Boys of Aurora

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons alive or dead is coincidental. The venue is fictional and any resemblance to actual bases, locations, is coincidental.

This story takes place in 1976 Canada and reflects the mores, traditions, customs, etc., of the times. I urge all of those who read this story to remember that what is "politically correct" today, was not thought of back then. If you are Lib-Left, politically correct and have jumped on the bandwagons of whatever causes are the fads of the month, please do not continue past this point. This also applies the so-called "Religious" Right and "Moral" Majority. I respectfully remind you that the "Good Book" also contains proscriptions, restrictions, do's and don'ts that I don't see or hear any of you thumping bibles about. Write me, I'll be glad to give you some excellent web sites. To all the anti-this and anti-that, Bible Thumpers, Libertarians and the ACLU, the bankrupt and increasingly irrelevant United Nations, please do not send me e-mails espousing whatever cause you're touting. I have no time for claptrap.

As this work contains scenes of explicit sexual acts of a homosexual nature, if such erotica offends you, please move on to a tamer site. If your mainstay in life is Bible-thumping cant, please move on. If you are not of legal age to read, possess or download writings of an erotic nature, or if possession, reading, etc., is illegal where you live, please move on.

This story is written in an age without worry, and as such unprotected sex is practiced exclusively. I urge all of you to NEVER engage in sexual acts without proper protection. The life you save will be your own.

I will respond to all e-mails (except flames). Please contact me at my e-mail address: paradegi@rogers.com

The Boys Of Aurora: Chapter 12

The Twins stared at the ski mask, open-mouthed, their eyes as wide as saucers. They looked at each other and then in unison shook their heads quickly from side to side as if to clear their minds. "You are going to what?" asked Todd, his voice full of disbelief.

"I am going to go into the Petty Officers Mess tomorrow night. I am going to pop Little Big Man's puppy," replied The Phantom, his voice bland, his manner calm. It was as if he had just announced that he was going down to the corner shop to pick up a pack of cigarettes.

"Are you out of your fucking MIND?" yelled Cory. He jumped up and grabbed The Phantom by the shoulders. "You are not going to do any such thing! You are NOT!" The Phantom gently pushed Cory away. "Did I ever tell you that your eyes take on a wonderful gleam when you get angry?" asked The Phantom, making light of the situation. He was just as determined to carry out his plan, as the Twins were equally determined to stop him.

Cory shook his fist at The Phantom. "You leave my fucking gleams out of this!" he yelled. "You are NOT going to do any such thing! Of all the harebrained, idiotic notions to come down the pike this takes the cake. You will not go anywhere near Paul Greene, not tomorrow night, not any night! Do you hear me, Phantom?"

"I hear you, and I am still doing it."

Cory growled and a dangerous look came into his eyes. Before he could lunge Todd reached out, grabbed the back of Cory's trunks and pulled him down onto the bed. "Cory, shut up, now!" he ordered sharply. Cory gave his brother a devastating look. But he remained sitting down. Todd regarded The Phantom, took a deep breath, and then spoke. "Cory is quite right," he said quietly. "Yours is an idiotic idea. Have you really thought about what could happen if Little Big Man screams rape?" He put his arm around Cory's shoulder. "Have you considered the repercussions, the effect such a foolish action would have on your friends, on your family?"

The Phantom regarded Todd with affection, and respect. Dear sweet level headed Todd. He was not unaware that his seducing, or attempting to seduce Little Big Man could backfire. Still, he was convinced that it was the only way. "I have, yes, Todd," The Phantom replied, his voice clear and quiet. "I have also considered that if Paul responds the way we all know he will respond, we will be able to use it against him."

"And just what in the fuck is that supposed to mean?" demanded Cory harshly. "Where the fuck did you come up with that idea?"

The Phantom smiled inwardly. There was no point in reminding Cory that it was he who had broached the idea that Paul Greene was really a closet homosexual. "The where is not important, the why is." The Phantom pulled out the chair from behind his desk, sat in it and looked evenly at the Twins. "Whether you believe it or not, we are in a war with no rules. Little Big Man has written four letters that we know about . . ."

"Three, four or forty! Does it matter? They are all bullshit!" interrupted Cory. Todd gave him a slight squeeze, a silent order to remain calm.

"Yes, they are," agreed The Phantom. He continued. "Little Big Man has written four letters. In those letters he has made accusations that will, if they become public knowledge, destroy many people, including the both of you."

"Two, now three, of those letters have never been sent," replied Todd. "The first was deep-sixed by Special Branch."

"Quite true," said The Phantom, nodding his head. "But the fact remains that Little Big Man will, when he gets home, relate everything he thinks he knows to his father, and to whatever power is controlling them. We can stop the lies here. We cannot stop the lies he'll tell when he gets home."

"My father . . ." began Cory.

The Phantom held up his hand. "Your father knows only that Matt has been abused and nothing more. He does not know about the accusations."

"The Gunner, then. You heard him talking to Corporal Britnell. His friends are taking care of things," replied Todd with a confidence he did not really feel.

"Up to a point, yes. But, Todd, even his friends can't be everywhere at once and have either of you considered that if Paul Greene's father goes outside the military, or goes to this secret Nazi leader we all know he has, have you considered what could happen then?"

"There could be a scandal?" muttered Cory.

Todd looked at his brother and shook his head. "So what? We all know that everything Little Big Man has written can be disproved."

"Of course it can, and it will be," said The Phantom. "But what nobody seems to have thought about is what will happen if there is a scandal, and sure as hell no one has considered what is happening now!" The Phantom rolled the ski mask over and over in his hands. "You, Todd, and you, Cory, are leaving the Sea Cadets. You are throwing away your past and your future with the Cadets because you are afraid what effect a scandal will have on your parents."

Todd glared at Cory, who shrugged.

The Phantom continued on. "While leaving the Cadets might get you out of the line of fire we must also consider that Val and Tyler have been accused of molesting the Sea Puppies. Val is leaving the Cadets because he's too old to stay in. Then there is Tyler. What happens to him, Cory? He goes to Royal Roads in September. Can you imagine what would happen if suddenly he is accused of being a child molester?"

"Damn it, Phantom that is not true," snapped Cory. "Tyler has never touched anybody."

"Cory, it doesn't matter. The mere accusation will put Tyler's whole career in danger. I know, and you know, that in the end he will be found innocent. But no matter! Remember how SIU work. As far as they are concerned there is no such thing as innocent until proven guilty. You are guilty until you prove your innocence. As far as the goons are concerned as soon as they get a report about a guy being gay, he is gay. Case closed." The Phantom stood up and began to pace. "So far just the threat of discovery has turned Greg into a basket case. Hell, you live with him, haven't you noticed?" He stared directly at the Twins. "You do know that he's drinking?"

The Twins looked at each other and then shook their heads. They had NOT known.

"Well he is, big time." The Phantom returned to his chair. "There is also Harry to consider."

Todd groaned quietly. As much as they hated to admit it, Harry's relationship with Stefan had not been innocent and no matter how they coloured it Harry had made love to a minor boy.

Seeing the look on their faces The Phantom nodded grimly. "Harry lives in one of the most conservative provinces in the country. He can play the martyr, take all the blame and, if he has to, serve the time. What Harry just might not realize is that the red necks of Manitoba will never allow him to forget what he did, and they will never give him a moment's peace if he goes home after serving time."

"Oh, come on, Phantom, that is bullshit," scoffed Cory. "In the first place nobody really knows what went on between Harry and Stefan. In the second place . . ."

"There is no second place, Cory," said Todd abruptly. He had seen the steely look in The Phantom's eyes. He leaned forward and took The Phantom's hand in his. "Phantom, I hear concern for me and this miscreant beside me. I hear concern for Val, and Tyler, for Harry and Greg. Strangely, I do not hear concern for a guy named Philip Lascelles."

The Phantom thought a moment before answering. "Todd, what I plan on doing is no spur of the moment thing. I have thought about what could happen if I am wrong. I have also thought about what will happen if I am right. I am not being pretentious or smug when I say that I am convinced that Little Big Man will respond if I crawl into his bed. When he does, we will have him."

"We?" asked Cory, his eyes wide, hoping that The Phantom was just being rhetorical. "How do we figure in this?"

The Phantom looked evenly at each Twin in turn. "I need you two. I need you first to be my lookouts, and secondly, I need you to help me blackmail Little Big Man."

Todd all but fell off the bed. "Blackmail? Jesus, man, what makes you think that Little Big Man can be blackmailed?"

"I've seen what happens when a secret gay takes up with the wrong person."

"You have?" Todd looked at Cory in puzzlement. Cory looked back. Like his brother, he knew of no such situation in AURORA.

Seeing the look of confusion on their faces The Phantom told the Twins about Jeff and Robbie.

"There is no guarantee that Paul will succumb to blackmail," observed Todd when The Phantom finished speaking. "Just because your friend let's his brother . . .".

"There is no guarantee that he won't, either," returned The Phantom.

"Still, you are taking a hell of a risk." Cory thought a moment. Maybe they could not talk some sense into Phantom, but . . . "Have you considered what The Gunner will say, or do, if . . ." he asked slyly.

The Phantom impatiently brushed aside Cory's remark. The Gunner would never know about it, if his plans worked out, as he was convinced they would. "That will be between him and me," he said firmly. "Just as you helping me will be between us."

The firmness in The Phantom's voice told both boys that he was not going to be talked out of what he planned on doing. Without The Phantom knowing, what some people called "The Twin Thing" kicked in and a message flashed between the brothers. Although not identical, The Twins seemed to be able to read each other's mind. They often annoyed people by starting a conversation and, through some mental magic, automatically finishing each other's sentence. The Gunner forbade them to do it in his presence and Harry threatened mayhem if they did it to him. In the event, the message had been passed. They would argue no more.

"What do you want us to do?" Todd asked quietly.

The Vancouver Four Seasons Hotel was reputed to be the finest hotel on the West Coast of North America and The Gunner, as he stepped through the doors of the Park Ballroom Foyer believed every word of the hotel's brochures.

On the walls of the room hung neo-classical paintings and the furniture, which had been arranged along the walls, was warm and inviting. On the marble topped pier tables arranged at regular intervals around the room rested exquisite flower arrangements. Down the centre of the room was a buffet table covered in silver dishes and manned by two chefs, each wearing a tall white hat and dressed in unstained cook's jackets.

The morning session of the Conclave was designed to be a time of renewing old acquaintances and meeting the newest members. Almost immediately The Gunner recognized a familiar face as a tall, muscular, blonde and still boyishly handsome man crossed the carpeted floor with his hand extended. "Gunner, you old pervert!" boomed recently promoted Major Rick Maslen, friend, lover, and Commanding Officer to one Corporal Glenn Stuart Britnell.

The Gunner laughed and shook Rick's hand. "I thought you'd be in Ottawa. How the hell are you?"

"Not too bad, for an old man," replied Rick. "I hadn't planned on coming but Glenn . . ." He stopped abruptly which was a signal that Glenn Stuart's whereabouts were, if not secret, at least on a need-to-know basis.

The Gunner nodded and smiled knowingly. "He gets around, doesn't he? Hell, I saw him only a week ago."

Rick took a cup of coffee from the tray of a passing waiter and looked at The Gunner. "He mentioned that he had seen you." Rick coughed delicately. "Glenn also mentioned that he had told you about a, shall we say, sensitive investigation he's involved with?"

