a thick, coarse bush of black hair, as thick and black and wiry as his beard, and Immanuel took great delight running his fingers through the thick patch and twirling the curly hair about his fingers. The man's testicles were huge and as he gently cupped them and caressed them, he felt the oval eggs inside roll inside the loose, wrinkled skin. He had never held another's testicles before, nor even seen them, and he studied and caressed them now with reverence and with boyish curiosity. Solomon's organ was large too, long and thick with a bulbous knob, and, of course, circumcised like his own and all male children of the Jewish faith after their eighth day. As he stroked the man's organ with his fingers, it slowly began to grow in size, much to his amazement.

As the two caressed and kissed, they felt their passions slowly begin to rise along with the flesh between their legs and their kisses became more forceful and passionate and their caresses more firm. The man's thick, bristly beard brushed against the boy's smooth cheeks, and as the boy's smooth lips pressed against the man's his moustache tickled his nose and upper lip. Although Immanuel was still four years from his bar mitzvah when he would be considered legally mature and an adult, Solomon felt no guilt in kissing and caressing him. Yes, it was written in Leviticus that thou shall not lie with a male as one lies with a woman, it is a to'evah, an abomination, and he knew the Hasidic Jewish community considered homosexuality a grave sin. He also knew and firmly believed that sex between a man and a woman is a holy act because it leads to a new life, and because it mimics how God created the universe, the heterosexual sex act evoking male and female creative energies. That is what they were doing, creating new life, and as the boy had said, the new world required a new, miraculous conception. Views today were no longer so clear. While some viewed homosexuality as a deliberate rebellion against God, others, like Conservative, Reform and Reconstructionist Judaism, allowed for gay rabbis. The Central Conference of American Rabbis even stated ten years ago that the holiness within a Jewish marriage could be present in committed same gender relationships between two Jews of the same gender, and that these relationships could serve as the foundation of stable Jewish families, adding strength to the Jewish community. Not all saw male to male anal sex as a yehareg ve'al ya'avor, as a die rather than transgress offense.

And so, the boy handed the man an envelope containing four suppositories and a jar of ointment normally used for dry skin but often used by married couples for something else and knelt on his hands and knees. Solomon did not need an explanation what to do with the ointment, and he knelt behind the boy and greased up first his stiff cock and then the boy's anus. Inserting one of the suppositories, he grasped the nine-year-old boy's hips and mounted him there in the Judean Hills overlooking the Holy City. The sheep paid them no attention, as if such coupling was a common thing. Despite it being their first time and their lack of experience, they united upon their first attempt, and with little effort, as if their union had meant to be. The bearded patriarch grasped the slender shepherd boy's hips tightly as he sank his cock up the boy's virgin ass, both taking the boy's virginity and losing his own at the same time. The delight of having his stiff cock surrounded by hot, moist flesh was undescribable, and the man could see how addictive pleasures of the flesh could be. He sank his cock deep up the boy's ass as far as it could plunge and then slowly drew it back out, sending shocks of pleasure through his glans and up the shaft of his organ and through the boy's anus and up his rectum.

With the lights of Jerusalem below them and the stars shining above them, Solomon thought of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden and the beginning of the human race, and of Noah and his family beginning the human race anew after the flood. There had been no miraculous prediction of a worldwide catastrophe, and though there were many who felt the Apocalypse was near, he was not one of those doomsayers and so could not claim any spiritual revelation for doing what he was doing. The world was in a pit of moral and ethical depravity and rampant with godlessness however, and if any time was right for the birth of a new prophet, it was now. He was not justifying nor rationalizing the carnal sin he was engaging in, a triple sin actually, first engaging in anal sex, second engaging in it with a member of his own gender, and third engaging in it with a child. He was simply drawing a parallel between now and the past. Solomon smiled. Even now, under such unusual circumstances and feeling such intense and new emotions, he was, as was his nature, analysing the cause of the event that was occurring.

As the pleasure between his legs increased however, he found it more and more difficult to focus on anything else, and at last he concentrated on that pleasure and on nothing else. It was easy to understand why the ancients were frightened by the idea of males engaging in anal sex with other males, and concerned that men might seek it rather than to lay with their wives, which he had been lead to believe was not a pleasant nor desired experience for decent women in the past nor today, which in his opinion had to lessen any pleasure a faithful husband might have felt while engaging in the act. Such was not the case with himself and the boy. He had never felt anything so pleasant, and reaching around under the boy, he found his little penis to be as erect and throbbing just as hotly as his own, and as he began to stroke it the boy arched his back and murmured with obvious pleasure. The boy was enjoying this just as much as he was, perhaps even more so, feeling pleasure not just from having his little cocklet stroked but also from having his tight, hot ass fucked. Knowing that he was giving the boy pleasure made his own pleasure all the stronger and he pumped his hips to and fro faster.

As if it were perfectly natural, and perhaps it was, the sheep lay down around them and drifted off to sleep, ignoring the gruff-looking, bearded patriarch and the slender, Hasidic youth with the long, curled sidelocks lustfully humping on the ridge above Jerusalem. The two were panting deeply with their passion as the pressure in their loins multiplied with each thrust and withdrawal, their minds spiralling with the pleasure pulsating between their legs, the boy's throbbing rectum and anus and the man's pulsating cock becoming one. The blood pounding in the patriarch's stiff cock and the shepherd boy's slender cocklet beat louder and louder and faster and faster. The boy's asshole felt like it was burning as the man's thick cock pumped in and out of his rectum. The knob of his circumcised little nine-year-old cock was burning also, with a painfully pleasant sensation while the rigid shaft of his slender, three-inch [7½ cm] cocklet throbbed numbly. Yahweh had not told him that conceiving a son would be so pleasant!

Solomon panted and gasped for breath as he pumped his swollen cock in and out of the young boy. Never would he have thought fucking a young boy's ass would feel so pleasant. His swollen cock was throbbing numbly up the boy's hot, moist asshole and the blood-engorged knob was burning with a pleasant pain. With each thrust the pressure deep in his loins increased and he involuntarily opened and closed the opening of his swollen organ. The boy was gasping and panting too, obviously feeling the same exotic pleasure as he was, which increased his own pleasure. If sex between a man and a woman was as unpleasant for the woman as many said and engaged in out of duty and necessity, perhaps Yahweh had meant for men and boys to engage in sex together.

At last both felt the pressure in their loins peak and a spring deep inside them snap and uncoil. The man shuddered with the burning of his seed as it raced up the core of his numb, swollen cock and spurted out the tip with fiery pain and sweet pleasure, his hairy nuts drawn up tight below his shaft, and the boy shuddered with his own orgasm that raked through his circumcised knob like the claws of a cat and sent his body into uncontrollable convulsions as he felt his rectum being flooded with the hot, thick jism of the bearded patriarch grasping his ass, the first to have left his body by his own actions. If there was to be a new prophet and new faith, what better place for him to be conceived and for it to commence than here overlooking the city where the world's three major faiths originated and competed? And who better to be the parents of this new Messiah than Solomon, the wisest of the kings, and Immanuel, whose name meant God with us? Did Isaiah not say the name of the future child who would deliver Judah from danger would be called Immanuel?

The bearded patriarch gasped for breath as he grasped the naked shepherd boy's hips, his swollen cock deep up the boy's bowels, his hairy nuts tightly coiled up beneath his cock which at the moment was being basted by his hot, thick slime, the first to have ever erupted out of his body by his own actions. It was a marvellous feeling, and the rush that followed his orgasm left him light headed and winded. He knelt there for several minutes, revelling in the heady pleasure of his orgasm and of knowing he'd brought the boy pleasure also. Finally, he eased his cock out of the young boy's asshole and sat back on the blanket the boy had spread out. His cock was still rigid, and stuck up in the night air, glistening with the lubricant and the boy's ass slime and a film of his cum in the flames of their campfire. The boy sat beside him, his rectum flooded with the man's seed, his long, curly sidelocks hanging down before his ears damp with sweat, and his little cocklet still stiff and jutting up in the air between his legs, the knob burning pleasantly. The man put his arm about the boy and the two snuggled against each other. They sat there high in the Judean Hills, naked as Adam and filled with awe and wonder as they looked down at the Holy City and the moon shone down upon them and the sleeping flock scattered about them. What they had just experienced was truly a miracle.

