Aurora Crusade

Aurora Crusade

Chapter 12

TARGETS

Arthur Marmaduke Willoughby, erstwhile Knight of Magistral Grace, Donat and Profess of the Priory of Lower Canada lived in a large, Victorian-style house in an area of Toronto called Moore Park. The area was not as upscale as Rosedale, but it was one of the better areas of the city, with tree-lined streets, little or no crime, and neighbours who minded their own business. His neighbours were akin to him, being upper-middle-class lawyers and doctors, accountants and professionals. Many, as had Willoughby, could have afforded better accommodation, but the area was popular, with taxes much lower than say, Rosedale, or North York (where there were too may Jews, thank you).

As he sat in his book-lined study, Willoughby reflected that he would not have to worry too much longer about where he would be living. He looked around the room and thought ruefully that if he were very lucky, he might find a place to sleep under a bridge. The worst case scenario was that he would, before very long, be sharing a cell with a large, odourous felon, an axe murderer, at the very least - in Kingston Penitentiary - which was a very distinct possibility.

Burying his head in his hands, Willoughby could not believe the hand that fate had dealt him. His bank was gone, the stock worthless, with trading suspended on the Toronto Stock Exchange. Even as he sat in the relative safety of his home, auditors from the Securities Commission were examining every entry in the bank's books and ledgers. Willoughby shuddered at the thought. The auditors would discover his personal accounts, and the spurious SporinFabrik stock certificates. They would also discover the questionable transfers of large sums of money to Germany, bogus purchases of stocks and bonds made on behalf of bogus clients. The more the auditors delved into the books, the more chicanery they would discover.

Willoughby was terrified. There was no one he could turn to. Percy Simpson, who had talked him into the scheme in the first place, was dead, the victim of a mercifully fatal heart attack. Hunter, Willoughby and Simpson's partner in the scheme, was not answering the telephone. Willoughby had tried the brokerage house, but Hunter was not there. He had tried Hunter's house in Montreal and there had been no answer. Willoughby had no idea where Hunter had got to, but the man was as deep, if not deeper, into Edmund Stennes' schemes as the dead Percy had been, as deeply as Willoughby himself had been, and Willoughby was determined that if he went down, so would Hunter . . . and Stennes . . . and all the others who had used Stennes' "service".

Willoughby had the goods on all of them. He thought that Hunter also kept discreet records, but the man played everything very close to the chest. Hunter was a shrewd man, and would protect his ass, of that Willoughby was certain.

Stennes was the odd man out. Willoughby would reveal every detail he knew of the network that Stennes had so painstakingly set up. Stennes was no fool, of course, and if Willoughby knew his man, the German had covered his tracks well. Still, there were trails that not even Stennes knew about, bits and pieces of information that, placed in the right hands, would lead like a trail of bread crumbs directly to Stennes.

There were other resources available. Willoughby had a little black book, each page detailing the purchase or sale of a boy, and each page headed by a name. There were doctors, lawyers, men from every profession. There were also the names of Knights, all men of substance and prominence, men with high position in the three levels of government, in the military . . . and on and on. Willoughby would expose them all to save himself from the law.

He would make a deal when they came for him. In exchange for the information he had he would plea bargain with the Devil if he had to. He would not take the fall for the likes of Stennes and Hunter, or that traitorous Frog in Quebec! They would all go down!

Christopher Ross McLennden, know familiarly as "C.R." to his many detractors and few acquaintances, was a short, thin man with dark hair and dull, almost lifeless eyes. He was not a handsome man, but he had a certain mystique about him, which he knew and used to his advantage. His somewhat pedestrian demeanour hid a first-class, incisive brain. His demeanour also hid a badger-like ferocity, which many of his colleagues in the legal fraternity had discovered, to their regret.

C.R. McLennden was a barrister, a lawyer who could ferret out the most obscure and obtuse point of law, and use it to the full advantage of his clients. He had no scruples when it came to defending a client, almost no morals, and so long as the client had the money, C.R. had the expertise and the wiles to ensure a "Not Guilty" verdict. His stock phrase, when interviewing a new client, and before accepting the brief, was, "I can get you off, but it will cost you."

Originally from Halifax, C.R., at the age of 22, with his newly printed diploma from St. Mary's University in hand, had announced that he was going where the money was. Shaking the dust of Nova Scotia from his heels, C.R. had boarded the train for Toronto and never looked back.

C.R. had been accepted as a student at the University of Toronto's School of Law. He was a diligent, careful student, with a calculating mind and an eye for detail that proved invaluable when he was researching precedents and obscure rulings of a point of law. He had a stern, deliberately misleading, somewhat pedantic courtroom manner in the moot courts the students practiced in, but it was very soon evident that he possessed the guile and instincts of a hunting wolverine and his fellows soon learned to be very careful when arguing against C.R. He knew when to strike without warning, when to skewer a witness, and when to stroke and sooth the witness into making the most ruinous of statements. His knowledge of precedent had caught more than one magistrate up short.

To many of his fellow students, C.R. had all the makings of a shyster, which in a way he was. To others he could be the next Blackstone. C.R. knew what his fellows thought of him, dismissed them as "mugs" and went his own way. He knew that the more prestigious law firms mined the law schools; searching for the best and brightest and that meant C.R. McLennden.

C.R. caught the attention of T. Walter Addiscombe, Senior Partner of the law firm of MacDonald, Davies and Ross, a high powered firm of lawyers with a reputation of never losing a case. The firm also had a reputation of slashing and burning, never sparing the sensibilities of witnesses and principles that were dumb enough to bring suit against one of MDR's clients. If there was dirt to be found, malfeasance to be uncovered, MDR's team of researchers and private investigators would find it. It was said that MDR knew more secrets about more people than J. Edgar Hoover, except that none of the partners wore a party frock in private. MacDonald, Davies and Ross turned out to be C.R.'s spiritual home.

The firm had on its books Fortune 500 companies, high rolling movers and shakers, a movie star or two, represented the legal interests of five foreign governments and, as all the partners were "QC" - "Queen's Counsel", could and did argue cases for the Crown, specializing in shooting down the specious land claims of a seemingly endless horde of Indian bands and tribes.

For C.R., working with MacDonald, Davies and Ross was exciting, interesting, educational and rewarding. The firm never accepted pro bono briefs, no matter how heart rending, and avoided Legal Aid Certificates like the plague. If a client came in and plunked down $10,000 in cash, or kind, no cheques, and was willing to absorb the $300 an hour fees, he, she or it, was more than welcome and MDR would ensure that his interests were well taken care of. All others could take a hike. Pro Bono and Legal Aid cases were for ambulance chasers and mugs.

The downside for C.R. was first allowing T. Walter to seduce him, a not too unpleasant experience. C.R. had been horny and knew what T. Walter wanted. A guy had to get his rocks off somehow, didn't he?

The relationship that followed was simple, and very straight-forward, mentor and student, and once a month C.R. would dine a-deux with T. Walter in a suite in the Royal York Hotel. T. Walter was Bencher at Osgoode Hall, and kept rooms in the venerable old law building. However, even he dared not risk offending his fellow Benchers, or the students that infested the place. T. Walter was nothing, if not discreet in his private habits.

So, once a month it was the Royal York, dinner for two, and then to bed. T. Walter worshipped C.R.'s smooth, slim body and somewhat diminutive organ for an hour or two, Afterward they would shower, dress and go home, T. Walter to his rooms in Osgoode Hall, C.R. to a one-bedroom condo on the rapidly developing waterfront.

It was a convenient arrangement, giving each man what he wanted: T. Walter a smooth young man to sleep with, C.R. the choice of the high profile, media grabbing cases he revelled in arguing, and a Fellowship at York University's Osgoode Law School. The relationship also guaranteed that when T. Walter pegged out - the old bastard couldn't live forever - C.R.'s name would head the short list for partner.