The Gunner was a little embarrassed. He and Glenn had spent a weekend together, as lovers, and while their affair had ended almost as quickly as it had begun, Rick was Glenn's partner. Glenn was also a highly prized investigator for Special Branch. What Glenn had told him was classified and in many ways should never have been told to him. The Gunner hastened to assure Rick that anything Glenn had told him would never be repeated.

Rick held up his hand and nodded. "I know that, Steve. I also know that Glenn would not have said anything unless he felt it was important to you."

"It is, Rick, more than you know."

"Still, I did have to punish him," deadpanned Rick.

"You did?"

"Yes. I made him cook dinner." A broad smile creased his boyish features. "Then I made him eat it!"

The Gunner almost choked with laughter. Glenn's clumsiness and ineptitude in the kitchen were legendary among those who knew him. "Poor Glenn!" exclaimed The Gunner when he managed to get control of himself.

Rick led The Gunner to a quiet corner. They sat and Rick placed his hand on The Gunner's knee. "Okay, my friend, tell your old uncle what this is all about."

The Gunner related exactly what had happened, and what was happening in AURORA. He held nothing back, telling Rick of the fear all the boys felt. Rick called a waiter over and asked for more coffee. He waited until his coffee was on the table in front of them before he spoke. "Steve, what we are faced with is a very serious situation. We have an organization, a secret organization, the so-called Aryan Brotherhood that is dedicated to destroying the very fabric of our nation. This organization is starting out by suborning the Military. It feeds on the fears and prejudices that infect all of us. Fear of blacks, gays, Jews, it really encompasses all our hatreds."

"But, Rick, we are talking about boys here, not grown men."

"Seed corn, Steve," replied Rick with a sigh. "Teach the young to hate, and they grow up hating. Teach them to identify the enemy, and then teach them to destroy the enemy. Remove the leaders by any means possible. Play on the fears of the ignorant. You of all people should know the drill."

"They can't be killed, so destroy them morally." The Gunner snorted. "The politicians do it, the Evangelical churches do it, so why not the Aryan Brotherhood?"

"Precisely," said Rick with conviction. "Look at the boys who have been targeted, Todd and Cory Arundel, for instance. Sharp, smart, good looking, amiable and the type of kid you would be proud to call your own." Rick scratched his chin, thinking, delving into his memory. "Tyler Benbow, not a kid, but the perfect type to lead. He's a natural at it and with the right training he will make a damned fine Naval officer. Harry von Hohenberg, another natural leader. Those Sea Pups of his will follow him up to and through the Gates of Hell if he asked them to." He squirmed uneasily in his seat. "And then there is Philip Andrew Thomas Lascelles . . ."

The Gunner's mouth dropped open. "You . . . know . . .?"

Rick shrugged. "I'm very good at what I do, Steve. I have access to many forms of information." He waved his arm, indicating the assembled Knights and Pages. "The Order, of course. They have been very helpful."

"Not to mention a source at AURORA," thought The Gunner. He remained silent. There was no point in pursuing this line. Rick had given up as much as he was going to.

"What Paul Greene is doing is laying the groundwork for his superiors to step in with their own people," continued Rick with a slight frown. "Destroy the leaders, play on the prejudices of the followers, and then offer them a new hope. It's a classic ploy: infiltrate, identify, destroy and in the resulting tumult and confusion bring in your own people and take control."

"These are still boys, Rick," protested The Gunner.

"Doesn't matter. Small boys, big boys, it's all the same. Your Little Big Man was sent to observe, report and, if possible recruit, though from the look and sound of it he has managed to come a cropper there."

"The boys hate him," replied The Gunner. "Even the three that come from his own unit, they refuse to have anything to do with him."

Rick nodded. "The silly bugger overplayed his hand. He let his personal prejudices get the better of him. He was probably trolling, trying to find a kindred spirit."

The Gunner chuckled. "All he got was a world full of hurt." He frowned. "Which he is trying to repay in kind. The boys know what he's up to and it's, well, frankly, it's causing them a lot of worry."

"And you want me to help allay their fears?"

"Yes," replied The Gunner. He hated to be indebted to anyone, but the well being of his cadets came first. "Their biggest fear is that these letters the little git is writing home will be forwarded on to SIU, or the RCMP. He has made some serious accusations, none of which are true, but . . ."

"If taken out of context could bring a shit locker full of trouble to everybody. Shouting, tumult, Royal Commissions, do-dah, do-dah," finished Rick with a dry chuckle.

"This is serious, Rick," snapped The Gunner huffily. "You know as well as I do that if Little Big Man, or his father, were to whisper in the wrong ears . . ."

Rick let The Gunner ramble on and then held up his hand. "Stephen, you have friends."

"I know that!" returned The Gunner testily. "I've promised my Phan . . . er, one of the boys that I will do everything I can to put a stop to this nonsense."

Rick pointedly ignored The Gunner's slip. "Your boys have nothing to worry about."

"Rick, it's not so easy to convince the boys. I know what you are doing and I know I can't talk to anybody about it. I also know that the boys know what Little Big Man is trying to do and I am afraid that it will not take much for them to take matters into their own hands."

"It's not so easy to convince you!" returned Rick. "You are a stubborn son-of-a-bitch when you put your mind to it!"

"When it affects my cadets, yes."

Rick sighed theatrically. "I can assure you, with absolute certainty, that nothing will happen to anybody. And I say that for two reasons."

"Two reasons?"

"Yes, and my, what a suspicious chatterbox you are!" Rick grinned. "First reason: every report that in any way, shape or form involves the Greenes, or the Aryan Brotherhood lands on my desk. I see it all, from every source, including the Meatheads, SIU, the RCMP and a few other sources you do not need to know about. Everything, and I mean everything is red-flagged to me, personal, need-to-know. Nobody sees anything unless I say so. Nobody acts on anything, unless I say so." He turned in his seat and pointed with his chin toward the end of the room.

The Gunner looked and saw Willoughby and Hunter, their fey, black-clad satellites hovering near by, obviously arguing with a stone-faced and unmoving Michael Chan.

Rick smiled a knowing, conspiratorial smile. "What those two fools do not know, and I do, is that despite their arguments and protests this afternoon you will be elected Chancellor. Once elected you will have access to all the Order's resources. We have friends, Stevie, in places that would astound you."

"In other words, the fix is in."

Rick chuckled knowingly. "And will be for a very long time."

"Really? What happens if you're transferred out of Special Branch?"

"Won't happen," replied Rick calmly. He stood up and gestured toward the columned doorway leading to the ballroom. "It would appear that we are about to start."

"You still haven't answered my question," said The Gunner as they strolled toward the ballroom.

Rick nodded, laughed throatily and looked evenly at The Gunner. "I plan on retiring from Special Branch and I can say that with absolute certainty because, Stevie, I know where ALL the bodies are buried!"

Although the Twins had grave misgivings, they gave their word to help Phantom in his scheme. He would sneak into the Petty Officers Mess tomorrow night and attempt to have sex with Little Big Man. They would act as lookouts in the unlikely event the Duty Roundsman wandered by.

The Phantom expected no trouble within the Mess itself. Mike and Phillip, called The Assistant, were Duty Chief and Duty Petty Officer during the Middle Watch. Mal, Jack and Willy slept at the opposite end of the Mess to where Little Big Man slept and there was a six-foot high barrier of lockers between his bunk and theirs. All three cadets were heavy sleepers and hopefully Little Big Man was a moaner rather than a screamer.

Todd wisely pointed out that it was one thing to fuck Little Big Man, it was quite another to prove it. "Pictures would be good," suggested Cory.

"I have thought about that," replied The Phantom. "The problem is, someone would have to be in the Mess taking the pictures and we would have to use a flash. We cannot take the chance. In order for this to work Little Big Man has to think that only two people know about what happened, him and the guy who did him."

Todd rubbed his chin, thinking. "You're right. Not only would you run the risk of waking the other cadets by using a flash camera, there is also the danger that your face would be in the picture. We definitely do not want that."

"I definitely do not want that!" returned The Phantom with emphasis. "What I do want is for him to know that he had sex with a guy, and that he enjoyed every minute of it."

"I'm sure he will know," replied Cory dryly. "Let's face it, if he pops his puppy there's going to be evidence. And unless you're planning on taking saltpetre, Phantom, and I am not trying to be funny, we all know that when you blow your load 'Old Faithful' has nothing on you."

The Phantom grimaced. "Yeah, I know that is probably going to happen."

"Assuming Little Big Man responds the way you think he is going to respond," observed Todd tartly.

"He will," repeated The Phantom. "When he does, I'll clean up with his underpants."

"What a revolting thought!" exclaimed Cory.

"Agreed, but you will need evidence when you confront him," replied The Phantom. The Twins exchanged a look. "We confront him?" asked Todd.

"Yes, you. When you tell him that you know that he spent a very happy time with another guy, he will believe you. He will believe you because last year you had half the ship's company convinced that he was as queer as a nine-bob note. He also thinks that because you are gay you are part of some vast underground gay network."

"It doesn't exist!" snarled Cory. "Would that it did!"

"He doesn't know that so let's make him think that it does," returned The Phantom. He looked at each Twin in turn. "Paul is so afraid of what he is you really will not have to do much convincing."

The Twin Thing kicked in and much to The Phantom's surprise Cory's hand went down the front of Todd's swimming suit and Todd's went down the front of Cory's.

"Uh, guys," warned The Phantom uneasily.

"Hush, Phantom, we're thinking," responded Todd.

For five long minutes the Twins sat on The Phantom's bed, holding each other's genitals. Finally Todd spoke. "It could work if . . ." he began.

" . . . He reacts the way you think he will," completed Cory.

The Phantom opened his mouth to object but Cory silenced him with a glance.

"We would not confront him directly at first . . ." Todd looked at Cory, who nodded.

" . . . Because you would want him to stew about it a little while," said Cory with a devious glint in his eyes.

"Sort of build up his self-guilt . . ." Todd gave Cory's dick a small squeeze. Cory grinned. "We could just stand and look at him, then snicker." He returned Todd's squeeze.

"Or giggle and ask him how he enjoyed his night." Todd smiled at The Phantom. "Drive him crazy first, then move in for the kill."

They could hear Chef bellowing down below. The Twins stood up and adjusted the front of their suits. The Phantom could not help but notice that there were no telltale bulges in their swimming trunks. "I don't know how you manage not to get hard!" he declared, his eyes wide.

"Will power," replied Todd with a grin.

"So you will help me, then?" asked The Phantom

"Under protest, and against our better judgement, yes," replied Cory evenly.

"And I would feel much better off with something more concrete than a pair of Little Big Man's underpants!" put in Todd.

The Phantom was fully aware that he was pushing the limits of his friendship with the Twins. They would help him but for some reason he could not let the remark about more concrete evidence go by. "Perhaps," he began acidly, "one of you would like to sit on the edge of Mike's bunk and take a note of every moan, groan and slurp?"

The Twins gave him a look of elaborate hauteur. A looked flashed between them. "It's in my wallet," said Cory mysteriously. "In my shorts, which are down below."

There was another impatient bellow from Chef.

"Phantom?"

"Yes, Todd?"

"Is there such a thing as a Radio Shack in this one horse town?"