***

Cairo at night in May was an exciting place to be, dark and sultry, like the young men and boys who hung out on the narrow streets and emptying bazaars to the northeast and southeast of Tahrir Square making a living selling their bodies, one eye forever out for the police and the other for men willing to part with their money for what the law said was illegal and for what the imams said women were not to give except to their husbands. Rahmah knew about such a life. Ten years ago Rahmah Anwar al-Mahallah was one of those young men looking for satisfaction for the urges that plagued him, not like for many men because by holy law and customs unmarried women were unavailable to him, but because he preferred the company of men, and ten years before that he was one of those beardless youth selling his body to horny men who rationalized that since he still was not old enough to grow a beard then they were not breaking the holy law of not laying with a man as with a woman. Now at thirty-six he ignored those loitering in the malls and streets outside the coffee houses and the public toilets. His thoughts were only on one other as he headed his taxi west, slowly inching with the congested traffic away from the decadent centre of the city and toward the suburb of Giza.

He swung clear of the policed zone of the great pyramids and the sphinx filled with foreign tourists milling about and jostling each other in their rush to take their final pictures before evening fell, ignoring the pickpockets and thieves who like the hustlers he'd left behind kept one eye on the ever present police and the other on the rich and unsuspecting. He headed further west and south, a few more miles, to an old mud brick building. The boy was waiting there for him, Ahmed Abu Muhammad ibn Rahman, the eight-year-old son of the sheikh of one of the few fully nomadic Bedouin tribes.

Many of the Bedouins had become settled or were seasonally nomadic, working on the many oil fields or in refineries surrounding Cairo, preferring the wealth and luxuries such a life brought over their traditional lifestyle. Ahmed's family was not one of them. They were camel breeders, the highest of the four social Bedouin castes, and normally proud and arrogant, they were even more so as those of their kind diminished. Ahmed's seventeen year old brother would inherit the leadership of the family clan some day, and he would see that his next oldest brother, four years his junior, would receive his share of the honour and prestige, something both brothers hoped would not happen for many years but which, nonetheless, they were looking forward to. As the third in line of four brothers, Ahmed knew it would be highly unlikely he would ever become sheikh, and would forever be 'one of the Rahman brothers' and would spend his life roaming the desert and helping to breed and raise camels under his older brothers.

Ahmed's father, a dark-bearded, austere-looking man, firmly entrenched in tradition and his Muslim faith, knew that, and though he loved the boy as any father loves his son, his first love and his first duty were to his oldest. So, when the ancient from China had sojourned with him during the birthing season of the herd, and while they had been tied to the southern grasslands until the young camels were strong enough to travel, he had forecast that his third oldest would some day be a great sheikh with twice the number of sons he had and would bring honour to the family name and would usher in a new era for the Bedouins, he was very happy and very proud though he had his reservations about the prognostic skills of the Chinese.

He of course knew about Rahmah and his son. He was sheikh by inheritance, but he maintained his position by being aware of everything that happened around him and involving his family and his tribe. Besides, that his son would meet and go to live with a man had also been predicted, though what man in particular and why they would live together had not been said. When he'd first seen the man when their paths had crossed near the Pyramid of Menkaure, and when he'd seen the look in his eyes, he'd known what was in his thoughts for he knew of the way of men and their carnal needs and he knew of the perversity of city dwellers. Most other fathers would have had the stranger castrated for harboring such thoughts and would have had his son closely watched, but Amir Umar Muhammad ibn Rahman was no ordinary father and chose instead to watch and wait.

Though his suspicions were confirmed when the taxi driver and his son began having rendezvous in the middle of the night, what if anything that had to do with his son's fortunes he did not know, but Allah worked in mysterious ways and he was not one to question Allah's will, and so he still made no attempt to intervene. There were, after all, many poems and ancient tales which celebrated the love between men, and between men and boys, and he knew it was not an uncommon practice throughout the Arab world. To be truthful, if his third oldest son left the clan he knew the boy's older brothers would not be upset not having to divide the family wealth with him, and it would ease his heart also knowing his oldest son would not be burdened with providing for his younger brother and that his second youngest son would prosper on his own.

So the taxi driver, Rahmah Anwar al-Mahallah, climbed up behind the Bedouin boy, Ahmed Abu Muhammad ibn Rahman, and the boy prodded the camel to its feet and the two rode out into the desert to a small oasis to the northwest, a tiny spring barely large enough to support a half dozen palms and a date tree, too small and too near to the teeming population of Cairo to be of any note to anyone other than two lovers. Dismounting, they tethered the camel and quickly erected the black camel hair lean-to so they might protect themselves from the wind, and as Ahmed spread out the camel hair blanket for their floor and covered it with the colourful woolen blanket his aunt had woven for him, and piled up the pillows which he had brought from his bed, Rahmah started a small fire in the pit before their lean-to.

They embraced and kissed and sat down there arm in arm away from the noise and pollution of the bustling city and away from prying eyes. Ahmed's dark eyes sparkled and his lips curled into a grin as Rahmah opened the small cardboard box containing the fresh pastries with the honey and nut filled centres that he loved so much. As the sinking sun cast its final rays on the great pyramids of Khufu and Kafre and Menkaure, gilding their peaks for a final few minutes before darkness descended and the thousands of lights in ancient Cairo behind them brightened in the darkness, Rahmah opened Ahmed's robe and slipped it off his shoulders and untied the boy's sash and pulled his tunic over his head, revealing his smooth, nut-brown skin and heavy breasts. He untied the cord to his loose, woolen trousers and they dropped to the boy's feet where he stepped out of them along with his sandals. Standing there barefoot and naked save for his red and white checkered kaffiyeh, the eight-year-old boy was gorgeous.

His robe and his loose tunic and trousers had hid the boy's swollen breasts with their enlarged areola and his brown, protruding stomach. He had lost his waistline several weeks ago, and now at what they figured was his eighth week of pregnancy, his stomach was definitely protruding, the boy having gained they figured at least six pounds [2½ kg] over the past two months, a significant and visible change when he'd only been fifty pounds [23 kg] to begin with. As Rahmah ran his fingers over the boy's distended stomach, Ahmed felt his baby move and he smiled. His oldest sister was pregnant, three times as far along as he was, and he had two sisters younger than himself, so he knew about pregnancy. His mother had told his sister such movements were signs that the baby was growing and was aware of his surroundings. He imagined his baby's response was because he was aware of his big daddy's hand caressing his swollen stomach and he smiled with the thought his baby was aware of his daddy already.

"Happy?"

"Very. I felt our son moving."

"Maybe it was the sweet cakes."

"No, it was him. He's probably enjoying the cakes," Ahmed said with a smile.

Rahmah wrapped his arm about the boy and kissed him, at first fondly and lovingly, and then with more passion. He slipped his tongue in the boy's mouth, tasting the honey and the crushed nuts from the sweet cakes he'd just eaten, and his cock began to stir in his trousers. He loved the boy so much, and that he was carrying their child was so erotic. With each day that passed, with each pound the boy gained and with each inch his belly grew, the greater was his lust for the boy. As he drove his taxi during the day, his thoughts were constantly on the boy, which meant he was in a constant state of erection. Those who watched for such things, those who were lovers of men, and boys who had learned to watch for such men, noticed and often made passes at him, for though he was now a man and thirty-six, he was darkly handsome and chose to go clean shaven and there were men who were willing to stretch their faith and prohibition on laying with men when it came to those as attractive as he was.

He rebuffed their advances, gently and without prejudice, for he knew how they felt, and if it were not for Ahmed, he would have likely indulged them, for he preferred men to women, and especially boys to men, in part because it made it easier to justify having sex with those of his own gender, and in part because he enjoyed their honesty and openness about such things. Of course he had denied that when the old, strange oriental had climbed into his taxi and asked to be taken to the great pyramids in Giza and had announced quite matter-of-factly that he knew of his orientation, and he took the old man's talk as demented nonsense when he talked of men and boys making babies and his destiny, even when he pointed out the tribe of Bedouins pausing at the Pyramid of Khufu to groom their camels before continuing to the Cairo market and the young boy whom he'd said was the third and second youngest son of the sheikh of the clan.