For C.R., sex with T. Walter was basically a release of semen on his part. He had to admit that the old fool gave a mean blow job. But what T. Walter and the other partners at MacDonald, Davies and Ross would have been appalled to learn, C.R. craved a different kettle of fish and longed to cast his nets in darker waters.

It had begun back home, in the dingy bedroom in the crumbling apartment the family then occupied. They all, his mother, father, and two younger brothers, and four sisters shared a two-bedroom flat in one of the small, so-called "assisted housing" units located south of the Naval Barracks off of Gottingen Street. It was a welfare flat, plain and simple, in a project occupied by people exactly like themselves, no-hopers and all living on the dole.

C.R.'s parents slept in one bedroom, his sisters in the other. He and his brothers slept on a pull-out sofa bed. The mattress was lumpy, uncomfortable and hot as hell in the scorching Halifax summers. It wasn't bad in the winter though, not with two wiggling bodies to snuggle against.

C.R. didn't mind sleeping with Reggie and Dustin, his brothers. He minded it even less when he discovered that little brothers didn't mind keeping older brothers warm on cold winter nights and, shortly before his 12th birthday, that little brothers didn't mind having their small willies played with when the fog horn blew mournfully in the early morning distance.

It had not taken C.R. very long to discover that he actually enjoyed taking Reggie's, or Dustin's, little sheathed penises into his mouth and sucking contentedly until one, or the other, or both, sniggered and wiggled and giggled loudly in dry orgasm. C.R. liked in even better when his brothers reciprocated, especially Dustin, who knew just how to get C.R. going, pushing down the thin covering of skin over C.R.'s dick, and gently sucking on the super sensitive glans his lips exposed. C.R. spent half the night pleasuring his brothers, and then having them pleasure him. In the morning sunlight they told each other that it was something boys did, something brothers did, and no big deal. Except that for C.R. it was a big deal. A very big deal indeed.

At first, C.R. did not understand why he did not have the same feeling of satisfaction he'd had when he'd fucked his brothers. Sex, in all its forms, was freely available in Halifax. C.R. knew that he craved male dick, never questioned the craving, and soon learned where to find what he wanted. He trolled the leafy confines of Point Pleasant Park and, since he was young, or at least looked young, never left the park without at least one encounter, usually a blow job in the bushes, to fantasize about later. Sometimes, though, he got really lucky and the condom he kept in his wallet was put to good use.

Who his partners were C.R. didn't know, or care. That some were sailors, both foreign and domestic, interested him not at all. That some were plain, ordinary, garden variety, home grown Halifax fruits was unimportant. What was important was that he got his dicked sucked, or sucked a dick, or felt the pleasure of a hard dick up his butt, or the excruciating wonder of his hard dick up another man or boys' butt.

And yet . . .

Later, taking advantage of government grants and loans, C.R. had gone off to St. Mary's University, using his brains to maintain and A+ grade average and his position on the "Dean's List", and his diminutive brawn in keeping his roommate happy. His roommate, Robyn, was a tall, muscled brute of a boy from New Brunswick, who was on a football scholarship. C.R. thought that Robyn was majoring in basket weaving. Robyn was hung like a horse, and as horny as a Newfoundlander in the moonlight. After their first tentative coupling, which consisted of C.R. blowing Robyn and Robyn braying like a mule when he came, C.R. assumed that Robyn was a top. C.R. assumed wrong. Robyn was a confirmed bottom, and never let an opportunity slip by. C.R. could barely enter their room without Robyn all but raping him.

At times C.R. despaired, wondering where he would find the patience, and the stamina, to keep up with his studies, waiting tables at the Gorsebrook Pub (the on-campus student watering hole) where he earned his walking around money, and trying to satisfy Robyn's insatiable demands to be plugged! If he wasn't on the scrimmage line, Robyn was prowling their room, yowling like a dockyard cat on heat! C.R. thanked God when football season rolled around and he got some much needed rest.

Of course Robyn, sweaty from the exertions of the gridiron, still needed a little TLC to help him get through the night and their relationship got to the point where C.R. longed for Easter Break and the summer holidays, when he could go home to Halifax where he could rest his slightly battered penis and replenish his empty balls. In truth, though, C.R. spent most of his four years in St. Mary's in a state of near exhaustion, and Robyn was a very happy tight end, so much so that he was awarded a contract by one of the CFL teams.

And yet . . .

Boffing Robyn morning, noon, and two or three times at night was sexually satisfying. But C.R. could never attain the massive, brain searing orgasms he had achieved when he had slipped into his younger brother's warm, tight chute. He also found himself sitting on the Quad, ostensibly watching his classmates and the frat boys screwing away a warm afternoon, but in reality his eyes drifted more and more to the small parkette nearby, where the children of faculty members and the few married graduates students played. More and more he found himself ogling the slim, unformed bodies of the boys who played there, boys who were little more than nine or ten years old.

C.R. found himself doing the same thing when, on the odd occasions when he could pry Robyn off his dick and went to the beach with some of his classmates. While the others ogled and hooted at the scantily clad girl swimmers, C.R., his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, studied the pert behinds and innocent little bulges in the bathing suits of the little boys who scampered across the sandy beach or splashed in the grey waters of the North Atlantic.

It finally dawned on C.R. why he had stopped pestering his brothers: they were no longer little boys when a dusting of hair appeared above their growing dicks, and squealed louder when they orgasmed and projected a thin stream of ejaculate across the not quite clean sheets that covered their bed. Once Reggie and Dustin stopped squeaking like little piglets and their immature penises stopped bucking and throbbing in an unsuccessful attempt to eject something their bodies were not yet capable of producing, C.R. lost interest.

The growing realization that he was a "boy lover" terrified C.R. A paedophile, homosexual or otherwise, was reviled by every section of society and in every culture. The LAW, which C.R. had dedicated his life to, thundered against men loving boys. Society might be on the threshold of beginning to understand that two men might love each other, but Society, in all its forms, would never allow a man to love a prepubescent boy. Such was Society's opprobrium that death would have been a welcome alternative to what could be, and often was, done to a boy lover.

Knowing that he would become anathema if he acted on his burgeoning urges, C.R. adopted a firm unrelenting look but don't touch - ever - attitude. While in St. Mary's University he continued to service Robyn, and sometimes drifted down to the Halifax waterfront from time to time to take advantage of the services of some of the teenage hookers that walked the stroll. He had a brief fling with a 17 year old freshman, who looked 13, and that was all.

C.R. wanted a boy, a slim bodied, gangly, giggling, hairless little boy who would satisfy his every desire, a boy who squeaked and snickered when his immature little penis was adored. He knew that he would never have one, never truly love one, or have a boy love him. Such was life, and C.R. was resigned to spending much, if not all, of his life, yearning, but never knowing the fulfillment of pleasure he craved.

Everything changed when C.R. moved to Toronto and entered the University of Toronto. As a graduate student he had been encouraged not to live in one of the dormitories. They were loud, rambunctious places, filled with horny freshmen and sophomores who paid more attention to partying, kegs of beer and willing co-eds. A dormitory was not considered conducive to good study practice, especially for a young man embarking on a career in law.

C.R. had listened to his faculty advisor and taken heed of the man's advice. He went to the Student Housing office and asked for their assistance in finding a place to live, a flat, a room, a tent on the Common, it did not matter so long as the place was cheap. The Housing Office clerk had just the thing.