Ryan awoke with a tightness in his groin and a grumbling tummy. He was lying flat on his back in one of the two beds in the Sick Ward, his naked body covered with a starched white sheet. He raised his head and looked around, then lifted the sheet, almost dreading what he would find. What he found was that his recently circumcised penis was wrapped in surgical gauze with just the head of it exposed. It seemed bigger, but he supposed that was due to the bandage wrapped around it. The head seemed very red to his eyes.

He felt none of the excruciating pain promised by Doctor Phelps. In fact all Ryan felt was a tightness in his penis, as if something was pulling it downward. He reached down and lifted his bandaged appendage. The gauze wrapping was snow white with no red marks and certainly no sign of massive haemorrhage, likewise threatened by Doctor Phelps.

What he did feel was hungry. Rob had been so insistent that he get his ass over to Sick Bay that they had both missed breakfast. Since Ryan had spent at least three hours before the surgery, and at least an hour having the surgery, it was no wonder his tummy was grumbling. He heard a footstep on the rubber tiled deck and quickly dropped the sheet. He looked up and saw Doc grinning at him.

"And how are you feeling, young fellow?" asked Doc.

"Hungry!"

Doc chuckled and walked to the end of the bed. He began turning the crank that raised the bed up. "Let's get you sitting up and then we'll have a chat. After that I'll call over to the Mess and have them send over tray." With Ryan in a sitting position Doc sat on the side of the bed. He took Ryan's hand. "Now then, how do you really feel? Any pain?"

Ryan shook his head decisively. "It just feels, ah, tight. Like someone is pulling down on it."

Doc chuckled. "There will be none of that, young man, for at least three weeks."

Ryan grimaced. "That long? What happens if . . .?"

Doc reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small vial. He held it up for Ryan to see. "Amyl nitrate. A few sniffs and any erectile function dissipates."

"Huh?"

"If you get a hardon, and you will, because you're at the age, you take a few whiffs of this stuff and down it goes. You must not, under any circumstances, tear out your stitches."

Ryan sighed. "For three weeks, yes?"

"Or four," replied Doc. "It depends on how fast you heal. It was a very straightforward procedure, so I do not expect any complications at all."

"So I can go back to the barracks?" asked Ryan with enthusiasm. He started to push back the sheet covering his body.

"Not so fast!" Doc leaned forward and rearranged the sheet. "You'll be staying here until tomorrow." Seeing the look on Ryan's face Doc hurried to explain. "It's just normal post-operative care. I want to make sure that there is no residual bleeding or oozing. Tomorrow I'll remove the bandages and take a wee look. If everything is fine, then you can return to your bed and your friends." Ryan groaned. "The other guys! What do I tell them?"

"Whatever you please. The truth usually works. You are going to have to explain why you're coming over here every day in any case."

"Here? Every day?"

Doc nodded. "I'll want to monitor your incision. You'll also have to come over here to take very carefully monitored showers. We have a hose and nozzle attachment fitted to the shower here. You can scrub all but your genitals. Those you wash very gently every day, twice a day. When you urinate you will use a cotton swab to clean the glans, which is the head of your penis. You'll keep that up until the stitches fall out. In about a week, I should think."

Doc got off the bed and pulled another small vial from his pants pocket. He nonchalantly tossed it to Ryan.

"What's this?" asked Ryan as he examined the flap of skin in some sort of clear liquid.

"Your foreskin," replied Doc with a straight face. "I thought you might want to keep it as a souvenir."

"YUCK!" Without thinking Ryan flipped the vial away. It flew onto the floor and rolled into a corner.

Chuckling, Doc retrieved the vial. "I had thought of putting this in a copper bowl and making a sacrifice of it to the gods. We could take it out to the parade square, put feathers and beads in our hair and dance in a circle naked while we burn your offering."

Ryan giggled then winced. "Jeez, Doc, please don't make me laugh."

"Sorry, I shall try not to make you laugh." Doc held up the vial. "From your less than enthusiastic response I take it then that you would have no objection to my sending this off to the Dermatology Department of the University of Victoria?"

"Well I sure don't want it!" Ryan lowered his brow. "What are they going to do with it?"

"Research," replied Doc. "Someone has come up with the idea that given the number of foreskins available for research, rather than just destroy them, perhaps there might be some use they can be put to. Your donation will advance medical knowledge and you never know, your foreskin just might be the cause of a great discovery in medical science!

While he was impressed with Doc's exaggerated pomposity, Ryan had something more than the future of his foreskin on his mind: FOOD! "I guess you can send it down to Victoria," said Ryan. He grinned. "It beats feeding it to the ship's cat!" Doc choked back a laugh. "That would be illegal and unethical. You've been hanging around with the Twins too much."

Ryan's stomach fortuitously chose this moment to grumble loudly. Doc, chuckling, went off to ring the Mess and order some food for his patient.

Matron bustled in, took his temperature, warned him to watch his fluid intake (he more or less figured out that he wasn't supposed to drink too much), bustled out, and then came back with a small bed table. Kevin, who carried a large tray covered with a napkin, followed her.

After placing the tray in front of Ryan, Matron left the small room. She had been around the horn a time or three and knew that at times a boy needs another boy and women were patently not wanted on the voyage.

After fussing a bit, helping Ryan with his napkin and taking the cover off the plate of food Kevin pulled up a chair. He had a little time to sit and chat before he had to get back. While he and Ryan were hardly bosom buddies, he had a feeling that at times like this a guy needed a guy. "So, how are you feeling?" he asked tentatively as he watched Ryan making his way through the plate of grilled chicken, green peas and pan-fried potatoes. "And how's the food?"

Ryan grinned around a huge forkful of potato. "Great," he nodded enthusiastically. "And I feel okay."

"Doesn't it hurt?"

"Naw, just a dull ache. Sometimes, when I move the wrong way, it sort of feels like someone is pulling on it, but Doc says that's just the stitches."

"Wow! How many stitches?"

Ryan thought a moment. "I didn't ask, and I can't take off the bandage until tomorrow." He opened the half-pint carton of milk and drank deeply. Then he belched. "Gotta watch the old fluid intake," he giggled. "Can't be pissin' like a racehorse."

Kevin laughed. "Guess that would really hurt, I mean, peeing and, well . . ." Ryan returned Kevin's laugh. "Don't know yet. But Doc gave me some cream to put on the end of my dick."

Seeing that Ryan was finished Kevin gathered up the tray and placed it on the floor. "Ray didn't know what to cook, 'cause nobody said what you could eat. You didn't eat your Jell-O."

Ryan leaned forward. "I hate Jell-O," he whispered. "Every time I got sick my mother used to make me eat it." He laughed aloud. "I think she had stock in the company."

"What would you like for dinner, then? Chef will make you something special for sure."

"How about a steak smothered in pork chops?" Ryan squirmed, trying to get a little more comfortable. The problem was not his recently circumcised penis. It was his bare butt that was being chafed by the starched sheet.

"What's the matter? You hurting?" asked Kevin genuinely concerned. "You want me to get Matron?"

"Not unless she has some underwear in her pocket," replied Ryan. "This sheet is ripping my ass to rat shit."

Kevin could not help giggling. "How about I get you some. What do you want, boxers or briefs?"

Ryan thought a moment. "Boxers, I guess." Then he frowned. "Shit, all mine are dirty."

"Not to worry, my man," assured Kevin. "I'll get you some."

"You will?"

"Sure." Kevin looked thoughtfully at Ryan. "They'll have to be big, I guess, I mean you don't want your drawers rubbing against your, um, whatever."

"Incision," provided Ryan. "If Rob was here I could borrow some of his. He likes 'em big and baggy, you know."

Kevin didn't know, not being an underwear aficionado. He considered the size problem then his face brightened. "I know, I'll steal 'em from Chad. He's got tons and he's about the same size and shape as Rob."

"Well, don't do it on my account. I wouldn't want Chad getting pissed off at you."

Kevin grinned and waved his arms in a dismissive gesture. "Chad's okay. He won't mind. I'll bring them over in a little while." He bent down and picked up the tray of dirty dishes. "I'll pick out a nice steak for you, then I'll raid Chad's locker and come back."

Ryan smiled shyly at Kevin. "Thanks, I really mean that."

Kevin blushed and gave Ryan an Aw, shucks look. "You'd do the same for me. All the guys would."

"Where are the guys? It's awfully quiet."

"Everybody's in town. Except for a couple of guys on the Duty Watch and the galley staff." Kevin paused at the door. "Probably checking out the babes and having a hell of a good time."

After fast-talking Chef into letting them stay in town and catch the bus back to AURORA with the rest of the Shore Party, the Twins waved good bye as the vehicles rolled down the street and made the turn that would take the Work Party back to the ship. They walked in silence for a while. It was only two blocks to the downtown section of the small town and before they knew it they were there. The Phantom had given the Twins directions to the Radio Shack and they went directly there, made their purchases and decided to goof off a bit. They sat at one of the small tables outside of a café and sipped iced tea. They would have preferred a beer but the waitress was no fool.

"I do not like this, Cory, I do not like it at all," said Todd as he sipped his tea.

Cory nodded his agreement. "There's not much we can do about it, Todd. Phantom has this bee up his ass and he is not going to back away."

"True. He is so goddamned stubborn at times!" sighed Todd. "Short of tying him up and waiting until The Gunner gets back there is not a fuck of lot that we can do!"

Cory agreed. "The Gunner will not be pleased at all. Remember the lecture he read us on Texada, about not being afraid to take a chance?"

Todd nodded, The Gunner's words returning to him: "I want you two to grow up, to have fun, to be yourselves." Todd grimaced and said slowly, "He also said that while we should not be afraid to take risks we should not take stupid chances! And what Phantom is proposing to do comes under the heading of stupid chances, damn it!"

"The Gunner said that we had to understand the consequences of our actions." Cory pushed aside the glass of iced tea. "I wish he were here. He'd talk some sense into Phantom, because I really don't think that Phantom has thought this through."

Todd frowned. "Well, The Gunner is not here and we seem to be getting nowhere fast."

"For all that we're damned handsome, have pride and presence and, according to The Gunner, we are a hell of a lot smarter than he will ever be," replied Cory, his voiced tinged with sarcasm. He leaned back in his chair and grinned. "We also have brains and talent and as much as I do not agree with what Phantom is doing, we are going to going to help him."

Todd held up the Radio Shack bag holding their purchases. "We've already started." He stood up and pushed back his chair. "We can pull this off, if we play our cards right and if we think about what we are going to do."

They walked along the Esplanade toward the Laundromat and Market Square where the buses would pick everybody up and take them back to AURORA. "In the day of the Armageddon, at the last great fight of all, that Our House stand Together and the pillars do not fall," quoted Cory.

"You remembered!" said Todd with a slight gasp. Cory's receptive and retentive memory amazed his brother at times.

"Yes, I remembered the quotation," replied Cory with a sad sigh. "We have to stand together, no matter what."

"We stay the course, no matter what, then?" asked Todd.

"Yes. And bear the consequences and the wrath of The Gunner when he finds out about Phantom's bonehead play," said Cory ruefully.

Todd gave his brother a long look. "And what makes you think The Gunner will find out about it? I am not about to tell him."

"Neither am I," replied Cory calmly. "Phantom will do it."

Todd stopped abruptly. "Phantom will tell him? Why would Phantom tell him that he went and popped Little Big Man's puppy?"

"For the same reason you tell me everything you do. No matter how bad it is, or how scaly the guy was, you tell me." Cory grinned impishly. "You can't help yourself. You love me and you don't want to hurt me." He shrugged expressively. "So you tell me. Sort of ask for forgiveness and absolution."