He liked boys in a sexual sense and had sex with them as a boy himself, and later as an adult, but always boys twice the age of the youngster that the old oriental had said was destined to bear his children. Still, demented nonsense or not, he was immediately attracted to the handsome young boy even though in his robes he could see only his face and had no idea if under his cloak and baggy clothes he was skinny or fat, and even though he had no idea what the boy's personality was, if he was shy or bold, spoiled or responsible, always cheerful or always sad, he felt a lust well up between his legs like he'd never felt before, and for the days thereafter, he could think of nothing else than the boy.

That had been almost three months ago. He'd made pretexts to approach the group, at the pyramids where they were camped, bringing them tourists who paid him and them to take their pictures, at the bazaars where he knew they displayed their wares, and at the camel markets where he pretended to come upon them by chance. He was, however, at a quandary how to go further. The boy was never alone, always with other boys at their camp, beside his mother or sisters at the bazaars, and surrounded by the men of his tribe at the camel markets. Even if he was alone, it would be risky to approach him. He was the third son of the sheikh, and the Bedouins were among the strictest and most religious of all the Arab tribes, almost as bad as the fanatics that ruled Iran and were fighting the Americans in Iraq. The Qur'an and the teachings of Muhammed were clear when it came to the condemnation of sexual acts between members of the same sex. He was sure if the boy's father knew of his intentions he would think nothing of having him whipped and tied spread eagled and naked in the desert to die, or perhaps quartered by the camels they were so proud of raising.

As it was, it was the boy who approached him. He'd brought some tourists from Holland out to their camp, and while they'd taken pictures, he had looked about for the boy, and when he'd spotted him he had been surprised and delighted when the boy had left the group of boys with whom he'd been playing and had approached him and motioned for him to walk with him. "I am to go with you," the boy had said when they were out of hearing range of those in the camp.

"You are?"

"Your coming has been predicted," the boy said.

"It… I… it has?"

"My father has said so," he said matter of factly as he looked up at him. "He says if I go with you I will become a great sheikh, like him, with many sons." He glanced back at the camp. "My friends say you are a city pervert, or you are a slaver, perhaps both."

Rahmah had to smile. "And what do you say?"

"I say they are wrong. There is an old building made of mud bricks south and west of here. It has not been used for a long time and the desert is taking it back. Meet me there tonight as the sun begins to sink below the horizon, and we will see if I am right." And with that the boy had turned and walked back to the camp.

Rahmah had been certain it was a trick set up by the boy's father, or perhaps those who were loyal to him and hoping to gain some favour. It was likely their sons had heard them say he was a pervert or a slaver, which they likely believed, and the boys had repeated what they had heard, believing it to be true for it had been said by their fathers. As foolish and as risky as it was, he had gone, and the building had been where the boy had said it was, and the boy had been there waiting for him, and they'd ridden out to this oasis and made love, the first of many times over the past two months. The two of them made wild, delightful, passionate love like he had never had before and like he could have never imagined.

The boy slipped his hand in the fly of Rahmah's cotton trousers and in the fly of his underwear, and wrapping his fingers about his swollen member, he guided it out of the openings and squeezed it tightly, bringing Rahmah's attention back to the present. The boy had turned out to be as much of a cock lover as he was a boy lover. Advocates of homosexuality claimed that the Qu'ran spoke against homosexual lust, but said nothing about homosexual love but those who were opposed claimed that the Prophet Muhammed had said whoever had intercourse with a woman and penetrates her rectum, or with a man, or with a boy, shall on the Last Day stink worse than a corpse and both should be stoned to death. For Rahmah, it all just proved that people believed what they wanted to believe and could quote someone or something to prove their belief, and nobody really knew the will of Allah.

Besides, if tomorrow he were to be discovered for his crime and whipped a hundred lashes or stoned to death and were to spend an eternity in hell, so be it. It was worth it for the past eight weeks he had spent with his beloved, eight weeks of pure, wild lust and passionate, total love. Each day his lust for the boy and his love had doubled, and as he looked down at the now naked youngster lovingly stroking his cock and at his protruding stomach, his loins and his heart ached with just as much joy and just as much desire as any man could feel for a woman. This was the one he loved, the one he desired, and the one that would bear them their child. As unbelievable as that was, he was convinced that the boy was with child, and that made him lust for the boy all the more and love him more deeply than any man could love a woman.

He reached out and stroked the boy's swollen breasts and his pear-shaped belly, gently running his fingers over the boy's smooth flesh, following the curves of his fleshy breasts and the gradual bulge of his stomach, marvelling that their baby was growing inside. He followed the bulge of the boy's belly as it curved down to his smooth, hairless public mound, gently caressing it with sweeping circles as the boy continued to stroke his cock, now rigid and aching in the boy's hand. He reached further, slipping his fingers about the boy's semierect cocklet and he gently stroked it and tugged on it, and it quickly filled with blood and became as rigid as his own cock. As he slipped his fingers up the slender shaft and gently and lightly teased the boy's cockhead, the boy squirmed with pleasure and desire. He released the boy's little cocklet and smiled as it jerked and wagged its head in annoyance, wanting to be caressed more. He reached down further, cupping the boy's tiny hairless balls and rolling the tender eggs inside their skin.

Taking the tube of lube out of his pocket, he quickly stripped off his clothes as Ahmed stacked up the pillows for them and lay down, his rump on the largest stack so as to raise his asshole. His belly was still not so large as to stop them from screwing in that position, but they both knew in time they'd have to find another alternative. That they might have to desist had not crossed their minds, and besides, they assumed they still had another seven months. Having stripped naked, Rahmah stood before the boy and greased up his long, brown cock, and the boy looked up at him lovingly, admiring the thirty-six-year-old man, his body slender and a lighter brown than his, long black hairs hanging from his pits and an inverted triangle of curly black hairs covering the top of his chest with the point extending in a fine line over his flat stomach to join the revered triangle of dark black pubic hairs above his now erect and upright cock. With his trim body and handsome face, he was an attractive man, and naked and erect he was irresistible.

As Rahmah knelt between Ahmed's widespread legs and lubricated his stiff cock and the boy's asshole, Ahmed sighed with anticipation and desire. When his father had told him of the predictions of the old Chinese man that he was to leave his brothers and mother and go live with a man his heart had fallen for he loved his family and his life in the desert and had not wanted to leave, even though his father said some day he would be a great sheikh with many sons, but he was an obedient son, and he knew what Allah meant to be was meant to be and it was not his to question Allah, nor his father. When he'd first seen Rahmah and had seen the man watching him, he knew that he was the man he was destined to be with and he'd approached him because it was the thing to do, and not because he wanted to.

Now, as he felt Rahmah's greased cock pressing against his asshole, he pushed out with his stomach to accept him and he prayed his thanks to Allah, as he'd done five times a day and each time they had sex for the past eight weeks, for having chosen him to bear this man's children, and for having chosen Rahmah to be the father of their children. As he felt the man's knob pop inside him, he exhaled, not having realized he'd been holding his breath, and he inhaled again in delight as he felt the man's hard, long cock penetrate him to the depths of his bowels. To have one's asshole stuffed with a man's stiff cock was a pleasure that only Allah could have dreamed of. In his youthful innocence, he had no idea of the debate raging about sex between those of the same gender and their right, or lack of, to marry, and he had no idea of the loathing and disgust not just the imams felt, nor just those of Islamic faith, but those of all faiths and walks of life felt about sex between a man and a boy. To him their sex was the most pleasurable thing one could experience, even better than the honey and nut filled cakes Rahmah brought for him, and their love for each other was just as valid as the love his father felt for his mother, or that he felt for his brothers and sisters.

So, as Rahmah began to work his cock in and out of him, Ahmed opened and closed his asshole in time with his lover's thrusts and withdrawals, delighting in the unique sensation of having his rectum stuffed with a hard, throbbing cock and in the erotic pleasure rippling out from his stretched rectum and piercing his stiff, aching cocklet as Rahmah stroked it. If someone had told him what they were doing was a mortal sin or something disgusting he would have stared at them in disbelief and wonder. Not only was it the most pleasurable thing a boy could feel, it was an act of love.