C.R. walked west on Ulster to Lippincott, turned north and six houses up found what he was looking for. The building, which the Housing clerk said was "Pre-War", stood three stories tall; a scabrous yellow brick building that sagged slightly from age. As he eyed the peeling paint and cracked windows, C.R. wondered just what war the building was "pre" to. He suspected the Crimean but doubted that he would ever know.

The building held six apartments, all of them large with three bedrooms, two on each floor. In the basement there were two small, one bedroom flats, with one, the one C.R. was interested in, furnished. The basement also housed the laundry room, really just one ancient washer and an equally elderly dryer, the furnace room, housing a more or less up to date oil-fired furnace, storage lockers for the tenants, and a large room filled with oak casks holding the wine that every tenant made each year and drank in quantity.

As he stood outside the apartment building, wondering if he should actually enter the place, the glass fronted door opened and a skinny, scantily clad little boy exited and sat down on the scrubbed concrete top step and eyed C.R. warily. C.R. eyed the boy back and a spark crackled. Emmanuale Dacosta was about to enter C.R.'s life.

The building housed six families, all large, with at least ten children, or so it seemed to C.R., under the age of ten! The people were Portuguese, immigrants, illegal and legal, and while each family was different, each was the same, having the lusty, brawling, thirst for life that only Latins seemed to possess. The building throbbed and pulsed with laughter, screaming fights, music, the low moans of passion, the laughter of children and the shouts of joy that each family had brought with them from their native Portugal. The apartments were built around a central stairwell, and from under the doors seeped strange odours, the almost overpowering scents of spice and cabbage and people, and fish, always fish, for the Portuguese were devoted to the fruits of the sea.

C.R., whether he wanted to be or not, was drawn into the maelstrom of life that swirled through the building and indeed, the entire neighbourhood, which was the home to a new wave of immigrants, Portuguese for the most part, a few itinerant Italians, and the last remnants of what had once been a large, Jewish community.

The apartment that C.R. rented was sparsely furnished, but there was a bed with a not too lumpy mattress, a table strong enough to hold the small mountain of law books he pored over every night, a kitchen of sorts, with a gas cooker that worked sporadically and, what he prized above all, a bathroom, with an ancient tub and a modern shower connection. C.R. was not modest, but he enjoyed his privacy, especially in the bath, because it was here, every morning and every night before he retired, he masturbated, which was difficult in the common showers of a dormitory.

At first C.R. avoided being drawn into the doings, the life of the building. He had a heavy work load, and the study of law was onerous, and mind wearying. Yet he could not help himself. A night never passed that he was not invited to have supper with the Dacostas on the third floor, or the Desousas on the first. Senhor da Gama, the elderly man who mismanaged the building as superintendent, was always pressing bottles of new wine on C.R., and the Jacques, who had a young, unmarried daughter, invariably invited him to join them in the feast they had every Sunday, after church.

Despite himself, C.R. began to enjoy living in the building, adjusting to the foreign habits of the other tenants, and enjoying their hospitality. He learned their customs, and they learned his, and in a way the Portuguese took an inverse pride in having a student, a student of the law, living amongst them. C.R. learned the little differences that existed between the families, the little traditions that made life interesting. He also learned that Sunday was the only day he could sleep in, for Sunday was the only day when the building fell silent for a few hours.

During the week the men and older sons went off to work, construction work for the most part. The women stayed home and took care of the house, and the children, whom they ruled with an iron hand. The children scampered into the streets, to play or later, to go to school. The sons of the house were free urchins, the daughters, beyond the age of 13 or so, were sheltered ewe lambs whose virginity and reputation were jealously guarded - at least on the surface.

C.R.'s apartment windows looked out on a small, oblong patch of asphalt roadway that ran behind the back of the building, giving access to the parking garages which, since no one had a car, were filled with barrels of wine, crates of dried fish, and whatever flotsam and jetsam could not be stored in the apartments. It did not take him long to learn that the Dacosta's garage was used during the day by the boys as a hideout and smoke room, and at night by Maria, the eldest daughter, a striking, black haired beauty who never let Old World traditions stand in the way of New World freedom. Maria liked the boys, and the boys liked Maria. C.R. had little doubts about what Maria did in the garage with her latest boyfriend. He did notice that she reverted to her role of a daughter and maiden on Sunday when she joined the procession to church.

C.R. was a confirmed agnostic, so did not join the parade. Instead he watched, after listening to the shouts and screams as the boys of the families were threatened into dark suits, shined shoes and stiffly starched shirts. The older women would put on their best black silk dresses - if they were in mourning, which lasted their lifetimes for one or the other parent. The younger, married women would wear pastel frocks, as would their daughters. There was no décolletage, of course, just nice, flower patterned, maidenly dresses, with hats to match.

The men would put on wide-lapelled suits, with wider ties and, smelling of mothballs and the slight scorching left from the recent ironing, led their families along Ulster Street to Bathurst, where they would all board a streetcar for St. Mary's Church, where the priests spoke their language and they could mingle with friends and relatives from the old country, from their home villages.

C.R. looked forward to Sundays. It was not that he did not enjoy living in the crumbling old building. He did. What bothered him, what caused him to writhe sleeplessly at night, what drove him almost every day to a cold shower, were the boys, especially Emmanuale. And not only the boys who lived in the apartment building. The neighbourhood housed large families, all with young children, and far too many of them were boys!

At times the temptations were almost too much for C.R. to bear. This was particularly so when the sun rose high into summer sky and the thick humidity settled over the city. On days such as that the little boys seemed to deliberately tempt him, to make him break his personal vow never to touch, only to look.

When the days were so hot that even the bird sought shelter, the boys would appear, each one wearing the absolute minimum their mothers allowed them, especially Emmanuale.

If the boys wore shorts, Emmanuale's were shorter in the legs and revealed a tantalizing peek of white underpants - if he was wearing any, which was not often. If they were going swimming, which was almost an afternoon ritual, and wore brief bathing suits, Emmanuale's suit was briefer, and tighter.

If the boys passed C.R. in the street and waved and laughed, they usually passed on quickly, with more important boy things on their minds. Not so Emmanuale, who eyes always seemed to "linger" ever so slightly, his dark, brown eyes ever so gently coursing down C.R.'s trim young body and always just a small, smiling glance at his crotch.

Thoughts of the slim, olive-skinned, dark-haired Emmanuale filled C.R.'s thoughts. Dreams of his smooth, soft skin dominated his sleep. Where the other boys were all knobby knees, elbows and flashing white teeth, Emmanuale was . . . Emmanuale.

C.R. knew that Emmanuale wanted him. He could feel it, just as he could see it. Emmanuale might be ten years old, but he was mature beyond his years. How mature C.R. found out one evening in late September.

Having lived in the apartment building for a year, C.R. knew the habits of the other tenants. The Dacostas believed in hard work and in bettering their situation. They had no intention of spending their entire lives in this small, Portuguese enclave, as so many of their neighbours did. They wanted a car, and a house in the suburbs, with trees and grass, a place for a garden, and a fish pond, a lawn big enough to build a small shrine to the Virgin in. They wanted the suburban dream, and everyone who could, worked toward attaining that goal.

Papa Dacosta, Paolo, was a bricklayer of renown. He was much in demand and was never without work. The eldest son, Vasco, was an electrician. He worked many construction projects with his father and like him, was never without work. Maria, the eldest daughter, when she wasn't in school or, having managed to escape the clutches of her mother, pleasuring the latest in the string of boys she entertained in the garage out back, worked part time at Eaton's, as a shop assistant. Mama Dacosta, also named Maria, was an expert seamstress, and did piece work for the nuns, embroidering delicate altar cloths and robes for the priests.