"Which is more than can be said for you," griped Todd.

"Not so," returned Cory. "I do tell you everything." He paused and grinned. "Eventually."

"So eventually Phantom will tell The Gunner everything?" asked Todd as he raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"Without doubt, Todd," replied Cory with certainty. "Phantom is an honest human being. He loves The Gunner desperately and when he realizes that his actions could, eventually, cause The Gunner hurt and pain Phantom will tell him. His conscience won't let him do otherwise."

"The Gunner will sure as shit have hurt and pain if Phantom ever tells him about his little visits in the middle of the night," opined Todd as they approached the doorway to the Laundromat.

"Which means we will have to be in standby mode for Phantom when he does tell The Gunner because there will be a whole lot of hurt and pain coming his way because The Gunner is not going to . . ." began Cory. He did not have a chance to finish his thought because at that moment a dark-haired, bare-chested figure came flying out of the door of the Laundromat to land flat on its back in a cloud of dust. The Twins looked up and saw Brian looming in the doorway. He was breathing heavily. His eyes were flashing and his fists were clenched.

Todd looked at Cory, who smiled and snickered, "Well, it do seem somebody has made a new friend!"

Logan Hartsfield had woken in his fetid bedroom in the squalid trailer he called home. The small room - it was barely large enough to hold his bed and a small dresser - was baking in the mid-afternoon sun. He lay on his bed sweating profusely, the sheets, which had not been changed in a month, wrapped around his feet. From the waistband of his briefs his skin-covered dick protruded largely. He roughly shoved his offending member into his once-white briefs and crawled from the bed. In the process his shoulder bumped the dresser and two brightly coloured brochures fell to the floor with a plop. He looked down and saw There's No Life Like It! emblazoned across the photomontage of handsome young people in green uniforms that made up the cover of the recruiting booklet. "Yeah right!" Logan snorted with disdain at the not so subtle hints the old man had left for him. He could hear the old bastard lumbering around in the front end of the trailer, and a series of muttered, slurred curses told him that the crazy son-of-a-bitch was half in the bag, which for his father was a normal state of affairs.

Logan stripped off his underpants and, naked, walked to the small shower next to his room. He turned the water on and stepped under the tepid dribble that barely flowed from the showerhead. "Fucking water company," he muttered as he soaped up. There was plenty of water for the rich folks downtown, but the poor people up here, in the trailer parks, they could go and whistle.

He washed his body, for once not lingering on the sheathed tube of flesh hanging between his legs. Logan hated this dick, almost as much as he hated the town he lived in, the man who supported him and the bitch that had insulted him last night.

Logan had closed up the Laundromat after that snot-nosed Lascelles kid had picked up all the laundry he had left earlier, and gone in search of a chick who would swing on his dick. He'd had enough gas in his rust-eaten Dodge convertible so he drove out to the burger joint near the high school, where all the kids hung out.

As he tried to work up a lather Logan hefted his substantial balls and nodded firmly. He was a stud. He was lean and mean (in his mind) and not at all bad looking, given to tight black jeans that showed off his basket and a white T-shirt that showed of his chest. He kept his hair moderately short, and combed his black curls over his brow. He gave the girls the eye and more than a few gave him the eye right back. Not that it got him anywhere. He had been threatened by half the guys in town that if he went anywhere near their sisters with that Indian dick of his . . .

Logan had to be careful. Ever since he could remember he had more or less lived on the streets. His old man, a career drunk, could not have cared less what he did, or whom he did it with so long as Social Services kept sending the cheques. His mother, well, she had run off years ago and nobody was in any great hurry to see her come back.

With no supervision, parental or otherwise, Logan had run into the long arm of the law on more than one occasion. He was in with the right people, and could, when he wanted it, cop a joint or a micky of rye. His fists, which he used as needed, kept most of the jocks in line, although that and two bucks would get him a beer at the Legion so far as most of the girls were concerned.

Last night Logan had been horny! He hadn't been laid in months, the last time by Annette Steiner, a combined Christmas present and going away memory. She wasn't bad in the sack, even if everybody knew the only reason she wore knickers was to keep her ankles warm.

With Annette gone south to Victoria and richer climes, Logan had gone out looking for some action, gravitating, as always, to the burger joint, which had been packed, as was normal, since the kids had no other place to go. He had bought a coke and studied the terrain, his eyes lighting on Amy Jensen. He had heard the rumours about her and Greg Langston - hell, the whole town had - and figured that a blow job would fix him up and cure his ills.

Amy Jensen was a pretty, tiny, well-endowed brunette. She liked boys but did not put out. She liked making out, and she had learned that she could keep the beasts at bay by giving the guy she was with a hand job, which tended to be messy, the dirty pigs, or a blow job, so long as he didn't squirt in her mouth. She had been sitting with two of her friends, gossiping about the cadets out at AURORA and wondering if there would be a beach barbecue this year when Logan Hartsfield slithered in.

Logan had hiked up his jeans and tried to put the moves on Amy, who was not at all interested. She allowed him to buy her a Coke and refused his generous (to his mind) offer of a burger. Logan was not bad looking, but he just wanted one thing, and that she was not about to give up to him.

For an hour Logan had worked on Amy, and while he managed to cop a feel of her left tit, and worked himself into such a state of frustration that he would fuck the crack of dawn if he could, he got nowhere. Finally, angry, he asked her why she'd gone up to the reservoir with Greg and sucked his dick, why was she suddenly so picky? A dick was a dick, wasn't it? Just what did Greg have that he didn't?

Amy looked Logan up and down, and then sniffed regally. It wasn't what Greg had, but what he didn't have, she said with an acid sneer.

"And what's that, bitch?" he had spat at her.

"All that skin!"

"The cock-teasing cunt!" snarled Logan as he gave the water knob a vicious turn. He stepped out of the shower. The only towel on the rack was filthy, which wasn't surprising. The whole fucking trailer was a garbage dump. His old man never cleaned anything, including himself. The place was littered with empties and bits and pieces of things Logan didn't want to think about.

Back in his room he pulled on the cleanest clothes he had, then filled a green plastic garbage bag with his dirty laundry. One of the few perks he had working in the Laundromat was that he could do his laundry for free. He didn't even have to buy soap or bleach, as the tourist ladies were always leaving their boxes of laundry soap behind.

He scooped up his bathing suit - a red Speedo - and left the trailer. He threw the bag of laundry onto the back seat and with a squeal of tyres and a cloud of exhaust fumes, took off, leaving the trailer park behind, heading for Miracle Beach. He'd have a swim, catch some rays, and maybe get lucky. If he did not connect at the beach he could always cruise on over to Harkness Bay, an isolated cove south of town where, if the price were right, he would let one of the queers suck him off. Harkness Bay was an open secret, a sandy cove frequented by what passed for the local gay population, always transient, and also tourists who liked to sample the local talent.

The cops knew about it, of course, but they didn't need the hassle so they more or less left the place alone, except for Harry Jensen, Amy's father. He hated faggots and, even though the bay was outside of town limits, cruised by once or twice a shift just to let the butt-fuckers know who was boss. Logan suspected that the only reason the town jail wasn't full of tourists up on morals charges was that a fifty-dollar bill went a long way in Comox. How else could a beat cop afford that new pool in the Jensen's backyard?

Miracle Beach was a bust. It was Friday afternoon and the place didn't really fill up until the weekend, so he left and drove on down to Harkness Bay. There were a few single guys lying on the sand so Logan stripped off and walked slowly down the beach, letting the punters know that there was a fine piece of primo meat available, if the price was right.

As he strolled the bay Logan saw that as usual the sun bathers fit one of two categories: young, hung and good looking, and either selling or with another guy and not interested in paying for it, or older guys, always alone, who were. It had been the same last year, the first time he had gone to the cove, and he'd made enough money to buy the Dodge. Today was the first time he'd been back since. There were about six likely candidates sunning themselves on the beach and with luck he would make enough this time to shut the old man up.

Logan walked by an older guy, fat, and bald. The guy looked up and smiled at him. Logan stopped, reached down, gave his thick, sheaved five-inches a squeeze, pulled back his foreskin to reveal the purple head, and smiled back.

Sixty dollars and an hour-and-a-half later Logan was tooling down the highway heading back to town. Sixty bucks was not a bad day's pay, considering all he'd had to do was to stand there and let some faggot service him. He'd had his dick sucked before, but what the three guys he had picked up had done to him had left him reeling. The third guy, who was younger, had been the best of the three and his dick still tingled from that encounter.

Between the second and third blow jobs he had been propositioned by an older fucker who had offered a cool hundred if Logan would fuck him. Logan had refused. It was not that he hadn't been up the chocolate highway before - he had, but it had been a long time ago and the guy was long gone from Comox. The guy he had fucked back then had been young, a year younger than Logan, and Logan knew him from the trailer park. This old guy though, well he was old and Christ only knew who or what had been travelling up his four-laner. In the event, the younger guy had come along, interrupting negotiations. Logan had gone off with the new guy, whose mouth had manipulated him so well that he had seen stars and his toes curled when he came.

The episode at Harkness Bay left Logan puzzled and a little afraid. He knew all about guys doing guys (or thought he did) and his conscience did not bother him about getting three blow jobs and being paid for them. What did bother him was the niggling feeling he felt deep down that maybe he had enjoyed it just a little too much. What bothered even more was that he would have taken the hundred if the younger guy had offered it. He tried not to think about the conflicting feelings reeling through his brain and pulled into a roadside joint for something to eat. He was hungry so he ordered a hot-dog which, with his usual greed, and determined to get his money's worth, he piled high with relish and onions and mustard.

Logan leaned against his car and took a bite from the dog, for some reason wondering what it would be like to be on the other end of a blow job. He had just had three, and wondered what it would be like to suck another guy's cock, what it tasted like, how the guy would react.

He tried to convince himself that what he was thinking was just sex. He knew that even thinking about being with another guy was supposed to be wrong. Which led him to wonder why it was okay for a girl to give a guy mouth-to-dick resuscitation but an unspeakable horror if a guy did it to another guy. Not that he would ever get to know about it, not in Comox. He did not dare try anything with the guys he knew. Word would flash around town quicker than the speed of light and if that happened . . .

High-pitched giggling brought Logan back to reality. He looked and saw two little girls, their hands over their mouths, staring at him and giggling. One pointed at his chest so he looked down and saw that a huge glob of mustard and relish, bright yellow and green, had fallen out of his lunch and onto his tee. He had been so engrossed in what he'd been thinking about that he hadn't noticed it. He had been so lost in thought that he had idly rubbed the mess into his shirt, which was bad enough. What was worse was the long, tube-like bulge down the inside of the right leg of his jeans.

Cursing silently Logan hurried to his car, hopped in, and drove away, hoping like hell the little girls were laughing at his mustard bath and not at his hardon. Once on the road he cursed aloud, trying to tell himself that he was cursing because now he had to stop off at the Laundromat and do his washing, yet in reality knowing that he had gotten a hardon while thinking about giving a guy a blow job!

The Park Ballroom of the Four Seasons Hotel had been transformed. The grand Edwardian reproduction furniture had been replaced by 70 plain, wooden desks and 70 high-backed chairs upholstered in deep purple velvet, thirty-five arranged on either side of the long, wide room and separated by the expanse of the patterned palette of mauve, green and rose carpet. The damask wall-coverings and oak panelling accented with emerald glass that lined the high walls were all but hidden by draperies, again a deep purple, that hung from the canopy over each desk and chair.