Rahmah was well aware of how Ahmed felt about what they were doing, and knowing the pleasure the boy was feeling doubled his own pleasure in the act. He pumped his cock in and out of the boy's hot, moist hole with not just carnal desire but with love, delighting in the pleasure on the boy's face even more than the pleasure the act brought him. That what they were doing not only brought both of them such pleasure, but was also the result of the life growing in the boy's belly made it all the more awesome. He closed his eyes in sheer delight as the blood pulsated through his swollen cock and he felt the boy's rectum throbbing in time with his cock as shards of pleasure ripped through his blood-engorged knob. The boy's slender dicklet wagged with desire and arousal, evidence of the boy's lust and pleasure and he wished he was a contortionist and could suck on the boy's slender, beautiful little cocklet while he fucked his hot, tight ass.

His breath grew deeper and more rapid, as did the boy's, and he focussed on the pleasure pulsating between his legs and on the baby growing in his eight-year-old beloved's swollen stomach. How wise and generous Allah was to have devised such a delightful way to make a baby, and how wise and wonderful He was to have designed a man's cock and a boy's rectum to match so perfectly, proof that by His design such an act was expected. Rahmah's blood raced through his veins and throbbed through his swollen cock, surrounded by the boy's hot, throbbing rectum. He could not prevent the boy lust from taking over his mind and his body and he rammed his cock in and out of the boy with wild abandon, driving the boy forward on the stack of pillows and dragging him back as he withdrew. Faster and faster he fucked the boy, delighting in the throbbing pleasure between his legs and in the boy's unabashed and honest delight. The pressure developed in his loins, greater and greater, until he rammed his cock up the boy's ass and shot his thick, hot slime up the boy's asshole as he'd done well over a hundred times these past eight weeks, and as he hoped to do thousands of times in the future. It was time for him to seek the boy's father's permission for the boy to move in with him.

As he felt his lover's hot, thick slime fill his asshole, Ahmed shivered and thrust his hips upward as his own orgasm hit him, ripping through his irritated, blood-engorged knob and swollen little cocklet and causing him to jerk and squirm uncontrollably. He inhaled and exhaled deeply, his swollen stomach rising and falling, rocking their baby in his ecstasy. The two, the man and the boy, gasped and trembled and clutched each other there in the little camel hair lean-to there in the Sahara beneath the starlit sky, the four thousand and five-hundred-year-old Sphinx looming in the distance watching in silence and the seven million people in the nearby ancient city of Cairo oblivious to the pleasure of the man and boy and the dawning of a new age.

***

At the age of forty-eight, Simon Achachi Otorongo, whose Inca names meant Grandfather Jaguar, could have been a grandfather, but he had never married. His jet-black hair that he wore long and held back in a colourful woolen headband decorated with gold threads and turquoise stones as in ancient times did not have a strand of grey and he stood tall and straight, his arms and legs corded and sinewy from years of manual labour and his skin bronzed and leathery from working all day in the sun. From May to September he hiked the Inca Trail from Cuzco to Machu Picchu and back, carrying on his back the food, tents and bedding for the tourists who paid to hike the steep, winding path, and sometimes carrying the tourists themselves. During the off season when it was too wet for tourists, he toiled in his potato patch and small maize field and the gardens of his elderly neighbours in the village where he was born, and his father and his father's father before that. He had no children or grandchildren, but every child in the village called him Grandfather, and in the evenings they clustered at his feet as the other villagers gathered around and he told tales of the ancient times from the creation by Viracocha to the glory of the Tahuantinsuyu empire under Pachacuti Inca Yupanqui and his son Topa Inca Yupanqui.

None loved his stories more than twelve-year-old Ynti Churin, formerly called Huipa, and once known as Pedro, who used to live with his parents in the same village as Achachi Otorongo, but now that he was a man, lived with Achachi Otorongo in a remote hut on the rocky and largely uninhabited Huaco Picchu which was too steep and rugged for terrace farming. As he toiled in their small potato patch above their hut he recited those stories to the hawks flying high above him, for he would be a storyteller like his lover, and he thought of the past five months. One of the many tourists who had come to hike the Inca Trail had been an ancient from China whom Achachi Otorongo thought would never make the arduous trip, but who easily kept up with the fastest porters. The ancient had told Achachi Otorongo a fabulous tale of the Inca returning to their awesome past glory and of a new and miraculous world, and his swollen stomach was proof that his words were more than fanciful dreaming.

Achachi Otorongo had come to him four and a half months ago, at the beginning of the Great Festival, Ccapac Raymi, and had told him the ancient's words and shown him a strange frog statue the ancient had given him that looked not unlike the statues of men and animals with large penises that those from the coast had made many hundreds of years ago, and he said that he wanted him to carry his child. For four days he fasted with the other youth from his village and the nearby villages who were to undergo their manhood test, and they gathered grass to make sandals and seats for their kinsmen. On the fifth day they were taken to a secret place and introduced to their ancestors, now dried and mummified, and then they walked to the foot of Huanacauri behind a white llama where they prayed to the huaca of the mountain for valour and help in their manhood test and that night they slept in the open on the frosty slopes. For three more days they fasted, eating only a handful of maize and drinking only a few sips of water each day. Several could not endure the hunger and thirst and were sent back home. On the last day, those who remained lined up before a priest who whipped them with a woolen sling and those who flinched were also sent home to try for their manhood another year.

The next day they were given food to regain their strength, and on the day after that they raced from Huanacauri to a banner five miles [8 km] away, and though he was not the fastest nor the strongest, Huipa, who was also known as Pedro, was the first to reach the banner because he wanted to please Achachi Otorongo and make him proud. For the next three days they engaged in contests, wrestling, jumping, throwing spears and stones with the sling, and shooting bows and arrows, and though he did not always win, he won more often than he lost in the wrestling, jumping and spear throwing, and he rarely lost with the sling and the bow even though he competed against some boys who were three years older than he. On the nights they were given sentinel duties, in the past to train them to watch for enemies, now to train them to watch for puma and other wild animals that hunted in the dark, and those who fell asleep were sent back home. On the last day the priest beat them again, on the arms and legs, this time with osier rods, and those who flinched were sent home and those who remained danced in joy and victory.

On the next day they climbed to the top of Mount Anahuarque and stayed awake all night praying and drinking chicha, and although the maize beer was watered down, some of them became intoxicated and staggered about like old women or dropped to their hands and knees and vomited until all they could bring up was a slimy white spittle, much to the amusement of the others.

The next day the priest lectured them on their descent from Ynti, the Sun, on the glorious emperors and heros of the past, and on the need of those who were the descendants of those who'd been conquered by the white-skinned invaders to have courage and a warlike spirit, and to have patience and endurance, and show clemency and pity, and to demonstrate rectitude in justice, and how they needed such things until such time as the Inca became a powerful empire again. Though some of it they did not understand, the tribal passion and nationalistic pride of the group of boys, between the ages of twelve and fifteen, were easily fired up, and especially for Huipa who knew a very special secret that even the priest did not know. That night they were allowed to drink all they wanted and to satisfy their needs among each other as young boys and warriors on the warpath do, and though the older boys wanted to engage in such things with him, Huipa being younger and an attractive boy, he refused and they teased him for still being a child and for being afraid to be a man, but he would not give in and so they sought other bedmates, but he watched and learned that night, so he would not disappoint the one he had decided to save himself for.

The next day they climbed Sahuaraura and those who had overindulged the previous night could not reach the top and were turned back in shame and dishonour. At the top the priest slashed their arms and their foreheads with a ceremonial knife and with the blood trickling down their arms and over their faces, they prayed again to the huaca and asked that their blood sacrifice be accepted. They gathered wood and grass and made weapons and shields and sandals and they relaxed and those who knew how, played flutes and they sang. The next day they climbed back down and on the third day they climbed Yahuira where the priest slit their earlobes and they received more lectures on their past and the need to prepare for the future, and Huipa listened carefully and endured the pain for he knew he had a special role in the future, one nobody there knew. Of those who had begun three weeks ago, less than half remained, and for most of those this was their second or third attempt. Of those who were twelve or thirteen, Huipa was the only one remaining. They stripped and purified themselves in the cold spring of Callispuquics behind Sahuaraura and were given their warrior names, and so Huipa, also called Pedro, became Ynti Churin, Child of the Sun, and the boys, now men and warriors, returned to Cuzco with flowers and leaves entwined in their hair and new woven loincloths made by their mothers that until then they'd been forbidden to wear.