With the adults away, working, the younger Dacostas more or less looked after themselves. Mama kept the house clean, cooked the meals, and more or less kept her brood out of trouble. There were some things, however, that needed attention, one of them being the mountains of laundry the family generated. Doing the laundry was delegated to the younger children, usually Alberto, who was 13, and Joaquin, who was nine. C.R. always knew when the laundry was being done because the boys always overloaded the machine, setting it to thumping and banging against the wall that separated C.R.'s apartment from the laundry room. On occasion, Emmanuale subbed for Alberto, who played soccer with a gang of friends at Christie Pits.

C.R., who was much too busy studying to pay attention to the comings and goings in the laundry room, ignored the noise and thumping.

On this particular day in September, C.R. rose early, took advantage of the empty laundry room and did his duds. He showered, for the morning was oppressively warm, and settled in to studying. He was now into his sophomore year in law school, and the curriculum was man killing.

As the windows of his apartment were shaded by the first level of the three-story porch that backed the building, and no one could see in, C.R. did not bother to dress after his shower. He pulled on a pair of cut-off blue jeans and sat at the small table he used as a desk. As he studied the sun rose higher in the sky and the city baked.

C.R.'s apartment in the basement, while moderately cooler than the apartments on the upper floors, grew hotter, and the heat more debilitating. He felt his eyelids drooping and thought, "To hell with it!" He closed his books and lay down on his bed, thinking that the Portuguese and Spanish had the right idea by taking a siesta during the hottest hours of the day.

As he drifted off to sleep, C.R. did not hear the faint squeak as the door leading to the outside opened. Nor did he see Emmanuale's dark-lashed eyes peek cautiously around the slightly open door. C.R. did not see the smile that formed on the lush sweet lips that dominated Emmanuale's girlish face.

At first, C.R. thought that he was having a wet dream. Waves of pleasure seemed to roll from his crotch to his brain. Involuntarily, he raised his hips as the wetness passed again across the turgid head of his penis. He groaned, wondering how a dream could be so vivid. Then his brain whispered: "It can't".

Opening his eyes, C.R. almost passed out from shock. Lying beside him on the bed was Emmanuale. The boy was lazily, and hungrily, slowly drawing down C.R.'s foreskin, licking the head of C.R.'s penis, and then releasing the sheath of skin.

"Holy fuck!" yelped C.R. He raised his head and saw that the zipper on his cut-offs had been drawn all the way down, the cloth spread apart, and his genitals lifted out. In a panic, C.R. tried to rise, but Emmanuale's hand pushed him back. The boy giggled and asked, "Feel's good, don't it?" He snickered and pulled at C.R.'s penis again.

"Emmanuale, stop it!" C.R. croaked, his throat still filled with sleep crud. "Are you trying to get me lynched?" He tried to sit up but again Emmanuale pushed him gently back.

"Nope, I'm tryin' ta get ya to blow a load!" returned Emmanuale with a grin. "Hey, I know how!" He quickly lowered his head.

Before C.R. could protest, or agree, he felt the warmth of the boy's mouth as it enveloped the top third or so of his erection. "Oh, God . . . ya gotta stop!" yipped C.R. "Emmanuale, sto . . ."

It was too late. C.R.'s hips rose and his strangled howls of pleasure filled the small room as he gave Emmanuale what he wanted.

Spent, his penis wilting rapidly, C.R. flopped back onto his bed. His harsh breathing was the only sound as Emmanuale theatrically pretended to swallow again and grinned as he said, "Tastes good! Not fishy at all!" Then he giggled.

C.R., his eyes wide with fright, rose quickly and grasped Emmanuale's arms. "Are you crazy?" he demanded harshly. He saw the fright in the boy's dark brown eyes and released his grip. As he slowly lay back down, C.R. asked, "Emmanuale, what did you do?" His voice was filled with despair as he added to himself, "What did I let him do!"

Unfazed, Emmanuale snuggled against C.R.'s hot, flushed body. "I sucked your dick," he said with a touch of bravado. He snickered. "I wanted to find out what it was like to do it with a man, and when I peeked in and saw you sleeping I figured, why not? So I did it."

"Emmanuale," began C.R. He turned and looked at Emmanuale. "The door wasn't locked?"

"Nope, and it never is," Emmanuale replied. "Nobody locks their doors here." C.R. knew that, of course. To lock one's doors inferred a lack of trust in his fellow tenants, a suspicion that they were thieves, and steal. Not that C.R. had anything of value to steal. His television set, maybe, but it was a black and white with a screen so small he practically needed a magnifying glass when he watched it. His typewriter? It was 20 years old if it was a day, and three of the keys kept sticking. He really had nothing worth anyone's while. Still, a closed door usually indicated a desire for privacy.

"You shouldn't have come in!" C.R. said.

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to be alone."

"Why?"

"Because I'm trying to study," C.R. snapped impatiently.

"Buuulll-shiiit!" returned Emmanuale.

"What?"

"Buuulll-shiiit!" repeated Emmanuale. "You were sleeping!"

"That's not the point!" C.R. glared at the boy. "You had no right to come in here, uninvited and . . ."

"Suck your dick?" asked Emmanuale with a deprecating wave of his small hand. "I wanted to do it; I wanted to see it, so I came in." He reached out and his fingers began to tweak the shrivelled tassel of skin covering the head of C.R.'s penis. "It's a nice dick." He eyed C.R.'s organ clinically. "You got skin."

"Emmanuale, don't . . ."

"I do too!" crowed Emmanuale. "Wanna see it?"

Before C.R. could respond, Emmanuale rolled off of the bed and pushed down his shorts. He wasn't wearing any underpants and his thick, stubby penis bounced slightly in the air. C.R. thought that it looked like a Vienna sausage. His pea-sized testicles were hugging his groin, and his crotch was completely without a hair.

Returning to the bed, Emmanuale snuggled against C.R., and he began to fondle the man's testicles. "A lot of guys don't have the skin," observed Emmanuale conversationally. "My friend Izzy - Isadore - he's Jewish, and he doesn't have any skin."

Wondering what he was getting himself in to, C.R. replied, almost idly, "Jewish boys don't because they're circumcised."

Just as idly, Emmanuale began manipulating C.R.'s foreskin. "But my friend, Robert, he doesn't have any skin, and he's a Catholic! I saw him at the pool, and his brother too. They don't have skin."

Wanting to end the conversation, and get Emmanuale out of his bed and room, C.R. gruffly responded, "Some guys have skin, some guys don't!" He roughly pushed the boy's hand away.

Emmanuale quickly replaced his hand on C.R.'s penis. "You like this, and you sure blew a load!" he said.

"Emmanuale! Stop it! Leave my dick alone!" commanded C.R. loudly.

"Why?"

"Because I said to!" snapped C.R. "Because you're a little boy and I'm a man! It's wrong!"

"Buuulll-shiiit!" Emmanuale saw the effect his hand was having and leaned down to lick the emerging glans of C.R.'s penis. "Your cock sure likes it!"

C.R., straining not to let out a moan of pleasure, secretly admitted that he did like it. He liked it very much, for Emmanuale was doing something C.R. had dreamed about almost every night.

"You have to stop!" C.R. croaked. "I can get into a lot of trouble!"

Emmanuale's hand never stopped its rhythmic stroking. He knew exactly what he was doing, and exactly what C.R. was going on about. "Only if I tell, and I won't," he said as he pulled C.R.'s foreskin down as far as it would go. He licked the head of C.R.'s dick and sniggered. "Besides, you sure like it!"

"Emmanuale, it's wrong!" protested C.R., not at all emphatically, because, as the boy had pointed out, he sure did like it!

"Only if I don't wanna and you make me!" Emmanuale giggled. "And I wanna. Your spew tastes a lot better than Vasco's!"

"You . . . suck your brother?" C.R. gasped in an unbelieving voice.