At the far end of the room was a raised platform on which stood a plain, undecorated table. On the table stood a small, gold box. Below the altar-like table were arranged two tables, each with three chairs behind it. Here would sit the Scrutineers and Infirmarii, six knights who, together with the Dean of the Order, would supervise the election.

In strict order of precedent the Knights took their places at the desks, standing until the opening ceremonies were ended. The Gunner, feeling much the drab Wren in the nest, and most junior of the Knights, took his place, the last desk in the row of desks lining the left side of the room. He felt decidedly out of place in that every other man in the room wore a dark, and obviously expensive suit, the overall drabness of the assembled Knights broken only by the gold and bejewelled collars worn by the High Officers of the Order, and the ebony and gold-topped staff carried by Rick Maslen, Dean of the Order.

When the Elector Knights were in position Rick, flanked by Infirmarii, took up his position in front of the altar table. He looked down the room then looked at Michael, who nodded. Rick bowed to the assembled Knights, first right, then left. He then thumped his Staff three times on the carpeted floor. "Extra Omnes," he bellowed in his best parade ground voice.

The Secretaries and Pages who had been hovering and fluttering about the room (except for Laurence, who had other duties to perform. Besides, The Gunner told him if he caught him fluttering or hovering he would make a Jenny Wren out of him), began filing out of the room.

Rick began to walk slowly down the length of the room, still flanked by the two Infirmarii, looking right and left as he walked, ensuring that the room was empty of all save Knight Electors. He stopped at the door leading into the anteroom. Directly in front of Rick was Major Meinertzhagen, Constable of the Order. Laurence and Nigel flanked him, Laurence to his right, Nigel to his left. They had been asked by the Major to attend him and add some panache.

The three men, who would act as guards and ensure that no unauthorized person entered the ballroom, were dressed in full regalia. The Major, feeling slightly foolish and looking as if he were a refugee from a particularly stylish fancy dress party, wore a black, watered-silk, Court uniform complete with knee britches, black hose and silver-buckled patent leather shoes. At his throat, held in place by a white bow tie, he wore a jabot of delicate, antique, Belgian lace. In his hand he held a long, ivory wand. At his side hung an ivory-hilted sword in a gold and black leather scabbard.

Laurence and Noel were wearing their formal livery of black, brass-buttoned tailcoat, black trousers and red waistcoats. Their eyes (Laurence's a deep brown, Noel's blue-grey) danced with laughter they dared not express aloud. The sight of the normally formal, staid, Major dressed up in his tights and pantaloons was almost too much for them.

The Major returned Rick's bow and then nodded to Laurence and Nigel. They stepped forward and slowly closed the double doors leading to the ballroom.

The elections could now begin.

Much to Logan's annoyance the Laundromat was packed. The place was full of clean-cut, shorthaired boys, big boys, little boys, boys of all shapes and sizes. They were all dressed exactly alike: loose navy blue shorts, white T-shirts shirts piped with navy blue banding at the neck and edging the sleeves, white ankle socks and black and white high tops. For a moment Logan thought that the Vienna Boys Choir had hit town.

Miss Margaret and Miss Doris were running around, twittering and giggling, helping a chattering horde of small boys to fold their freshly washed and now dried clothing. Near the counter a huge, older boy with black hair and an awesome smile was laughing and teasing the boy standing near him, who was about the same age, only with dark brown hair, and from the look of his well-muscled chest and legs, an athlete. For some reason the larger boy kept making scissoring motions with his fingers and laughing uproariously, which did not please the brown-haired boy at all.

Logan cast a quick glance at the small crest that was on the left chest of every T-shirt in the place save his. He knew what it was, of course, the ship's crest of HMCS AURORA. The Sea Cadets were back in town!

The only free washing machine was the first in the long row of machines that stretched along the wall toward the counter and was closest to the door leading to the street. The machine next to it had just finished its washing cycle and a slim, muscular boy was transferring wet laundry to the dryer on the other side of the room.

At first Brian paid the no attention to the newcomer, who was, by his clothing and haircut (or rather, lack of one), obviously a "townie". While there was no hard and fast rule against associating with townies, experience had shown that there was a very real tension between the young people of Comox and the Cadets of AURORA. This view held particularly true among the teenaged males of the town.

Logan was typical of the Comox teenagers. As far as he was concerned the cadets were snobbish, and stuck up, too regimented in their thinking, too clean and too clean-cut to associate with the town kids. They were always unfailingly polite, "sir-ing" and "ma'am-ing" all over the place. Their hair was always cut, their uniforms - and do not get him started on what effect the uniforms had on the chicks - were always ironed (his association with an iron was negligible at best), their boots were always highly polished.

The cadets always travelled in well-supervised groups. They never gave trouble, and most of them looked like they wouldn't say shit if they had a mouthful. Most of them didn't smoke, and as for using drugs, forget it. Last year he had tried to sell a couple of joints to one of them and the kid had reacted as if he'd been stabbed!

The kid beside him was typical of the cadets. He had that clean cut, well-scrubbed look that they all seemed to have. His shorts and T-shirt were smooth and obviously ironed. His auburn hair was cut high and tight on the sides, with just enough on top to make a part to the left. The kid looked and smelled, well, healthy.

Logan began pulling his dirty clothing from the bag he'd stuffed it in and tossed the loose shirts and shorts into the washing machine. What really pissed him off was that the cadets were always being shoved in his face as perfect examples of what "good" boys should be like. It did not help that there was a Cadet Corps in town, RCSCC PORT AUGUSTA. They had a band, which participated in every parade. The local cadets were always involved in any and every fundraiser, from the K of C to the local chapter of the B'Nai Brith. When there was a public emergency, the cadets were there, smiling, happily working, not moaning or complaining about the amount of work that needed to be done. They just, as they put it, got on with the grunt.

Most galling of all was the way the girls acted. They primped and simpered, twitching their tails, all but doing a mating dance in the middle of the street. On Saturdays, when the cadets came into town to shop and swim in the town pool, the girls' shorts always seemed to be shorter, and those who didn't wear a halter top seemed to be wearing a bikini bra.

Logan had caught their act two weeks before when he had been goofing off on the Esplanade, trying to put the make on Louise Metcalfe, Amy Jensen's best friend, when the bus from AURORA had pulled up. Amy and Louise had all but wet their panties at the sight of forty, in their opinion, hunks, all dressed up in starched white uniforms. The two girls had drooled their way through each and every one of the cadets, from the oldest, a redhead with a killer ass well packed into his white trousers, to the youngest, a dark-haired, dark-eyed almost beautiful boy who smiled shyly at them and blushed when they frankly admired him. Logan had stalked away in disgust, snorting that the cadets didn't look all that great without their uniforms on, because he had seen them in the pool changing room, and besides, hadn't Louise raised hell last year after getting to first base with one of the so-called cadet studs only to have him spurt off in two strokes?

The thought of the pool change room caused Logan to return to the reason he was pissed off in the first place because 99.9 percent of the cadets did not have to worry about getting gob-smacked by Amy Jensen! The cock-teasing bitch!

Brian did not know what the newcomer's problem was, or why he seemed to have declared war on his laundry. The boy was slamming everything he owned into the machine, including the mustard and relish-smeared T-shirt he had been wearing. Brian gave a quick glance at the youth and decided that he was not all that bad looking, actually. The townie had a trim body, with a smooth chest, a slim waist and a decent butt, packed into black jeans that hung low on his hips, showing a good inch of his underpants, which, after glancing a second time, were not grey at all, simply unacquainted with bleach since they had come out of the factory package.

What really attracted Brian to the guy was his tattoo, a masterpiece if ever there was one, a galleon in full sail, a sepia coloured work of art that filled the whole right half of the guy's chest. Beside this wonder Brian's own tattoo, the Zodiac sign for Libra, paled into insignificance. Even Dylan's tattoo, a Superman logo strategically placed just beside his dick and balls, was small potatoes compared to the beauty the guy had just unveiled.

Brian was about to mention the tattoo when he noticed what the guy was doing. He watched as the guy stuffed whites and greys and blues and odd-colours into the washing machine. He hesitated to say anything. He knew the type, from the Brylcreemed, slick-back hair to the low-slung black jeans and white T-shirt with the rolled upped sleeves. The guy was a punk, street wise and cocky, quick to take offence and even quicker with his fists and feet.

Brian knew the type well because he had been one himself, strutting around North Bay in the same outfit, with the added attractions of scuffled, square-toed motorcycle boots and a long chrome chain draped down his leg and attached to his wallet, which was stuffed into his hip pocket. The boots, jeans and chain had gone the way of all flesh when the Judge offered Brian a choice of 30 days in Juvie Hall (with every chance of being beaten or raped, or beaten and raped), or enrolling in one of the town's three Cadet Corps. Brian had chosen the Sea Cadets and had never looked back. The only reminder of those days was his wallet, which, no matter how much he kneaded and bent it, still retained the curve it had developed from being pressed into his hip pocket for so long.

So Brian hesitated. He wanted no trouble and would not have said anything until the guy pulled the last article of clothing from the green garbage bag: a pair of fire engine red cotton underpants. With the memory of Kevin's pink drawers fresh in his mind Brian spoke. "Uh, hey guy, I know it's none of my business, but I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said slowly, and quietly. The townie might be a punk but he still deserved a little respect and there was no need for the whole place to know he had red underpants.

Logan his eyes flashing, turned and glared at Brian. He looked Brian up and down, taking in the navy shorts and white T-shirt and the haircut. "You got that right," he snarled, "it ain't none of your business."

The cadets had been warned time and again not to start anything with the townies. Brian backed away. "Just trying to help, mate," he said as pleasantly as he could.

"I ain't your mate!" returned Logan. He reached for the box of laundry soap that somebody had left on the shelf above the washing machine. He began pouring the soap into the machine, muttering under his breath.

Brian distinctly heard the word faggot. "I beg your pardon?" Brian's voice was low, and icy.

Logan turned and sneered. "I said, 'Why don't you go and fuck yourself, faggot?'."

Brian rocked slowly back and forth on his heels. He had been challenged. There had been no need for the name-calling. He regarded the boy through lowered eyes. A head taller, maybe twenty pounds heavier, good muscles. But what was the point of fighting this cretin? It would not prove anything.

Brian's fingers twitched, aching to form a fist. It wasn't that the pejorative was unknown to him. It was a common tactic in street fighting; call your opponent a thing so insulting, so abominable that he flew into a red, unthinking rage. What pissed Brian off was that it was always the same. It was always faggot, queer, butt fucker, bum boy, bone blower. The names were always called in the most sneering, insulting, denigrating manner possible and the meaning was clear: a queer was lower than whale shit.

Brian's fingers curled into a tight fist. "Actually, I don't need to fuck myself," he began with a clarity he never knew he possessed (and later admitted that was what he got for hanging around with the Twins). He looked the stranger, the street punk, dead in the eye. "Not when I have a queer like you around who would bend over and purr like a kitten while I slipped my bone into him."

Logan, blind with rage, raised his fists and growled low. No one else had seen or heard the exchange between Brian and the strange boy who had come into the shop. They did hear the animal-like growl that rose from the boy's throat and they did see his fists come up.

Logan was fast, but Brian was faster. There was a blur of tanned arm and blue and white sleeve and his fist connected, hitting Logan's chin.