They were met with great celebration and cheers and were given new grass sandals made by their mothers and sisters, and the priest inserted wooden earplugs into their earlobes and made a speech and they kissed his hand. Their uncles and brothers gave them woolen sandals and they kissed them on the shoulder, and they were given special gifts by their relatives and friends, and the village headmen, the Inca Kepac, made grand and lengthy speeches. In the old days, before the arrival of the Spaniards, the speeches would have been about past conquests and exhortations to spread the empire and breed many warriors. Today it was about being good citizens and bringing glory to their villages and the Inca name. The new warriors danced about the square with a long woolen rope and sang and engaged in a mock battle with blunt swords and spears, showing great bravery and ferocity, and there followed six days of great feasting and drinking, in the middle of which Achachi Otorongo and Ynti Churin disappeared and hiked up to their new home on Machu Picchu.

There, under the stars, on the peak of the craggy mountain, they engaged in the act of creation as thousands of years ago Viracocha had. That had been four and a half months ago, at the end of the Great Festival, Ccapac Raymi, and now it was two weeks past the end of the Two Ears Moon Harvest Festival, Ayrihua Quilla, when the standing maize was cut down and the villagers held the Dance of the Young Maize, and he was heavy with child. Their son would be the first of a new generation of Inca.

Seeing Achachi Otorongo approaching far below him, Ynti took several of the small potatoes from their garden and prepared them a thick potato soup with llama milk and wild onion to which he added a few of their precious dried peas. When Achachi arrived with several sacs of maize, they roasted a couple ears on the pit and ate heartily. It was a beautiful evening and they sat outside, Achachi chewing a bit of coca and Ynti happily nibbling on the small block of chocolate Achachi had purchased in the village. They cuddled and kissed as they looked up at the stars, the same stars as their ancestors had to have admired thousands of years ago before making love, or heading off to war.

As they kissed and caressed, they felt a familiar stirring in their loins and their cocks began to swell. Ynti was heavy with child, and on a recently cloudy night when they could not see the stars nor the moon, Achachi had joked that they could not see the moon because Ynti had swallowed it, patting his large, rotund stomach. Now as he slipped his hand inside Ynti's loose trousers and gently caressed the boy's swollen stomach, he could feel their baby move inside and he marvelled at the miracle. While his lover caressed his stomach, Ynti slipped his hand inside the fly of Achachi's trousers and his underwear and wrapped his fingers about his lover's swollen, throbbing cock and marvelled at another miracle, and gave thanks to Viracocha, the god of all creation, of rain, and of fertility, for having designed man with a penis so he could experience such pleasure in the process of creation, and to Rana Anshar for the baby in his belly. Unbuttoning Achachi's cotton trousers and pushing them and his underpants down, Ynti slowly stroked his long, reddish-brown staff, always amazed at how large and how hard it could get and at the power he could feel throbbing through it.

Achachi delighted in the feel of Ynti's fingers wrapped about his aching cock and he slipped his fingers about the twelve-year-old's stiff cock also and as he slowly stroked it the boy squirmed with pleasure. Concerned more with extending their empire and with breeding to produce more warriors, his ancestors had not established elaborate sexual taboos and laws, and though the Spanish invaders had claimed that the Inca did not tolerate homosexuality, he knew the Christian invaders saw things through their own eyes and by their actions had proven to be deceitful and untrustworthy. He also knew from past histories that surrounding cultures saw sex as more than just breeding and had a much more open and accepting attitude toward sexual desires, and that the Inca more often than not integrated the beliefs and customs of surrounding peoples they conquered into their own culture. He was more inclined to believe that applied also to the more accepting attitudes toward sex.

He would have been content to have had his needs satisfied by hand that evening, and to have brought Ynti pleasure in the same way considering the boy's condition and out of concern for the comfort and health of their unborn baby, but Ynti took great delight in having him up his ass, and he could not deny he took great pleasure in that act also, and so, as was often the case, he gave in to the boy's wishes. He was, after all, since the Ccapac Raymi, no longer a boy but a man, and as a man he had equal say in what the two of them did. And so they rolled up an extra blanket and stuck the roll under Ynti's hips so as to raise his ass, and as the pregnant twelve-year-old spread his legs, Achachi knelt between them and lubricated the boy's eagerly awaiting hole with a bit of corn oil. Smearing a bit of the oil over his glans and the shaft of his aching cock, he placed the tip against the boy's hole.

Ynti pushed out as he felt Achachi push forward, straining to relax his anal muscle and to accept his lover's large, swollen cock. The two of them inhaled and exhaled deeply and strained to unite, grunting and snorting in their effort and their desire. Ever so slowly Achachi's oiled knob stretched open Ynti's lubricated anus and between their desire and the corn oil it was not long before it popped inside his rectum. Securely anchored, Achachi continued to push forward, sinking his aching cock up the boy's hot, moist rectum until his coarse hairs were brushing against the boy's dangling balls. The past couple weeks the boy had begun to sprout his own pubic hairs, still fine and silky, physical evidence of his manhood.

Ynti delighted in the sensation of having his rectum stuffed with Achachi's hard, thick cock and in feeling the man's coarse hairs brushing against his testicles. He was even more delighted to feel Achachi slowly begin to fuck him, easing his cock back out of his rectum and then sinking it back in. Achachi's thick shaft sent ripples of pleasure out from Ynti's stretched hole, and Achachi's blood-engorged knob sent shards of pleasure through the boy's tender young testicles each time it brushed against a tender spot in his rectum, once on its way out and once on its way back in. Accompanying his growth of new pubic hairs, his testicles had begun growing in size also, and now with the stimulation deep in his loins they began to swell and grow firm. Closing his eyes with the pleasures pulsating through his rectum and loins, he reached down and slipped his fingers about his swollen cock, which to his delight had been slowly growing over the past four months also and though still just as narrow was now an impressive four inches [10 cm] in length.

Holding it with his thumb and first two fingers, he slowly began stroking it, drawing the loose skin back and revealing his tender, sensitive knob, and then pushing the skin back up and over the blood-engorged glans. He trembled with the added pleasure throbbing through his young boyhood and causing the rim of his knob to itch worse than had it brushed up against stinging nettle and yet was so pleasurable one could not stop from touching oneself down there. He inhaled and exhaled deeply with the multitude of physical pleasures assaulting his mind, his burning anus and knob, his throbbing rectum and stiff, preteen cocklet, and the building pressure in his loins, and his mind skipped from one to the next, delighting in them all as Viracocha had to have surely intended. He knew from the deep breathing of his lover that he was enjoying this act as much as he was, and knowing that he was bringing Achachi pleasure increased his own.

At first Achachi worked gently, easing his stiff cock in and out of the pregnant boy slowly not just to enjoy the pleasure and prolong it, but out of concern for their unborn child. However, as his desire and pleasure grew, he began to fuck faster, unable to resist the increased pleasure the friction between his aching cock and the twelve-year-old's clutching hole brought him. Ynti began to pump his little swollen cocklet faster also, his desire growing with Achachi's, the burning of his abused glans driving his fist faster and faster. The two of them inhaled and exhaled deeply as their organs pulsated hotly and the pressure increased in their loins, Achachi fucking more and more furiously and Ynti jacking himself off in a mad frenzy. Copulating there under the black sky and brightly sparkling stars on a rocky ledge high on craggy Huaco Picchu, the twelve-year-old boy and his forty-eight-year-old lover snorted and tensed in anticipation of their pending orgasms. Ynti trembled as he felt Achachi thrusting his hot, hard cock in and out of his body faster and faster, knowing that any second the man would be shooting his hot, thick seed up his rectum. He arched his back with the desperate need to feel his rectum flooded with his lover's thick jism, feeling the man's rapidly building tension as it similarly built in his own loins.

Inhaling deeply, Achachi thrust his cock up Ynti's ass and arched his back as his seed rushed up the core of his benumbed cock and spurted out the tip, flooding Ynti's rectum. Ynti clenched his sphincter tight about his lover's throbbing cock as he felt his rectum filling with the hot, thick slime and arched his back and shuddered with the unique pleasure. His son moved, more than the typical kick or turn, and as Achachi withdrew his cock, he continued to move, as if to fill the vacant place. Not yet having reached his own climax, Ynti continued to wank on his stiff, throbbing cocklet as he opened and closed his anus and his peehole in anticipation of his own orgasm.