"Yup. His spew tastes like salt fish!" replied Emmanuale, unconcerned and unrepentant. "So does Paolo's."

"Paolo?"

"Paulo daSilva," supplied Emmanuale. "And he doesn't keep his dick too clean."

C.R. thought a moment. Paolo daSilva was one of the boys who lived in the building. He was 14. "Um, how many boys have you . . .?"

"I don't count 'em, I just suck 'em," said Emmanuale phlegmatically. "Paolo says I'm better than Maria, and she won't swallow. I do," he finished, a note of pride in his voice.

C.R. could feel his inhibitions and determination not to have anything to do with young boys, slipping away. A low, long, gasp of air escaped his lips as once again Emmanuale lowered his head. "Oh, fuuuccckkk!" he moaned.

And so it began. C.R.'s affair with Emmanuale was hot-blooded and intense. The boy had no inhibitions, and knew exactly what he wanted from C.R. It was not all sex, for C.R. came to love the boy. He would take Emmanuale to the Riverdale Zoo, to a ball game every now and then, and once to Centre Island with Alberto, Joaquin and two of the boys from Emmanuale's "gang", Izzy and Robert. The boys, who had been to the Island many times before, led C.R. to a deserted stretch of beach and then, much to C.R.'s embarrassment, stripped off and swam naked. While watching four boys gambolling and frolicking sent C.R. into a paroxysm of heavenly bliss, he worried the whole time about their nakedness. He doubted that the Toronto Parks and Recreation people would approve of naked little boys on their beaches!

In the winter there was ice skating on the rink in the local park, shinny on the street in front of the building, and swimming at Central Tech, the local high school. Here Emmanuale, who was fully aware of his nascent beauty and the attraction he had for other boys, paraded around in a skimpy bathing suit. From time to time he would disappear with a boy into the depths of the school and emerge, eventually, licking his lips, and usually trailed by the boy, flush-faced and grinning stupidly from his first ever blow job.

At first, C.R. was angrily jealous. Emmanuale was his boy, plain and simple. He raged at the boy once - and only once, because Emmanuale had made it plain that he was nobody's boy. C.R. realized that Emmanuale had catholic, if eclectic, tastes. If the boy saw another boy, and wanted him, well, game over. There were also, as Emmanuale pointed out, benefits to their relationship.

The benefits took the form of other boys. Emmanuale was the ringleader of a gang of street boys, all of them curious, and all of them anxious not to displease their leader. Before he knew it, C.R. was entertaining first Izzy, then Robert, then Robert's brother, a sullen, stocky, square-jawed boy who would never do anything but let C.R. suck him off. Emmanuale's brothers also came calling.

Of the two, C.R. preferred Joaquin, who was still a boy, not yet approaching puberty and capable of at least three dry orgasm an hour! Alberto, well into puberty, and hung like a pony, usually came sneaking into C.R.'s apartment when Emmanuale wasn't around. Why he thought he needed to keep his sexual antics secret from his brothers C.R. didn't know. Alberto, who produced semen in gallon lots, would present his erect penis, grunt and moan, yip loudly, ejaculate, and then leave. He never spoke, and was as sullen and silent as Robert's brother.

Then there was the best, ultimate accolade. One night, shortly after Christmas, Emmanuale appeared and laid a small tube of Vaseline on C.R.'s desk. It was time, he announced, that he lost his cherry. C.R., who had been trying to get his mind around a particularly obscure point of law, nodded, closed the book he'd been reading, and picked up the tube of lubricant.

Emmanuale swore that well yes, he did have many friends, and played with all of them, only C.R. fucked him. C.R. had no reason to doubt the boy, but there was always a tinge of jealousy when Emmanuale brought home someone new. And there were always new boys to play with.

The months flew past and the seasons changed, and Emmanuale's coterie changed with them. Alberto found a girl, and no longer trudged down the stairs to the basement. Robert, who was as cute as Emmanuale, caught the eye of the local undertaker, and thereafter spent most of his free time waxing the funeral coach, and Izzy moved away.

There were other changes, of course. In the middle of his junior year two things happened. C.R. met T. Walter Addiscombe, and the Dacostas threw a monster street party, filling the road with tables piled high with food, and rolling out barrel after barrel of potent home made wine. Papa Dacosta, after years of hard work, had finally attained his goal. The family was moving to a new house in one of the subdivisions that were springing up all over the north of the city.

Emmanuale wept bitter tears, but there was nothing he could do about it. The family was moving to Markham, and so was he. He promised, though, as the moving van lumbered down Lippincott Street, that he would never forget C.R. Cynically, C.R. doubted the crocodile tears. Emmanuale would find another man, just as he had found C.R.

In a way, C.R. was pleased the way things had turned out. He enjoyed being with Emmanuale, and the other boys, but he found that once they began ejaculating, something left their relationship. He did not mind the boys messing up the sheets, but for some reason when the first drops of watery semen emerged, the "umph", the danger, the thrill passed. C.R. realized that he liked sex with boys, but little boys, willing little boys who liked to be cuddled, and played with. He had endured the sullen, resentful sex with Alberto, and Robert's brother, simply because having sex with them pleased Emmanuale. C.R. much preferred the sight and sound of a happy little boy, sighing as the bliss of their coupling ebbed away.

That was all in the past, now. C.R. McLennden was now a man approaching his 40th birthday. He had, with the help of T. Walter, become a feared, yet respected, trial lawyer. His knowledge and ability had brought him many things: money, powerful friends, a fearsome reputation and the house he now lived in: a large, Tudor mansion, set in an acre of greenery, on what was called Oakville's "Gold Coast". Behind the house the lawns gave wave to a sandy beach, where C.R. could entertain, or take his friends fishing on Lake Ontario.

The law had given C.R. everything, and in a way the law had given him what he craved: boys.

One morning in the late fall of 1968, T. Walter had slithered into C.R.'s wood-paneled office handed him a brief. The firm had a new client and in T. Walter's opinion only C.R. could help the man. At first, C.R. wanted no part of the case. The man was a homosexual paedophile, albeit a rich homosexual paedophile. The police suspected that the man had been molesting boys for years, but could not prove it, because no one was talking, not with the press slavering to expose all the sordid details for the great unwashed public, or the embarrassment that such revelations would bring to the family. What the police could prove was that the man had been partial to cruising the Sunnyside pool, and luring boys into his private dressing room. The police had a complainant, they had the statements of the boy and of his two friends who alleged that the man had tried to get them into his dressing room. So far as the police were concerned it was an open and shut case.

T. Walter Addiscombe thought otherwise. He saw C.R.'s reluctance and pointed out that not only would the fees be astronomical, the partners were mulling over offering partnerships to certain young, bright lawyers. Nobody expected that the man would walk, but only C.R. had the expertise, the guile, and the lack of moral fibre to keep the man out of Kingston Pen.

T. Walter stroked C.R.'s legal ego, and dangled a partnership in front of him as bait. He also let slip that, as he was a bachelor, with no family to speak of, he would be leaving his money, and his house in Oakville, to a certain, upstanding young barrister. Take the brief, he urged, and the rewards would follow.

C.R. knew a con when he saw one, and only accepted the brief in the knowledge that T. Walter, while a scumbag, never went back on his word. C.R. made no promises. He would work his magic, but if the client went down, there would be no repercussions. T. Walter agreed and C.R. started down a new road.

One of the things C.R. demanded of his client was absolute truth. He knew how to depose a client, and he knew when a client was lying. He wanted to know everything, and warned his clients that if they did not tell him the truth, did not help him to avoid being blind-sided by some smartass Crown counsel with information that the client conveniently forgot to tell C.R. about, then C.R. would withdraw. Everything was protected by lawyer/client privilege, and C.R. would only use what he needed to defend his client.