Logan lay in the street, his head spinning, stunned. His hand shook as he reached up and felt his chin. He ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth. No teeth missing, broken or loose. Holy SHIT! That fucking cadet might be a scrawny prick but his fist packed a wallop that would stop a horse. Logan was shaking his head, trying to clear it, when from above came a clear, tenor voice. "Well, it do seem somebody has made a new friend!"

Logan looked up and saw a pair of tanned legs standing on either side of him, which lead to two pairs of baggy blue shorts. As he looked two blond heads appeared over him. "Are you all right?" asked one of the heads.

Logan struggled upward, resting on his elbows, glaring at the cadet who had hit him. The cadet was standing in the doorway, silently daring him to get up and continue the fight. As was to be expected, a small crowd had gathered behind the cadet.

Logan felt a hand on his shoulder as he began to struggle to his feet. "Before you get up to rejoin the fray I should warn you that he has a black belt in grab-a-sackee," said a voice similar to the first speaker's.

Logan sat up and looked around. The two boys beside him, cadets from they way they were dressed, and brothers, because they looked alike, were staring back at him. "He also has one hell of punch," said the older of the two boys.

At least the second cadet seemed older to Logan. He was just a touch heavier than his brother, though with the same golden hair and startling blue eyes. Despite himself, Logan drew in a sharp breath. "You got that right," he growled. He glared at his antagonist, who was still standing, motionless, in the doorway of the Laundromat. He looked at the boy's face, which was calm, a determined set to his jaw. He looked into the boy's eyes and suddenly Logan did not want to fight the boy. Something had happened to him the moment he set eyes on the other boy's face and Logan knew that the last thing he wanted to do with the guy was to fight him.

Unfortunately, the Code of the Street said otherwise. The other guy, the cadet or whatever he was, had challenged him, decked him a hell damner of a deck, and the Code said that he had to retaliate. He struggled to his feet, reluctant but ready to defend his honour. He was saved by another, louder, and more authoritarian voice.

"All, right, hold it right there!"

Logan turned to see an older man hurrying up. He was obviously an officer. Logan saw that his shoulder straps bore one stripe and at his approach the cadets stiffened to attention.

"Just what is going on here, Chief Arundel?" demanded Andy.

"Why, I really don't know, sir," replied Todd. "We only just got here ourselves and we found this civilian on the deck. We think perhaps he fell down."

"Really?" drawled Andy. "And I suppose Petty Officer Venables just felt like standing in the doorway of a Laundromat looking like the Avenging Angel?"

"Why, he does, now that you mention it," returned Cory. "He does look a little upset."

Andy sighed. They were at it again. "Chief Arundel," he looked at Todd, who smiled broadly. "Chief Arundel," he looked at Cory who assumed the air of innocence that only he could assume.

"Sir?" asked the Twins in unison, bracing and looking straight ahead.

Andy knew that they were covering up something and was having none of it. "Do I by any stretch of your somewhat limited imaginations give the impression that only this morning I tumbled off a turnip truck?"

"A turnip truck?" began Todd, assuming a perplexed air. "Why, no, sir, definitely not a turnip truck . . ."

"A tumbrel, perhaps," continued Cory. "Yes, definitely a tumbrel."

"A WHAT?" yelped Andy. He stared, amazed, at Cory.

Cory began to wax whimsical. "Standing in a tumbrel, dressed in a somewhat soiled, but still magnificent satin suit - no a blue and white and gold Naval uniform, surrounded by your fellow aristocrats, the drums beating before and the Jacquerie lining the street, a sort of Ronald Coleman figure - without the moustache though, because while you do have very fine features, sir, a moustache really would not suit you, and no offence meant - standing tall, facing your destiny, going to a far, far better place as the cart rumbles through the tunnel toward the light . . ."

"Wrong movie, you idiot," growled Todd out of the corner of his mouth. Really, Cory's flights of fancy were getting out of control.

Logan could not quite believe he was hearing what he was hearing. It was like watching one of the farces the local drama club put on or maybe a Three Stooges movie.

"ENOUGH!" Andy held up his hand and glared at Cory. "Somebody had better start talking and explain to me exactly why a civilian was flat on his back in the dust and why he has the beginnings of a hell-of-a bruise on his chin! And no nonsense!"

"Well, in that case, I really can't help, you, sir," pouted Cory.

Andy turned to Todd. "Well?"

"He was already playing in the dirt when we got here, sir," replied Todd weakly.

Defeated by the Twins, Andy rounded on Brian. "Well, Petty Officer Venables?" he asked evenly.

Brian looked at Logan's expressionless face and knew that the townie was not going to give up anything, for the Code said you never, ever, no matter the threat or promise, told authority - whether a cop or a Sea Cadet officer - anything. Little Big Man had been sent to Coventry for doing exactly that: squealing on his fellow cadets. On the street if you ratted out anybody, for any reason, you were dead, lower than whale shit. You never squealed for any reason, even if you were only defending yourself and you settled your differences your own way, in your own time. Brian would obey the Code. Yet he could not and would not lie so he fell back on what was known as "dumb insolence." He remained silent.

Having been a young boy himself, Andy knew what was going on, or at least thought he did. Something had happened, a fistfight unless he missed his guess. He looked around the crowd and saw that nobody was about to open up. The Twins were braced, eyes straight ahead. The cadets who had been crowding the doorway were pretending indifference and as Andy watched several of them retreated into the Laundromat. Brian was as stiff as the Twins. No hope there. As for the civilian, he was standing with arms crossed, a truculent look on his face. He wasn't about to spill.

Andy was perplexed. He could not condone fighting, nor could he let the matter drop. His instinct told him that Brian had thumped the civilian. He liked Brian, but he could not let the matter drop. He was about to place Brian on a charge when the situation changed dramatically. Miss Doris came charging through the doorway of the Laundromat and began waving her finger at Logan. "I might have known that you would be involved, Logan!" she snapped angrily. "I told my sister that you would be nothing but trouble!"

"Miss Doris, please, I . . ." began Logan. He knew exactly what was coming. Miss Doris had never liked him and had never denied it.

"No, Logan Hartsfield. No excuses. It is one thing for you to slink around town looking like a gigolo; it is quite another to fight with our customers. You are discharged. Your wages will be waiting for you tomorrow morning." She turned abruptly and was about to enter the shop when Brian spoke.

"Please, Miss, don't blame him. I hit him first." Brian had seen the look of desperation that had come into Logan's eyes when Miss Doris fired him. Logan might be a jerk, but even jerks needed to eat. Andy gave Brian a hard look, wondering what the boy was up to. "I hit him first, Miss," repeated Brian. "Please don't blame him."

"You hit him?" Andy fixed Brian a stony look. "And why, may I ask, did you hit him?"

Brian could have told the truth and saved his figurative ass. Instead he kept to the Code. "No excuse, sir!" he snapped.

Andy scratched his head and muttered something about cadets watching too damned many West Point movies. "Petty Officer Venables, you really have to tell me something. Right now you are wide open for an assault charge."

Brian remained silent.

Logan regarded the blank-faced cadet. He could not understand why the boy was keeping silent, just as he could not understand why he felt some . . . affinity, some something for the cadet. He was even more surprised at the next words that came out of his mouth: "He was showing me a boxing move, is all. I forgot to duck."

Andy looked sceptically at Logan. "And you expect me to believe that?"

Logan, who was no stranger to obdurate authority, shrugged indifferently. "Believe it or don't. Your choice."

Andy ignored the young man's curtness and bad manners, and turned to Brian. "Boxing moves, Brian?"

"If he says so, sir." Brian's face continued impassive.

Andy nodded, wisely giving up. He might one day find out exactly what had happened but today was not that day.

Brian turned to Miss Doris. "Please, Ma'am, it was all my fault. Don't blame . . ." His eyes slid over to Logan.

"Logan," supplied Miss Doris, seeing the cadet's glance.

"Yes, Ma'am. You can't blame him for what I did."

"Well, perhaps I was a little hasty," admitted Miss Doris. Like the handsome young officer she had her doubts about the whole story. "He never hit you, he didn't start the fight?"

"I hit him, Ma'am," replied Brian, pointedly ignoring the rest of her question. Miss Doris looked at Andy for direction. Finding none she made up her mind. "I'll let it go this time," she said looking directly at Logan, the implication being that he was on very thin ice.

"Thank you, Ma'am," said Brian.

"Yeah, thanks Miss Doris," said Logan. He assumed a crestfallen look.

"Don't thank me, thank this young man," snapped Miss Doris. "Now come inside. There is work to be done."

Logan was tempted to remind Miss Doris that he was not on the clock until 6:00 pm but decided it would not be in his best interests to provoke the irate woman. He nodded and was about to follow her into the Laundromat when he saw the cadet . . . Brian he had been called by the officer . . . looking at him. The feeling that had come over him earlier returned and before he knew it he went up to Brian. He felt a need to let Brian know that he was not a complete asshole. Holding out his hand he offered, "Thanks." Then, leaning forward and lowering his voice he added, "I'm sorry I called you a faggot."

"I'm not sorry I clocked you," returned Brian. "Some people take exception to being called names." Still, he shook Logan's hand.

"I got the message," replied Logan, rubbing his chin. "What I don't understand is why you didn't tell your officer why you hit me."

"I lost my temper," explained Brian with a tight smile.

"I don't understand," said Logan.

"I don't expect that you would," replied Brian as he turned and walked away from Logan.

Neither boy noticed the waiting driver of the lead bus, who had been standing to one side, watching the whole affair, make a note in a small leather notebook, close it with a firm snap and climb into his bus.

"I, Stephen Matthew Winslow, promise and swear on my honour as a True Knight that I will observe absolute and perpetual secrecy with all who are not part of the Conclave of Knights Electors concerning all matters directly or indirectly related to ballots cast and their scrutiny for the election of Grand Master," intoned The Gunner. He was reading from the book held by one of the Infirmarii, following the words traced along the page by a Scrutineer using a heavy, gold pointer. The Gunner finished the oath by walking to the altar table and placing his hand on the gold casket. "So help me God and this Sacred Relic of Our Order."

As the junior Knight of the Order the Gunner had been the last to take the Oath. He returned to his assigned seat and settled behind the desk. The election of Grand Master could now begin.

As each knight was supposed to "vote his conscience" there was no slate of eligible candidates. Each Knight would use the three-part ballot that was placed in front of him by the Scrutineers. While politics were not supposed to be a factor in the election, The Gunner had no doubt that much wheeling and dealing had gone on before the doors to the ballroom were closed.

He studied the ballot, a sheet of paper six inches long by five inches wide, divided into three distinct parts. The first, top part contained the words: "I elect as Grand Master of the Order." The second and third parts were blank except for a finely engraved line. In the second part the Elector was to write the name of the man he was voting for. In the third he would write the personal motto given to him when he was accepted as a Knight.

There was no doubt, of course, in The Gunner's mind who should be the Grand Master. In the centre of the ballot he wrote Michael Chan's name, then printed his motto: "Et clamaverunt ad Dominum cum tribularentur et de necessitatibus eorum eripuit eos." Finished, he waited impatiently until all the others had marked their ballots. He saw a movement at the far end of the room. Rick Maslen had left, and was now returning. In his hands he carried a huge gold cup - a Cellini ciborium of great beauty - on which rested a gold plate. This he placed on the altar table just in front of the box containing the relic of the True Cross.