"I think I'm having our baby!" he gasped as he felt his anus being stretched open and a tremendous pressure filling his rectum.

Achachi stared in surprise and fear. It was too early, months too early. He had worried about continuing to have sex this way with Ynti in his condition, but he was only half way through his pregnancy and he had figured they still had plenty of time before they had to stop. To his dismay there was no question that the boy was giving birth four and a half months too soon. Of course he'd known from the beginning that they'd have to deliver the baby themselves. It was not something they'd be able to explain to a doctor or midwife, nor something they'd be able to keep secret if they involved others, so he'd read up on it and had discretely inquired about the process from the wives of his friends. He had no idea if a baby could survive being born so young, but at least he was prepared.

"Relax your anus, and push hard with your stomach," he advised.

Ynti did as he was told, pushing down hard as he continued to vigorously wank his throbbing, now numb cocklet. Slowly his sphincter dilated and he could feel what had to be their baby pushing from inside his rectum. He was only twelve but he knew a baby was not supposed to come this soon. He also knew they had no choice. Gasping and snorting for breath and gritting his teeth, he pushed harder. As Achachi encouraged him to continue pushing, he took deep, rapid breaths and pushed with all his strength, not even conscious that he was still rapidly tugging on his cock as he concentrated on the movement of their baby. He could feel it slowly pushing out of his anus and his anus stretching wider and wider, and then suddenly he felt it easing out of his body faster and easier and the pressure on his anus subsided.

At the same time he felt a twang deep in his loins and a burning sensation passing up the core of his stiff cock. He was going to piss! Now of all times! He clamped his peehole shut as tightly as he could and aimed his cock between his legs and away from himself. To his dismay he could not hold it back, and to his even greater dismay, as he looked down between his legs he realized he was aiming his stiff little cock directly at Achachi and his newborn child! It was too late and he watched in horror as he began to spurt. To his surprise, what came spurting out was not piss, and it throbbed out rather than streamed. His young boy cum, thin and watery, spurted out of his numb cock and shot up into the air, aching and dropping back down to strike his newborn son, anointing the newborn babe already streaked with shit and ass slime and his other father's cum with a fresh splatter of the first cum from his body.

Ynti stared at the spurts of slime erupting from his cock, not clear what was happening but aware that he was not pissing from the colour and consistency of the stuff spurting out of him and from the way his cock was throbbing it out in spurts. He shuddered with his release, his first wet climax, and sucked in the night air fragrant with the scent of fresh cum, Achachi's and his. His peehole burned furiously as spurt after spurt erupted from his body and his cocklet, the thickness and length of his lover's thumb, throbbed hotly between his fingers. There high in the Andean mountains a baby cried out, loud and lustful and healthy, announcing his arrival to the world as his young father sprayed his face and his naked body with his virgin cum, and the two fathers gasped and stared in awe and delight as Ynti's hot slime oozed down the baby's chest and stomach and over his little pricklet and balls.

***

Wang Zhong Chan stood alert and ready, his back ramrod straight and his eyes looking directly ahead, but cautiously scanning the square from one corner of his eye to the other. They had been told to expect anything and his Si Ji Shi Guan, fourth level NCO, was clearly nervous. Zhong was not. He was a trained paramilitary police officer, a Shang Den Bing, a Lance Corporal, confident in his abilities and firm in his beliefs, certain to soon become a first level NCO. The government, and the military, were right, the students and the intellectuals entranced by western capitalism and democracy were not. The last couple years had been quiet, but this was the twentieth anniversary of the Tian'an Men Square Protest when hundreds of university students and anti-government workers had been killed, shot by the army and crushed under tanks when they'd refused to disperse. Ten thousand of the insurgents had been injured.

Though there could be no question of the military might that had been assembled in anticipation of trouble this year, there was no logic nor reason when it came to the action of these radicals and fanatics. Sweat trickled down the back of his sea blue shirt, leaving a steadily growing dark patch, not because he was afraid, but because it was the beginning of June and midafternoon and the sun somewhere behind the permanent grey smog that covered Beijing shone down relentlessly, as if determined to burn through the years of pollution and reveal the blue sky behind it. Zhong was twenty-five and had lived his entire life in the city. He could not recall having ever seen the sun nor the sky.

His eyes scanned the square from right to left and back once again. Zhong had an additional reason to be particularly vigilant. He'd had a very strange conversation with an elder a week ago. It had been his day off and he'd been enjoying a quiet meal of Baechu Gook and Bulgogi with Kochujang, cabbage soup and barbequed beef in a lettuce wrap with red chili pepper paste, at his favourite Korean restaurant when the man had joined him. He hadn't asked if he could. He'd just sat down opposite him. He hadn't seen the man approach, and when he was done talking, he'd disappeared just as suddenly and silently as he'd arrived. Zhong had finished his meal alone and deep in thought. The man had to have been smoking opium or been on some hallucinogenic drug. The tale he had told was too wild for any sane person to believe, yet the man had known things about him, deep secrets, his innermost thoughts and desires, his private dreams and ambitions, that he'd never told another person. He had been frustratingly ambiguous too, hinting but never quite revealing, never directly answering his questions.

He spotted the boy at the far end of the square, alone, walking directly toward him. He was wearing peasant clothes, plain and coarse but clean, a faded, light blue, rumpled frock, matching pants and a soft cloth cap of the same colour with a brim in front, and sandals. As he stood before him, his common and simple dress was in marked contrast to Zhong's uniform, sharply pressed black trousers and highly polished boots and cap brim, red epaulets and insignia showing his rank and police unit on the collar and sleeves of his sea blue shirt, and shiny brass buttons and badge on his black military cap. The boy looked up at him with large, almond-shaped eyes, unafraid. He appeared to be about seven, as the old man had said he would be, close to three-foot-ten [1.17 m] and forty-two pounds [19 kg].

"I am Zhao Xiqing Dao," he said, introducing himself, just as the old man had said a boy would.

"Where are your parents?" Zhong asked sharply, his heart racing. He glanced about the square. The thousands who had crowded the square to watch the patriotic dawn flag-raising ceremony had dispersed long ago, but there were still hundreds of people coming and going and milling about, mostly visitors from outside of Beijing, many wearing western-style clothing and blending in with the plain-clothes policemen that were deployed throughout the square along with the guards and paramilitary police in uniform such as Zhong to keep an eye on things. The crowds appeared to be oblivious to the significance of the date. There were no plain dressed peasants searching for a missing child.

"I am alone. I was told to find you and bring you with me."

"Find me?"

"Not you exactly. Just a policeman in the square. I was told I would know which one when I saw him."

"And how do you know it is me?"

The boy shrugged. "I know. Were you not expecting me?" Zhong could not deny that he had been, but he was not certain if he should admit it. "I will wait for you at Zhengyangmen," Xiqing said, and without waiting for a reply, he turned and left before Zhong could tell him that he would be on duty all afternoon, and even if he was given a break, he couldn't just walk over and join the boy, and when he was done, he'd be sent back to the police barracks. Zhong glanced over at the southern gate with its tall archery tower and ornate gatehouse, the gate now more commonly called Qianmen under the present regime and with the influx of western tourists and the need for more easily pronounced and remembered names. He wondered why the boy had used the older name when it had been changed long before he'd been born, and he wondered how long the boy would wait for him before realizing he would not be coming. He would not know. The gate was too far away for him to make out the boy clearly.

It was most strange. As he stood there in the mounting heat, Zhong recalled again the conversation he'd had with the old man, and the conversation he'd just had with the boy. None of it made any sense. As he thought about the boy and pictured him in his mind, he felt a growing sexual attraction toward the boy and a growing need between his legs. Soon, Wang Zhong Chan was standing erect in more than one way. That he liked boys, especially young boys, was one of the deep, innermost desires of his that the old man had known, although that desire had been his most guarded secret and he had been most careful about keeping his indulgence in it hidden. Neither the Buddha nor Confucius had spoken specifically against homosexuality to his knowledge, but even so it was widely frowned on, and especially frowned on by members of the military, including Beijing's police force, although it was practised throughout the country and in the military, and had been practised for many thousands of years. Confucius did say that human nature is innately good, so, for Zhong, homosexuality had to be innately good also. He did not believe it was the result of one's destructive efforts as those foolish enough to put their faith in religion claimed, and he certainly did not agree with the party line that homosexuality was a result of western decadence.