C.R. loathed his new client. The man was completely amoral, and had no remorse at all for what he had done. His only regret was that he had so forgotten himself that he had lowered himself to cruising working class whelps at a public pool! During the course of the deposition he made, the man ruefully opined that he should have taken the advice of his friend, a banker. When C.R. asked just what the man meant, he replied that boys were available, willing boys, sweet, soft-bodied boys, simply by picking up the telephone!

The client was many things, but he was not stupid, and he saw the strange look that came over C.R.'s face, saw the hungry gleam in C.R.'s eyes, and smiled. Did C.R. not know, the client asked, that there were boys out there, boys available? For a price, but then that went without saying. The client waxed lyrical in his descriptions of the boys available and hinted that if the trial went his way, he would be more than happy to supply C.R. with the telephone number.

C.R., who had been around the court house a few times, had heard rumours, hints, that everything was available for the right price. A persistent rumour about a certain High Court judge held that the man enjoyed the comfort and company of young boys. There were certain sniggering comments when certain names were mentioned. C.R. listened, but did not act.

Later that day, after returning from dinner with T. Walter, C.R. lay in his bed, visions of Emmanuale, of Joaquin, of Izzy and Robert filling his sleepless brain. Since leaving Lippincott Street he had not had a boy. God, he missed their giggling, their satisfied sighs of pleasure, and their warm, smooth bodies! Sex with T. Walter was a poor substitute! After a sleepless night C.R. crawled from his bed, his mind made up.

Using all his guile, all his knowledge, and the contents of a little black book in which he recorded the peccadilloes, alleged or otherwise of his colleagues in the Crown Prosecutor's office, the police department, and legal points in between, C.R. went to work. It cost his client a packet, but C.R.'s conscience bothered him not at all. It was the client's money, not his.

First, C.R. managed a total news blackout. The press, no matter how loudly they screamed, no matter how forcefully they threatened, could not publish, broadcast, or in any way disseminate a word about the case. No one was surprised when the trial judge's wife departed for an extended tour of Europe, to buy furnishings for the new "cottage" that she and the judge were building in the Cawarthas.

Next, after learning who the Crown would be, C.R. engaged the services of the firm of Richmond & Eccles, Private Investigations. Both Richmond and Eccles were ex-cops, who had worked the Vice Squad for years before retiring. They knew every dark nook and cranny in the city, and they knew who lurked in those nooks and crannies. C.R. was therefore able, the day before his client's preliminary hearing was to be held, to inform the Crown Prosecutor that certain gambling debts, owed to certain short-tempered and impatient Italian gentlemen could be made to disappear, if an acceptable plea bargain could be negotiated.

The Crown, who was a compulsive gambler, and in debt to the loan sharks and bookies up to his eyeballs, listened and opined that perhaps, just perhaps, something could be done, once his credit was restored.

C.R. called his client, who called his banker friend, who met with the bookie and the next day the client pled guilty to "Inappropriate Solicitation of a Minor" and was sentenced to three months in jail, suspended, and suitable restitution made to the "minor's" family for the pain and suffering they had endured by the client's actions. C.R. negotiated a settlement, the client smiled smugly, and everybody walked away from the courthouse satisfied, if not entirely happy.

The client, true to his word, passed the telephone number of his banker, Percy Simpson, across the table to C.R., winked, and walked out of C.R.'s life.

C.R. made the telephone call and, once his credit had been established, he was summoned to a meeting in the Men's Beverage Room of the Gladstone Hotel. Here, surrounded by drunks, hookers and assorted lowlifes, C.R. met a German man, who promised to supply C.R. with exactly the kind of boy C.R. wanted. The German insisted that he could, and would, fulfil all of C.R.'s dreams. The boys would be sweet, compliant little lads, and make no trouble.

The German, whose name was Stennes, assured C.R. that there would be no trouble. The boys were all clean, and well "broken in". At that, Stennes smirked, and advised that if C.R. wanted a virgin boy, pure and guaranteed untouched, it could be arranged, with a slight adjustment of procurement fees, of course, and there would be a delay while just the right boy was selected.

As Stennes talked, his voice just audible over the din of the beverage room, C.R. became irked. The man, whom C.R. disliked almost from the beginning, spoke as if he were dealing in a commodity, canned fish or baked beans! Stennes was a cold, uncaring pimp who looked only at the profit margin. But then, C.R. had to think, he was doing the same thing, only he did his dirty work legally.

Stennes promised that none of the boys would be "home grown", as he put it. Snatching a sweet young boy off of an American or Canadian street, or buying one from desperate parents, simply was not done. Stennes winked broadly at C.R. as he reminded him of the recent "contretemps" when C.R. had defended a man who had tried to slip his hand down the front of the wrong bathing costume.

When C.R. asked where the boys would come from, Stennes had answered enigmatically. "Europe. They have a different attitude towards unwanted boys over there."

C.R. left it at that. He was not about to blindly trust Stennes. He would make enquiries and then he would decide. The cost was high, he pointed out to the German, and he would have to consider if the expenditure was worth the final product.

Stennes claimed to understand. After all, 50,000 Canadian dollars was a large sum of money, in any language. Stennes, no fool, knew exactly what C.R. was going to do. He was going to try to find out everything he could about Stennes, and his operation. Stennes smiled inwardly. C.R. would find nothing. He immediately acquiesced to C.R.'s request for 48 hours to "think things over". He acquiesced because he had seen the look in the eyes of the man sitting across the table from him, the look that told Stennes that soon he would have a new customer.

C.R. looked, but found nothing. He researched the Law Review, and visited the firm's morgue, looking for anything that would give him a hint that someone was on to Stennes' blackly illegal business. He read about case after case of child molestation, but 90% of them involved little girls, not little boys. There were cases of child abduction, but they seemed to be domestic affairs, usually a mother snatching the kid to keep him, or her, from father, and hiding out somewhere.

Nowhere in the legal records, or in the newspaper files, was there a hint that an organization existed trading in young boys. Nowhere was Stennes' name mentioned. He found no record of any law enforcement agency investigating the possible importation of boys for immoral purposes. It was as if Stennes emerged from a dark, black hole, a little boy in hand, and then disappeared back into the hole.

The closest C.R. came to finding out about illegal foreign operations was a report that Percy Simpson, and a host of others, had been investigated after the war by a parliamentary committee, allegedly for trading with the enemy during wartime. C.R. noted that the investigation had been brought to an unexplained, and very abrupt halt just before Percy was to testify. As he read the report he nodded to himself: "The fix was in." Satisfied, C.R. had contacted Stennes. Within 24 hours a little boy, whom Stennes claimed was 11, and a German, was delivered to C.R.'s apartment.

For the most part, C.R. was satisfied. The boys were compliant, and did what he wanted, when he wanted. They were not Emmanuale, of course, but they made no complaint when he had sex with them and two, one a German, one a Pole, seemed to enjoy their sex games. C.R. was even more pleased when he moved into T. Walter's old house in Oakville. Here "his boy" could wander naked, in the house, or on the private beach. C.R. did so love to see a boy, unfettered by outmoded morality, naked, playing in the sand.

C.R. changed his boys as soon as the first signs of puberty, small little, wispy hairs on their crotches, the emission of watery semen when they ejaculated, appeared. Stennes, who had a very generous policy with regard to growing boys, always bought them back, at a discount, of course. He assured C.R. that there was as big a market for pubescent boys as there was for prepubescents.

When the time came to return his latest boy, Stennes suggested to C.R. that perhaps he would care to enjoy the raptures of a virgin, a boy untouched, and young enough to last at least three years. C.R., wary, had asked one question: "How much?"