When all were ready the Knights rose as one man and in procession, the most senior Knights leading, approached the altar table and the gold cup. Each Knight in turn placed his folded ballot on the gold plate then, using the plate, tipped his ballot into the cup, saying yet another oath. Once again "Tail End Charlie" The Gunner tipped his ballot into the cup. "I call as my witness Christ the Lord who will be my Judge," he repeated loudly, reading from yet another book, "that my vote is given to the one who before God I think should be elected."

He bowed toward the altar table and returned to his place.

As he waited for the ballots to be counted The Gunner began to think about Laurence's story. That Laurence, a Royal Marine, and a member of the SBS, had served in Vietnam alongside his American counterparts had been somewhat of a surprise. Britain had never officially been a party to American involvement in that unhappy country. The Gunner had been there, and had heard the rumours about Brits crawling around the jungle with the LRRPs teams. Like many before him he had dismissed the rumours, relegating them to the same category as the rumours that maintained that it was Russian aviators, and not North Vietnamese airmen who flew the fighter jets of North Vietnam. The Gunner had, until Laurence had told him his story, assumed that someone had simply gotten their countries wrong. There were Australians and New Zealanders in 'Nam, after all, and they all, to an American ear, sounded alike. They had all been wrong. Laurence, and Nigel, had spent two tours in 'Nam, from 1971 until late 1973. Every minute of that time they had been in the boonies, instructing, learning, and, truth be told, killing.

Two things had conspired to send Laurence creeping through the jungles of Vietnam: the Malay Uprising of 1948-50, and the perspicacity of Louis Francis, Earl Mountbatten of Burma and Captain-General of the Royal Marines.

Fresh from his posting as Viceroy of India, Mountbatten, back in Admiralty Arch, had been tasked with combating the Communist guerrilla movement in Malaya. The guerrillas, for the most part ethnic Chinese, loathed as Infidels by the native Malays, were well armed, well led and deadly. The British Army, made up for the most part of conscripts, was no match.

With his usual vigour, Mountbatten studied the situation and, unlike the Americans in later years, had realized that he would have to fight fire with fire. He needed, first of all, veteran jungle fighters and he found them in the Chindits, men who had spent much of their war in the jungles of Burma. Next he needed a group of trained men who never fail. He found them in the Royal Marines.

Mountbatten and the veteran Chindits combined were formidable. The force of men they forged had taken a year to learn their trade. But learn it they did, and by the close of the year 1949 there were no Communists in Malaya. At least not live ones. In time the jungle-trained Marines, including one then Captain Richard Meinertzhagen, became, man-for-man, the best jungle fighters on earth.

In 1965, Mountbatten, by now Admiral of the Fleet and Chief of the Defence Staff had, with his usual clear-eyed prescience, determined that the Yanks had got it wrong in Vietnam and were heading for a balls-up. He flew to Washington and had a quiet chat with his American counterpart, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Not long afterward Army Rangers and Navy Seals were trying to understand the British accents of their instructors, cold, silent men with ice in their eyes who showed them that death could come silently in the night, in the deepest jungles.

Laurence, a fresh-faced 19-year old recruit, had been plucked from the Royal Marine Infantry Training Centre in Limestone, and sent to Singapore. There on one of the small isolated islands off the coast of the city was a camp, a very special camp. Here he had met, and begun a relationship with, Nigel. Here, and later in the jungles around Kuala Lumpur they coexisted for eight months with snakes, tigers, Drill Instructors and (then) Captain Richard Meinertzhagen. What followed had been, for Laurence, a series of horrifying and horrible deeds so desperate that he would not, could not elaborate. In the end Laurence had been in Vietnam.

At first The Gunner had been puzzled. Laurence, for all his polish and urbane manner, was, in the final analysis, a trained killer, skilled in the most vicious of warfare: jungle fighting, where no quarter was ever given or ever expected. Why would Michael want one thousand Laurences? Michael might be the most far seeing man The Gunner had ever met, but not even he could conceive of a gay rebellion, so why the need for young, fit, intelligent men trained in . . . And then it hit him. He looked up and saw Rick Maslen standing patiently while the Scrutineers checked and rechecked the voting slips.

Rick Maslen, outwardly the calm, collected Naval Officer, in reality a shrewd, canny, and, The Gunner suspected, totally unscrupulous driving force of Special Branch, prepared to use any means short of deadly force to fight the enemies of his country, and the enemies of the Order.

Glenn Stuart Britnell was investigating one small, albeit well organized, group of fanatics and therein lay the answer. The Aryan Brotherhood was part, just one part, of the sum of the whole. Scattered across the Dominion, and across the great Republic to the south, were small, tight-knit groups all spewing the same hatred: hatred of blacks, hatred of Jews, hatred of homosexuals.

For the most part these groups were cut from the same cloth. They were isolationist, ruthless and recruited the disaffected and disillusioned young. They used brute force, and when required or when a lesson needed to be taught, murder and torture to get their message across. They all preached the same gospel, yet they all went their own ways. In every province, in every state, there were groups of men who, logically, should have been standing shoulder to shoulder, a great, continent-wide wall of hatred. Yet they were not. They were suspicious, wary, and not trusting, for whatever reason, of each other. They had never managed to unite under a common leader to reach a common goal. And Michael intended to keep them just as fractured as they had always been. Now The Gunner understood. Destroy from within by infiltrating young men just as vicious, just as ruthless, but young men with a common goal: to destroy the enemy of their Brotherhood. Destroy the bigots, the racists, the rampant homophobes by fair means or foul.

Mountbatten had used trained guerrilla fighters to fight guerrillas. In the end, he had won, just as Michael and the Order would inevitably win.

The Gunner for the first time realized his role in Michael's great scheme. He would recruit the young men. Laurence would train them. Michael would send them forth. Michael was going to war.

Three muted thuds of Rick's Staff of Office interrupted The Gunner's thinking. He looked up and saw that the counting was finished. "Most Noble Lords and Knights," said Rick loudly. "I am charged by the Scrutineers to announce to you the results of your voting." He consulted the piece of paper he held in his hand. "For the Most High, the Most Mighty, Michael William Charles Chan, Knight of Justice and Profess of the Grand Priory of British North America, seventy-six." He consulted his list again. "For the Most High, the Most Mighty, Arthur Marmaduke Willoughby, Knight of Magistral Grace, Donat and Profess of the Priory of Lower Canada, one."

This did not surprise The Gunner. Knights could not vote for themselves. Logan no doubt had voted for his friend. Which meant, of course . . .

"For the Most High, the Most Mighty, Thomas Lyon Hunter, Knight of Justice and Profess of the Priory of Lower Canada, one."

What followed next caused The Gunner to jerk his head in surprise. "For the Right Trusty and Entirely Beloved Stephen Matthew Winslow, Knight of Profess of the Priory of Upper Canada, one."

The Gunner, not quite believing that Michael had cast his vote for him, watched as Rick moved to the side of the room. He pushed a series of switches and one-by-one the canopies over the chairs lowered slowly. All but one.

Rick, flanked by a Scrutineer and an Infirmari, walked slowly to where Michael was seated. All three men bowed low and Rick, as Dean of the Order, began, in Latin, "Acceptasne electionem de te Magister . . . Do you accept election as Grand Master of the Ancient and Noble Order of Saint John of The Cross of Acre?"

Michael returned Rick's salutation by bowing his head. "Accepto . . . I accept election."

Led by Rick, Michael retired to a side room. The Gunner wondered why this was necessary. The Order had no special robes, and except for the Chain of Office, no special symbols that were worn or carried by the Grand Master.

Barely five minutes after leaving the room, Michael, preceded by Rick and his acolytes, re-entered the ballroom. Around his shoulders was draped the Collar of the Order, magnificent recreations in gold and enamel of the Order's Coat of Arms. Pendant to the central "fire-steel", actually a magnificent ruby, hung the Golden Fleece, a golden sheep's fleece. The Collar, originally a gift in 1712, from the Emperor Charles VI to his cousin the Archduke Maximilian Alexander, the then Grand Master, had been gifted in perpetuity by Letters Patent to succeeding Grand Masters.

After bowing to the altar table Rick turned and faced the assembled Knights. "Noble Lords and Knights, I announce to you: We have a Grand Master, who is the Most High, the Most Mighty Lord Michael Chan, who shall be known as Michael IV Alexander."

All but two of the assembled Knights rose from their seats and began applauding. Willoughby and Hunter remained in their seats, arms folded, staring straight ahead. The Gunner eyed the pair of them and then sighed quietly, wondering how much leave time he would use up when the time came to elect a new Receiver of the Common Treasure and Hospitaller of the Order.

Chef was in a high dudgeon. Why, he demanded, had he not been informed of Ryan's "little operation"? How could he feed an invalid if he didn't know what food he could eat? It was common knowledge that when you were in hospital you always ate a special diet, which helped you get better. Common knowledge!

Doc, who was used to Chef's nonsense, and in no mood to listen to him, advised that Ryan could eat one of the harbour seagulls if Chef could catch one and pluck it.

The nature of Ryan's "little operation" was by dinnertime known to everybody, evoking more than one sigh of sympathy. Chef, who thought Ryan a nice young man, decreed that during the duration of his confinement he would eat well! This led The Phantom to observe wryly that Ryan had been circumcised, not given birth! That earned The Phantom a swart oath and a swipe from Chef's ever handy wooden spoon.

Chef sprung into action. Never would it be said that he let down the side! Nicholas was sent for (much to his annoyance as he had just gone into the Flag Locker with Andre) and dispatched into town for flowers. Killian and Chad were sent running to the Wardroom, there to beg, borrow or steal one of the upholstered chairs from the lounge and the folding table the officers used when they played cards. The Phantom, Matt, and Kevin were directed to clean into their cleanest steward's jackets. Ray and Joey, called from the barbecue line, were set to preparing Ryan's dinner, with Chef hectoring and complaining every inch of the way.

Shortly before seven a small procession, Chef in the lead, made its way to Sick Bay. Chef was decked out in full Chef's regalia, including a tall, white hat, though the effect was somewhat diminished by the dent in one side and the grease stain just above the rim at the back. He was followed Ray, equally decked out, except that his hat was shorter, and not dented, who was followed by Killian carrying the purloined wardroom chair, Chad with the borrowed card table, Matt and Kevin carrying large trays covered with napkins and The Phantom holding a wicker basket containing bottles of wine (which Chef had nicked from The Phantom's father's supply).

Ryan had spent a very pleasant afternoon. He had napped. He had walked around the room; he had peed and admired Doc's handiwork. He had also endured being fussed over by Matron, not daring to complain when she insisted on taking his temperature. At least she had used an oral thermometer.

When the cadets returned from town Rob had come by, and refused to leave Ryan's side. The Twins had put in an appearance and insisted on "viewing the remains." They had been most impressed and insisted that they be invited to the "great unveiling" when Doc removed the bandage from around Ryan's penis.

When the bugle sounded Hands to Dinner Ryan had forced Rob to go and eat, then lay back in his bed, waiting patiently for his own dinner to be delivered. He was hoping that Kevin had remembered his promise when he heard a commotion in the corridor outside the ward.

"Ryan, my poor lamb!" boomed Chef as he sailed into the ward. "Do not get up from your bed of pain, dear boy."

Ryan, who was neither in pain nor had any plans to get up or go anywhere soon, waved shyly at Chef and watched wide-eyed as what seemed to be half the galley staff trooped into the ward.