Confucius had also said one should be faithful to himself and to others, and he was. Being gay was part of his nature, and he accepted that. Confucius had also said do not do what you do not want done to yourself. As a boy even before he was old enough to go to school he'd wanted to be fucked up the ass like the young woman he'd once caught being done by a group of young men behind one of the opium houses, and he'd had foolish fantasies of becoming pregnant and bearing a son, not knowing why only women could do so and that a man had to use a woman's other hole.

To bear children, and in particular a son to continue the family name, was important to his parents and his culture. To Confucian thinking, if a man did his duty and sired children, if he had a male lover in his private life was his business. The state had done its best to change the old ways and even discredit Confucius and had said that one should look to the party and the state for leadership and security, not the family. Of course at the same time, instead of serving his needs as the state was supposed to, it was denying him his, or at least ignoring them. By law homosexuality was illegal but the government followed the Three No Policy: no approval, no disapproval, no promotion. The upcoming Gay Pride Parade that he'd heard was planned for later in the month in Shanghai was a good example. The government certainly was not approving it, yet it hadn't come right out and disapproved it either, not with the criticism it was already receiving for its human rights, and it was not promoting it. And, like today, he was sure it would be heavily policed and most people would stay away in fear of trouble, or later repercussions.

Though the Three No Policy referred particularly to sex between men, it was largely the case also for sex between men and boys, a practice that also had a long history in China and a practice that was not always condemned. Under the current government it was also illegal and viewed negatively, though the influence of western culture and religions who condemned such practice was much stronger and the law more rigidly and frequently enforced than laws prohibiting sex between adults of the same gender. The ancient who had met with him a week ago had offered him a solution to that problem, and hope for the future. So had Zhao Xiqing Dao that afternoon. Two hours passed and Zhang was still painfully and embarrassingly erect when he was approached by the Si Ji Shi Guan.

"Shang Den Bing Wang. You are relieved of your duties," he announced abruptly.

"Relieved?"

"That's what I said!" the NCO replied sharply. "Fall out."

Zhong stepped out of line and those on either side shuffled over to fill in. "I am to report back to the police barracks?"

"No. You are off duty until tomorrow." The officer looked at him as he had just bitten into something foul. "Those are my orders." The Sargent First Class was not pleased and clearly suspected Zhong of having higher connections in the police department, or in the Party, to have been pulled from this potentially hazardous duty even though it was becoming evident the fears of their leaders and the upper bureaucrats had been needless.

Zhong marched stiffly toward the south gate, again in more than one way. He could not reach down and adjust the position of his aching cock, the knob aching even more with the chaffing it was receiving from the coarse cloth of his trousers, his pecker having worked its way out of the opening of his underwear, and, he was sure, tenting out the crotch of his pants. Xiqing was there, sitting in the shade of the gate, and upon Zhong's approach he quickly got to his feet and lead the way. If his erection was as visible as it felt, and if Xiqing had noticed, he gave no evidence of it.

They turned into a narrow alley formed by two rows of courtyard houses just south of the square, the Qianmen Hutang. Zhong followed the boy along the cobbled alleyway past the multistoried houses and narrow shops on either side of the lane. Women bartering and gossiping at the outside stalls paused and fell silent to watch them go by, and old men sitting on low stools smoking pipes and playing mahjong looked up with suspicion and dislike. Although the country would be officially under Communist rule and the military for sixty years this fall, there were many who had little like for either, and that included China's paramilitary police force whom many saw as just another arm, or more aptly, another tool, of the Communist government. There were more than just a few who would like to turn the clock back to when China was an empire, especially with many of the hutangs being torn down to make way for roads and western style shopping centres and tourist hotels and most recently for the Olympics, which itself many saw for what it was, a propaganda ploy by the government to distract other nations from policies and practices which even many of its own people decried.

Arriving at a small grocery store with fresh vegetables from the countryside displayed in outside bins and freshly killed chickens hanging from the awning by their necks, the boy headed inside and Zhong followed, squeezing past the customers in the crowded store to exit into the courtyard out back. Following the boy up three flights of old, rickety stairs, he arrived on the roof of the building where the shopkeeper kept a small pigeon house and a few live chickens for their eggs for the family and a drying rack for herbs. Under an overhang to protect it from the rain and behind a folding bamboo curtain was a small cot, a table and two stools, and a low wooden box that served as cupboard, dresser and coffer.

"This is where I sleep," the boy said proudly. "And where we can make our baby."

Zhong should have been surprised by the boy's comment, but he wasn't. He turned and looked back at the stairs.

"They will be busy with customers for several hours yet," the boy said as he began to unbutton his shirt. "And anyway, they know not to come up here until you leave." He slipped his shirt off, revealing a slender body, his boyish muscles firm but still softly contoured. Unbuttoning his trousers, he dropped them and stepped out of them. He was wearing a tight pair of briefs, the pocket bulging with his boyhood. "You have the capsules for making the baby?" he asked as he slipped his hands under the elastic band of his briefs and began to push them down.

"Yes," replied Zhong, his voice cracking. The boy's pubes were hairless and his noodle slender and limp and the same length and thickness as Zhong's little finger. Zhong's stiff cock strained to get loose and he felt pre-cum ooze out the tip. He quickly unbuttoned his shirt and unbuckled the belt of his sharply pressed black trousers. He pushed them down, relieved they were unstained but dismayed by the embarrassing wet spot where his pre-cum has soaked through his underwear. He squatted down and untied and removed his highly polished boots and his socks, and he stood and stepped out of his trousers and then his underwear. The boy stared unabashedly at his stiff cock jutting up in the air, the knob shiny with his pre-cum and a droplet of the clear fluid forming at the opening. Zhong removed his shirt, folding and placing it on one of the stools where he had folded and placed his trousers, and he placed his cap on top of the pile.

He stood there totally naked and fully exposed and fully aroused before the seven-year-old boy. The twenty-five-year-old policeman was of average height and build, five foot seven [1.70 m] and a hundred and forty-eight pounds [67 kg], all of it solid muscle, a lean and mean fighting machine. His firm pecs were smooth and hairless, as were his arms and legs. His hairs were dense and curly and formed an inverted triangle spreading up from the base of his erect cock which was an impressive seven inches [18 cm] in length and three fingers thick. His balls were large and pendulous, two hairy hen's eggs hanging between his smooth, muscular thighs. His skin was a lemon-brown, showing only the slightest tan line, and his thick, jet black hair was perfectly trimmed in a smart military cut. He was handsome, with a smooth, unblemished face, high cheek bones and narrow, sexy eyes. Though he was twenty-five, his cheeks and chin bore no five o'clock shadow and not even the slightest peach fuzz.

"I have never done this," the boy admitted. There was no fear nor apprehension in his voice, nor any sign of guilt or shame in his eyes. "Do you know what to do?"

"Yes," replied Zhong, his voice gentle and reassuring. "There are many different positions two males can take. Will your cot hold the weight of both of us?"

"I am sure it will."

"Then perhaps for our first time we should do it face to face, you on your back and me above you." Zhong glanced around. "We will need your pillow and to roll up your blanket to raise your hips."

Zhong folded and rolled up the thin blanket and placing it in the middle the bed and placing the boy's thin pillow on top of it, he decided to add his boots under the blanket to raise it higher. Having the boy lay on his back with his hips elevated, he wished he had some lubricant, but he'd not dared carry a tube in his uniform. The bulge would show, and if discovered, he'd have to explain why he was carrying it on duty. His spittle and pre-cum would have to do. Kneeling down between the boy's legs, he worked up a mouthful of spittle and bending over and placing his lips against the boy's anus, he pressed them tight against the boy's pucker and blew his spittle into the boy's rectum. He pressed the tip of his tongue against the boy's opening and wormed it into his dank hole and his mouth filled with more spittle which he channelled into the boy's rectum with his tongue. The young boy kept himself clean, and contrary to what many might think, rimming his asshole was not a foul act. The boy's limp cock began to swell, the result of the first rimming he'd ever received in his young life and proof of his pleasure. Taking out the envelope the ancient had given him, Zhong took out one of the suppositories and slipped it into the boy's rectum.