The new boy had cost C.R. 100,000 dollars, and had proven to be everything Stennes had promised. The boy was a Russian, sweet faced, with rosy cheeks and soft, warm skin. C.R. had no doubt that the boy was as young as Stennes claimed him to be. His coltish legs, firm little butt, and barely descended testicles gave witness to his age. As did his little penis, uncircumcised, and was foreskin for more than half its length. C.R. thought it the cutest, most delicious little penis since he had bedded Joaquin, back in the days when he did not have to pay for what he needed.

The boy was everything Stennes claimed him to be and yet . . .

Vitaly, the boy, refused to co-operate. He squirmed and struggled when C.R. stripped him of his clothing, and rolled into a foetal ball, covering his small, immature genitals, trying to protect them from what he knew instinctively was to come. He struggled whenever C.R. touched him, and screamed loudly when C.R. stripped off his own clothing, revealing his turgid organ.

At first, C.R. tried to be gentle. Vitaly was a virgin, and obviously had never had a man, indeed had no idea what delights a man would bring to him. C.R. gently stroked the boy's warm, soft buttocks, speaking softly, although Vitaly could not understand a word he said. C.R. managed to force the boy onto his back and tried to fellate him. Vitaly would have none of it. His penis remained soft as he screamed and kicked his legs.

C.R., filled with lust, and excited even more by the boy's refusal to co-operate, angrily reached out and slapped Vitaly's face. "I paid a hundred grand for you, you little bastard!" growled as he reached out and pulled the boy toward his erection. "I'm going to get my money's worth one way or another!" With his free hand he reached down and pointed his erection toward Vitaly's lips. "Suck it, you little cunt! Suck it, and if you bite me I'll rip out all your teeth!"

Vitaly glared hatefully at C.R. and shook his head from side to side. He knew what the man wanted, and was determined never to give it to him. He kept his mouth firmly closed.

C.R.'s choler, and lust rose. He suddenly balled his fist and punched Vitaly on the side of his head, knocking him near senseless. C.R. then flipped the boy onto his stomach and straddled him. "Okay, you want it rough? You get it rough!" he snarled as he brutally pushed the unsheathed head of his penis into Vitaly. The boy screamed in pain and fright as the foreign object thrust deeper and deeper into him. C.R. began to pump his hips, too far gone to hear the boy's screams, snarling and grunting, "You want it rough, you get it rough!"

This was the old man's favourite part of the day. Work was over, the boys were home from school, and fed. He had supervised their homework, watched them play in the room he had built for them in the basement, and now it was bath time.

Outside the house, which was the largest of the row of townhouses that lined the north side of the street, Victoria Square was silent. But then, it always was. Very few people knew of the existence of the square, which was dominated by a war memorial dedicated to the soldiers killed during the American invasion of York, in the war of 1812. It had originally been laid out as the garrison cemetery for the garrison of Fort York, which was just down Bathurst Street.

The city claimed that all the bodies had been exhumed and reburied in the cemetery just to the west of the old fort, but few believed the city, especially given that arranged around the memorial were some of the now obscured tombstones of the soldiers and civilian dependents buried there. Why the square had been named for Victoria the man did not know. There was no monument of any kind depicting her figure, and in fact the memorial itself was topped by a bronze figure, a bust, of a man in uniform - an unknown soldier, so to speak.

The man was familiar with the history of the square, for he had been born in the townhouse he now lived in. The house, and the neighbourhood, was ideal for him, private, and very quiet, where everybody minded their own business and did not question that a man of middle years might have three "nephews", all more or less of an age, and all of them bearing little or no resemblance either to the man, or each other.

On the third floor of the house, at the back, where the boys' bedrooms were, was their bath, a large, tiled room. Here, every evening, he would bathe the boys before selecting one of them to join him in his bedroom, which was one floor down. He would gently scrub away the day's grime - not that there was any, for he had taught the boys to always be clean about their person.

Each boy would stand in the tub, first Stanislaus, then Petrus, then Albert. He would wash them carefully, paying particular attention to their genitals, slowly drawing back their foreskins and cleansing their purple acorns of any offensive matter. Being little boys they sometimes forgot to clean themselves after urinating, and then there was the natural accumulation of smegma.

The boys seemed to enjoy their nightly ritual. Two of them knew that the man would take their hard little penises in his mouth and suckle away until they wiggled and gasped in dry orgasm. One of them knew that he would be selected to share the man's bed for the evening. They were so accustomed to the ritual that they thought nothing of it.

For the boys, life was good. They had plenty of food to eat, warm, clean beds to sleep in, and a measure of freedom when they went to school. They were allowed to play in the old graveyard across the street, and swim in the pool in Alexandra Park. The man, whom they had been instructed to call "Vati Frank", was kind to them and only beat them when they deserved it. Vati Frank always remembered their birthdays, and their saint's day, and left a little present for them, a small gold trinket that each boy hid away in the secret hidey-hole that all boys seemed to find. Three times in the year Vati Frank would take them downtown to shop for clothing appropriate to the coming season. He made sure that the articles were fashionable, and something a boy actually would wear.

His generosity was unbounded at Christmas. The house had been decorated and a tree stood in the drawing room. Under the tree was a veritable Aladdin's Cave of presents, a cornucopia of toys and games, gold watches and chains, little things that made a boy very happy.

As for the bath time ritual, if Vati Frank them wanted to play with them, purring like a demented cat while he sponged them clean, so what? It was much better than the life they had left back in Germany. Besides, for two of the boys, the sex was nice.

Of the three boys, only Petrus had cause to dread the bath ritual. He was the oldest of the three boys, and knew that certain biological changes were happening to his body, changes that would mean only one thing, and Petrus was terrified at the thought of it.

Petrus had been born in East Germany, on a farm outside of some nameless hamlet close to the Polish border. He had few memories of the farm, although he did recall that his grandfather, a bitter, foul mouthed old man, kept pigs. Petrus had a vague memory of his mother, a pale-skinned, haggard looking woman. Petrus had no memories of a father, for he never knew just who had sired him. The neighbours, sharp tongued harridans, whispered whenever he and his mother passed them on the sole, muddy street of the village. They knew what Petrus suspected, that his father had been a Russian, or a Pole. His skin, his height, his hair betrayed him.

Petrus was short, somewhat squat, with black, curly hair and a firm jaw. His skin was swarthy, and his eyes were brown. Everybody else in the village was blond, with blue eyes, even his mother, who was pretty when she took the time to fix her hair and wash. Petrus knew that the border between East Germany and Poland was porous, if one were a Russian soldier looking for a good time, or a Pole with something to trade. His father had to be one or the other, for there were very few men in the village. The young men were off with the Army, conscripts who would return confirmed, committed Communists after years of political indoctrination. The older men were all married, and too worn out from trying to coax a living from the worn out soil.

Petrus's grandfather hated them all. They were all peasants, the last remnants of the population of East Prussia that had been expelled by the Russians. They whined and complained, took the State's monthly handouts and loafed away their lives. They were not true Prussians anymore. They were East Germans, slugs, slaves to the masters in Berlin.

Most of all, Petrus's grandfather hated Petrus. The other villagers might be useless, wastes of space, but Petrus was something that reminded the old man of the horrible day when the Russians had come, killing, and raping. Ten of them had taken his wife into the barn. She had not returned and when the Russians left they set fire to everything, destroying the evidence of their rape.

Petrus knew of his grandfather's hatred. He could hardly help it. The old man never called him by name, always referring to him as a little Russian bastard. Grandfather's bile was not limited to his grandson. He hated his daughter, who was a whore who lay down with Russians, with nothing to show for it, not a mark, not a ruble, only a bastard brat that proclaimed his shame to all who bothered to look.