Prepared to take the boy's prune, Zhong's cock was rigid with arousal and the knob slick with pre-cum. Wrapping his fist about his throbbing cock just below the knob, he positioned the tip against the boy's asshole, and telling the boy to push out as if taking a crap, he at the same time pushed forward. His slimy pre-cum and his spittle helped, but the boy was a virgin and tight. The two inhaled and exhaled deeply and snorted and panted as they attempted to unite. Xiqing's eagerness and Zhong's experience and skill were enough to overcome the resistance, the power of the mind always superior to the power of the flesh. Ever so slowly Zhong's mushroom-shaped knob stretched open the boy's straining sphincter and penetrated his body. The pigeons stopped their cooing and the chickens stopped their scratching for seeds and the fowl turned to watch the two humans coupling there on the hutang rooftop for a moment before returning to their more interesting and important previous activities.

At last Zhong's knob popped inside the boy's rectum and with the widest diameter of his cock now firmly inside the boy, Zhong continued to press forward, driving his eight inches [20 cm] up the boy's hot, moist rectum until the mushroom-shaped knob was buried deep up his dank, musky hole. It was a delightful feeling having the boy's pulsating flesh squeezing around his aching cock from all sides and having the boy's hot, moist hole encasing his rigid flesh, and Zhong paused to savour the pleasure that only a boylover could know. There was something very special about fucking a young boy, something that could not compare to fucking a man or a woman. It was of course a strange and novel experience for Xiqing to have his asshole stuffed with a hard, hot, throbbing cock, and, he discovered, not an unpleasant one, and he delighted in the unique pleasure that sadly few boys knew. His stretched anus burned but not in a painful way, and his rectum felt full but not uncomfortable. The physical sensations were strange, and pleasant in a way, but what was strangest of all, and exciting in his boyish mind, was the fact a man had his dink buried deep up his asshole.

As Zhong eased his cock back out, Xiqing quivered with still another pleasure. His anus burned even more strongly and ripples of stimulation ebbed out from his tightly clenched anus, causing his little cocklet to swell even further and begin to lift up. It was a strange sensation, and pleasant, as the old man who had visited his parent's grocery shop had told him it would be. Inhaling deeply with his own pleasure, Zhong once again sank his cock up the boy's tight asshole until his coarse, curly hairs were brushing against the seven-year-old's marble-like balls and he closed his eyes in delight. As Zhong eased his aching, throbbing cock back out, Xiqing quivered again with the strange itching pleasure causing his anus to burn and throb and his little swollen cocklet throbbed too as it stood straight up between his legs. Zhong saw the response of the boy's little dicklet and he felt a twang of arousal in his swollen cockhead as he eased it back up the boy's rectum. There was nothing more erotic than seeing a young preteen boy with an erection, and especially a handsome young boy like Xiqing. Young boys were always so responsive to being fucked, and their little cocklets so quick to react. The boy's stiff little cocklet was proof of the pleasure the boy was feeling, pleasure that others were so quick to deny those of his age.

"Go ahead and play with it," Zhong advised huskily. The boy looked at him blankly. "You know, fiddle with it. It's okay." The boy made no move to comply, and from the look in his eyes, he clearly did not understand. Zhong's cock twitched violently up the boy's asshole. The boy was so pure and innocent he almost shot his load on the spot. There was nothing more erotic, nothing more pleasurable, than being part of a boy's first sexual discoveries. To be present for two, his first fucking and his first jacking off, and at the same time, was, to Zhong, the closest to Nirvana that he would ever get. He inhaled deeply and ceased all movement as he willed his throbbing lust to subside. It was not easy.

Balancing on his knees and his left arm, Zhong reached up with his right hand and held the boy's rigid organ between his thumb and first finger. His little cocklet was rigid as a nail and the skin as smooth as silk. Zhong ever so slowly and gently pulled back the boy's foreskin, exposing his little, moist amber knob and causing the boy to squirm with still a new and wonderful pleasure. He paused for a moment to let the pleasure sink in, and then he slowly pushed the boy's foreskin back up over the knob, pausing again for the boy to savour the new stimulation. He repeated the motion a second time, slowly, and when he paused, the boy thrust his hips upward, driving his little cocklet upward between Zhong's thumb and first finger and causing his foreskin to be drawn back. As he pulled back, his foreskin slid back up over his knob. He quivered with delight as ripples of stimulation throbbed out from the rim of his knob. Zhong smiled. "Go ahead, you rub it," he said, releasing the boy's stiff little cocklet and balancing himself on both elbows again.

He would have loved to have continued whacking the boy's little dicklet. It was so small and smooth, so tender and innocent. It was awesome being the first to introduce this universal secret pleasure eventually discovered and practised by every boy around the world and it would have been awesome to have been the first to rub the boy's little noodle until he exploded with his first dry orgasm, but it was going to be even more awesome watching him reach his first orgasm rubbing himself, and fucking his sweet, tight ass as the same time.

As he watched the boy duplicating his wrist action, holding his little, tawny-coloured dinky between his thumb and first finger and slowly drawing the skin back and exposing his little glistening knob, and then easing it back up his shaft and over the moist, amber bulb, looking up at his little stiff noodle with wide-eyed fascination and delight as he whacked himself off for the first time in his life, Zhong felt another twang in his itching, blood-engorged knob. He was so close to shooting off it took supreme effort to hold it back. He knew almost every parent at some time discovered and discouraged his or her son fiddling with himself, but to him for a seven-year-old boy to have never discovered and experienced that pleasure was unbelievably erotic, and watching him now discovering the joy was something to be celebrated and relished, not discouraged. He recalled his own discovery and the forbidden pleasure his first time and felt another sharp twang in his irritated knob and another dollop of pre-cum ooze out of the tip.

Inhaling and exhaling deeply and slowly to calm himself, he resumed fucking the boy, easing his stiff, aching cock in and out of his hot, moist asshole as the boy now eagerly wanked himself off. Zhong's swollen cock throbbed pleasantly and his knob burned with irritation as he felt the pressure quickly developing deep in his loins once again. Despite his desire to enjoy this pleasure to the fullest and for as long as possible, Zhong began to speed up. He had delayed as long as was humanly possible. He could feel his blood pulsating hotly through his swollen flesh as forcefully as through his heart and he quivered with the prickling pleasure causing the rim of his knob to burn. It was late afternoon and the hot sun burning through the Beijing smog combined with his lust caused his body to begin to perspire again. It beaded on his forehead and on his smooth, gilded back until the beads joined and formed streamlets which tickled down his back and his ribs. His short black hair was damp and he felt a trickle of sweat drip from his short, tapered sideburns along beside his ear and along the arch of his jaw. He inhaled and exhaled deeply with his exertion and arousal, and the scent of his sweat mingled with the hot concrete smell of the city intensified his passion.

Xiqing was gasping for breath also as the burning pleasure pulsating out from his anus and the sharp pangs of pleasure piercing his swollen, irritated dickhead caused him to squirm and twitch with never before felt pleasure and arousal. He too was perspiring, salty rivulets trickling down his ribs and his shock of black hair wet with his sweat. He sucked the air laden with the hot scent of sweat and exhaust and pavement deep into his lungs as he felt a pressure developing deep in his loins that doubled with each thrust of Zhong's cock and with each tug on his irritated little cocklet. Faster and faster the young policeman's cock shot in and out of his throbbing, burning asshole and faster and faster his fingers pumped on his itching, swollen dink. Suddenly his naked body began to twitch and jerk uncontrollably as spasms of sweet pain shot through his abused cock and the handsome, young, naked policeman between his legs lunged forward and groaned as his thick, swollen cock began throbbing out his juice and filling the seven-year-old boy's rectum.

Never had Zhao Xiqing Dao experienced such an explosive pleasure as his first dry orgasm, nor such a delight as in having his rectum flooded with hot, thick jism for the first time in his young life. Never had Lance Corporal Wang Zhong Chan had such a delightfully hot fuck and such a powerful ejaculation. Never had either experienced such joy and contentment as that moment of bringing each other such erotic bliss. Totally spent, Zhong clasped the panting, perspiring boy to his naked body and Xiqing wrapped his arms and legs about the twenty-five-year-old policeman tightly. Back in Tian'an Men Square, the soldiers and policemen keeping careful watch for trouble were unaware a new revolution had begun on the roof of a tiny grocery store in Qianmen Hutang.

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