When Petrus was eight, or so he thought, because his Mutti had made a cake and decorated it with eight half-melted candles, his mother had left the village, finally tired of the slurs and whispering. She told no one, not her father, not her son.

Grandfather was not about to support some Russian's bastard. He fed the whelp, because he did not want the authorities to ask embarrassing questions, or the neighbours to cackle like hens. He did not want the responsibility of the boy, and frankly welcomed the arrival of a stranger, who claimed to be looking for relatives, cousins or some such, who had fled Prussia in 1945 and had never been heard from again.

Grandfather could have told the man what had happened to his relatives. He had seen an army of bodies, men, women, children, when he trekked from his old estate to this pig farm. He said nothing, for one's business was one's business.

They man stayed only a week and somehow decided to take a liking to Petrus. A pig farm was no place for such a bright, handsome little boy, the man told Grandfather. The old man snorted his disgust. He knew, or at least he thought he knew, just what the stranger wanted Petrus for. He told the stranger that while what he said was true, Petrus would be an asset when he grew a little older. He could help with the farm; help bring in a little money.

The stranger nodded his understanding. The old man was alone, and had a right to expect his grandson to support him when he reached old age. Such things were expected. However, Petrus deserved better things, and perhaps if Grandfather might consider a small offer . . .

The old man sold Petrus to the stranger, who was named Stennes, for 1,000 marks. He knew that the boy would be used sexually, but then what did it matter? Petrus was the child of a whore, and deserved no better.

Petrus had been taken to Berlin, where he was "trained" by a young man in the arts of pleasing a man. He was bathed and cosseted, given new clothes and, while he did not enjoy his "lessons", did not enjoy the enforced sex, he pretended to, for he feared the alternatives. He had been warned, over and over, to never complain, to always do what the "master" wanted, to say nothing. He was also warned that if he tried to run away he would be hunted down. Herr Stennes knew what to do with little boys who ran away. Petrus trembled every time he thought of the odious German.

For six months or so, Petrus had remained in Berlin, the favourite boy of visiting men who came to the house from time to time. He suspected that they were highly placed Party officials, "Golden Pheasants" as they were called. Who else could afford the fees, payable in hard currency, and not the worthless East German Marks everybody else had to put up with?

Then, his education complete, Petrus was sold. He had had no part in the negotiations and therefore never knew how much he had brought. All he knew was that he was taken from the house in Berlin, smuggled across the borders of East and West Germany, driven in a large, darkened motorcar, to the Belgian frontier, where papers were waiting for him and his escort, Stennes.

Petrus spent a year in a crumbling, moulding old castle on the coast between Oostende and De Haan. His Belgian master confined Petrus to two small rooms high in the castle's tower. His meals were left in the salon while he remained in his bedroom. He was not allowed to see, or speak to any of the servants. He was given warm clothing, for the castle was cold and drafty. He was given toys to play with, and books to read, things to keep him occupied until the master came. Then Petrus would slip off his clothes and do, as instructed, what the master told him to do.

Then one night Stennes appeared. He told Petrus to dress, to bring nothing, and together they left the castle. Why or how he might have displeased the master Petrus did not know. He was just past ten years old and while he could read, a little, he had been provided with nothing that would reveal the true identity of the master. Stennes knew, of course, but he was not about to reveal his secrets, or the secrets of his clients to a little whore of a boy.

After a short stay in a safe house in Antwerp, Petrus was put on board a steamship, bound for Halifax, locked in a small cabin, and sent to a new master, who turned out to be Vati Frank.

Petrus found himself enjoying his new life in Canada. Life with Vati Frank was pleasant, and with Stanislaus and Albert in the house, Petrus did not have to service the old man too often. Vati Frank was kind, sent them to school, let them play outside, and in many ways was a father to the boys. He realized, even at his young age, that it was a life he could never have known back in the Old Country, a life he now feared would be snatched away from him.

During the course of his education as a sex slave, Petrus had learned that boy lovers were very particular in their tastes, and most of them would not touch a boy once little black hairs appeared on his pubic mound, or fluid seeped from the head of his exposed penis when it was hard, which was exactly what was happening to Petrus.

Petrus tried to forestall the inevitable. He did not know just what kind of man Vati Frank was, but he wasn't going to take any chances. He checked his groin every morning for errant hairs, and when he found one, he plucked it. He made certain that neither of his "brothers" knew what he was doing. He did not want to leave the house and prayed that Vati Frank would not mind the changes that were inexorably coming.

Vati Frank, who did not work, and enjoyed a very comfortable income from the estate left to him by his father, had been using Stennes' services almost from the moment his father's coffin was deposited in the family mausoleum, and the double bronze doors closed. As an aficionado of young boys, Vati Frank knew the signs of change, the signs that told him that a boy was about to enter young manhood, the signs that Petrus was so desperately trying to hide.

Tonight, as Petrus stood in the tub, Vati Frank carefully sponged his growing young body. He noticed that Petrus's penis had grown, not much, but enough so that now his foreskin only covered half of the purple head when Petrus was aroused. The sheath of skin was also looser, and seemed thinner. Vati Frank also noticed a certain redness to the boy's pubic mound and he rubbed his hand across it, feeling the nascent stubble that gave promise of hair.

Putting aside the sponge, Vati Frank began to slowly masturbate Petrus. His suspicions were confirmed when a small, clear drop of fluid appeared over the slit in the curving, round glans.

Petrus, seeing the frown on Vati Frank's face, begged tearfully, "Please, Vati, don't send me away. Please Vati, I'm a good boy. Please Vati, please!"

Vati Frank feigned kindness. "Of course, not, sweet boy," he purred, lying as he assured the boy that he would not be sent away. Later, after their bath, Vati Frank took Albert to his bed. As he stroked and kissed the boy he made up his mind about Petrus. In the morning he would contact Stennes. Petrus was not quite "ripe", but close enough, and there was time enough to find the boy a new home, and Vati Frank a replacement. Stennes was very efficient, and Vati Frank knew that he would not be displeased.

In the house in Buttery Street, a clock somewhere within the house chimed the hour. Jergen, who had not slept, shivered slightly. It was 2:30 in the morning, and though he did not know it, the thoughts racing through Jergen's mind mirrored those of another boy, in another house, a crumbling yellow brick townhouse across from the ancient graveyard that was Victoria Square.

As he lay on his bed, with Zander cradled in his arms, Jergen wondered how long it would be for Uncle Bob sent him away. Jergen knew that it was only a matter of time before the hated German, Stennes, appeared and muttered, "Komme!"

Jergen had been expecting the call for weeks. He knew that he was well past the time when he would please a man who was only interested in prepubescent little boys. Jergen's tiny copse of pubic hair was now a black forest. His testicles, once hugging his groin for warmth and protection, now hung down pendulously. His penis had seemed to have undergone some sort of a growth spurt as well, the long tassel of skin that had once drooped from the end was now gone. Now the head of his penis was half revealed when it was soft and totally exposed when he was hard. As for squirting, well Jergen squirted now, the thin, watery fluid of his first ejaculation replaced by thick, cream-coloured, semen.

Beside him, Zander whimpered and stirred in his sleep. Jergen could feel the little boy's warm, soft breath against his chest. Poor Zander, poor little Zander.

Jergen was not worried too much about himself. He was older now, and knew what lay ahead. He hoped that whatever new master Stennes found for him, the man would be kinder than Uncle Bob. Anyone would have been kinder than Uncle Bob!

But what of Zander? With Jergen gone, who would help the little boy, who would cuddle him and hold him after Uncle Bob had finished with him?

"Oh, Zander," whispered Jergen into the darkness of his bedroom. "Who will look after you, my little man, who will take care of you?"