"Chad, set up the table, and find another chair," ordered Chef as he stood beside Ryan's bed. "How do you feel, lad, not too sore?" he asked Ryan. "Not there, Chad, in the middle of the room!"

Ryan tried to answer Chef but as usual Chef was not paying the least bit of attention. Under his direction the table was set up, stiffly starched linen spread, the Admiral's china and silver set in place, fine crystal glasses placed just so above the china, and flowers, acres of them it seemed, put in vases and placed around the ward. Ryan, smelling the delicious aromatic redolence of his dinner, which set his tummy to grumbling noisily, was about to get out of his bed when Chef let out a bellow that almost gave him heart failure. "Chad, Phantom, help the poor lad to the table. And be careful of his wound!"

The Phantom and Chad each took one of Ryan's arms and helped him to his chair. "I can do this on my own. I don't need you two clowns," bitched Ryan under his breath.

"You needed one of us when you wanted some boxers," returned Chad. "Now shut up."

With a gentleness usually reserved for the transportation of delicate crystal vases Chad and The Phantom led Ryan to his chair. When he was seated The Phantom, with elaborate gestures, draped a huge napkin around Ryan's neck, which covered him from chin to waist. Almost immediately Chef was at Ryan's side. "I have prepared a small repast for you, dear boy, that will make your soul sing!" he announced importantly. He gestured for Matt to present the first dish, a delicate lobster and butter creation garnished with lemon wedges and sprigs of parsley. "A delicate dish, Ryan, not too heavy, for I know all too well the effect anaesthesia has on one's stomach," enthused Chef. He motioned for The Phantom to come alongside.

In his hand The Phantom held a bottle of chilled white wine. He presented the bottle for Ryan's appraisal and approval. Seeing that Ryan had not clue what he should do next, The Phantom poured a small portion into the smaller of two crystal wine glasses on the table. Then he stepped back, cradling the wine bottle, waiting.

For a moment Ryan was a little confused, not knowing if he should drink the wine or dip his fid in it. It was not that he was unfamiliar with wines. On occasion his father would bring home some vino collapso and pour everybody a jar (quite literally; all the glasses at home had first seen duty as jam and jelly jars).

Fortunately there were the movies.

Ryan, in his best Cary Grant manner, raised the wine glass to his lips, sipped delicately, and then swished the liquid around in his mouth.

Chef winced slightly. Sea Cadets! "Is the wine to your liking, Ryan darlin'?" he asked sweetly.

"It's very good, Chef," replied Ryan.

"Would you be minding if I take a small glass with you?"

"Oh, no, not at all,"

"That's very kind of you, dear boy." Chef patted his ample tummy. "I've a bit of the Gyppy Tummy this day. A little wine will help settle it." Chef motioned for The Phantom to fill Ryan's glass. The Phantom poured until the glass was half full, which immediately drew Chef's ire. "Phantom, there is no need to be so niggardly with the wine! Fill the glass to the crown," he said, referring to the crowned Naval crest engraved on the glass.

Phantom wisely kept quiet.

"Good help is so hard to find," moaned Chef theatrically. He looked around. "I'll have my wine now, Phantom. We brought extra glasses."

"Surprise, surprise," muttered Chad as he took the extra glass from the wicker basket.

"Did you say something, Chad?" asked Chef in saccharine tones.

"No, Chef."

"I could have sworn you had," replied Chef as Chad placed the glass on the table in front of him. "Ryan, eat up now, we have to build up your strength."

Ryan, who felt great and was as hungry as a wolf, needed no encouragement.

"Tell me Chad, dear boy," drawled Chef after The Phantom had poured his wine, "is there any truth to the rumour that come the morrow you shall be seconded to Base Engineering to assist them in cleaning out the old cisterns?"

The Phantom giggled. Chef could chuck shit with impunity. You chucked shit at Chef at your peril.

"Uh, no Chef, no truth at all," replied Chad who had caught the drift of Chef's comment.

"Pity. A fine, handsome, strapping young lad such as yourself would be a definite asset in their endeavours."

There was a clatter of pan against grate and Chef turned his attention to Ray, who had set up a camp stove and was carefully frying Ryan's steak. Beside him Matt tended two silver chafing dishes containing Ryan's vegetables. "A little less noise," bellowed Chef. "Any more and you'll be waking the dead with the din of it!"

Ryan who had heard the exchange between Chef and Chad (who had quickly withdrawn from the line of fire) raised his eyes. At the rate Chef was going there would not be a sleeping dead man within fifty miles of AURORA.

"And Ray," continued Chef, "mind how you go with those tournedos. You are supposed to be sautéing fillets of prime beef, not cremating a cat!"

The Phantom covered his grin with his napkin. It was amazing how Chef could switch characters so effortlessly. This morning the man had been all efficiency, a dedicated and knowledgeable servant of the Order, explaining with crystal-like clarity the aims and ambitions of the Knights. Tonight he was Victor McLagen at his best.

When Ryan finished the last of his lobster starter Kevin deftly and effortlessly removed the plate. Within a minute Killian presented Ryan's main course, two superb tournedos of beef.

Chef nodded approvingly. "Good red beef, medium rare so that you get the benefit of the juices. Just the ticket, my lad, to help your body replenish the blood loss from your surgery!"

Ryan hadn't a clue as to what Chef was going on about. What blood loss? While he had spent the entire procedure with his eyes tightly closed, clutching Matron's hand in a death grip, he had opened his eyes at the end of it and as far as he could remember all he saw were two small surgical sponges dappled red.

"With your meat you shall have some fresh vegetables," Chef continued on. He motioned for Kevin to come forward and present his offerings: baby new potatoes and carrots. "Now help yourself, Ryan. You must eat and keep your strength up." Chef motioned to The Phantom to present a new bottle of wine. "With the steak, a good claret. Show Ryan the label, Phantom."

Ryan looked at the label, and then looked at Chef. Plonk was plonk as far as he was concerned.

Chef indicated to the Phantom to pour. "Yes, a good red wine, a '49 Haut Brion. That will certainly build you up."

"That will certainly get him pissed!" muttered The Phantom.

Chef heard him. "Rubbish!" he boomed. "Unlike you anal retentive English refugees the lad comes from a culture where wine is celebrated and enjoyed! Pour please, Phantom. And leave the bottle."

With Ryan fed and bedded down for the night under the collective care of Doc and Rob (who had volunteered to stay with Ryan) Chef led a reverse procession back to the galley where everybody mucked in and hand-washed the fine china and crystal glasses Ryan had used. When the dishes were done and safely stored away The Phantom asked Ray to come out to the loading dock. They sat quietly together, looking out across the harbour. "Kevin seems happy," said The Phantom presently. "And you look really happy."

"I am," replied Ray with a grin.

"Everything is okay between you, then?"

Ray giggled at the memory of last night, then sobered. "He's in love with me, and he wants to be with me, so yeah, everything is okay."

"Do you love him?"

Ray thought a moment, and then nodded slowly. "It's hard not to love a guy who's planning a wet weekend at the 'Y' in September, all in my honour."

"You did not answer the question," replied The Phantom gently.

"I think I do. He is beautiful, and a great lover. Right now, I am not in love with him, if that is what you're getting at. I like him." He shrugged expressively. "Being in love with him might happen down the road."

"You're willing to have a long distance relationship with him, then?"

"Yes. He wants to give it a try and so do I."

The Phantom pulled out his packet of cigarettes, lit one and exhaled slowly. "Kevin is good for you, Ray. Better than I could ever be." Ray began to protest but The Phantom stopped him. "It's true, Ray. Kevin is strong and loving and willing to work hard to make you love him. I do love you very much. But we would never have worked out. You know why."

"You're in love with The Gunner," sighed Ray softly.

"Always and forever," whispered The Phantom.

"It's okay, Phantom, I understand. I still wish it was me that you love, but you don't."

The Phantom shook his head. "You're wrong there, Ray. I do love you. I love you in the same way that I love the Twins, and Harry, and the rest of the guys. I will always cherish the memory of our being together. You need Kevin, and he needs you. Kevin loves you, Ray."

"I know that. I also know that I will always be in love with you. I cannot hide it and you cannot change it."

The Phantom did not reply. Ray was who he was, and felt the way he felt. Nothing either of them said or did would change things.

"There's something else, Phantom," said Ray firmly.

"What else?"

Ray gave The Phantom a searching look. "I don't know what you're up to, and maybe I don't want to know," he began tentatively, searching for an answer to his questions, but not quite willing to come out and demand an answer.

The Phantom smiled knowingly. Joey and Randy had obviously made a full report to Ray about his conversation back at the house. "You don't, Ray. It's something I have to do."

"Something so important that you cannot tell me?"

The Phantom gave Ray a fond glance. "Ray, it will do you no good to know. All I can say is that I have to do something soon. It's not something I want to do. Hell and sheeit, it's the last thing I want to do, but it has to be done!"

"Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?" Ray stood up and placed his hand on The Phantom's shoulder. "I love you, Phantom. Joey and Randy love you, and so do a hell of a lot of other guys. As far as Matt is concerned you are second only to Todd, and sometimes I wonder about that! There are guys around here who know that you will go to the wall for them. You should know that no matter what, no matter how bad, they will stand by you and go to the wall for you." Ray tightened his grip on The Phantom's shoulder. "You think that I am a wuss, somebody who is weak and who needs protecting." He glared angrily at The Phantom. "Well I have news for you. I am not a wuss, and I sure as hell don't need protecting!"

"Ray, I . . ."

"Shut up, Phantom, and listen to me! I have a news flash for you. I might not be strong, like Harry, or smart like the Twins, but I am your friend. I wanted to say lover, but you won't let me be that!" His hand dropped and he asked in his quiet, soft voice, "At least let me be your friend."

"Oh, you are Ray, more than you know," replied The Phantom. He reached up and patted Ray's hand. "More than you know."

Ray withdrew his hand. "Today, tomorrow, next year, Phantom, your friends will always love you and will always be there for you. You would do well to remember that!" He turned abruptly and walked into the Mess Hall.

The Gunner was sitting on one of the sofas that flanked the fireplace in his bedroom. He was enjoying a quiet drink before dinner and trying to list those men and boys he knew who would be an asset to the Order. On the round table in the centre of his bedroom was an oval box containing the Collar of the Chancellor of the Order. While not as magnificent as Michael's collar, the Chancellor's Collar was still a superb and stunning example of the goldsmith's art.

His election as Chancellor had been, to The Gunner, if anything, a learning experience. Michael was powerful, but there existed a faction within the Order that disagreed with him and his policies. The Gunner was intelligent enough to know that Michael never promised something he could not deliver. He also knew from Joel, his former lover and Michael's cousin, that Michael never lied, and never forgot an insult or an injury. Nor forgave.

After finishing his drink The Gunner stood up and walked to one of the windows overlooking the gardens. Eleven men had deliberately insulted the new Grand Master. It was not that they had voted against The Gunner. He was, to many of them, an unknown quantity, and being older and more conservative men they distrusted youth. Michael had expected that the votes would be spread about. Each of the Knights had friends, and to cast a vote for a friend, even though there was no chance of the friend being elected, was considered a signal honour. Michael, as a show of his favour, had voted for The Gunner during the Grand Master's election. The Gunner, to show his honour and friendship for Rick Maslen, had voted for him in the Chancellor's election.

Michael had warned that the first vote was always inconclusive and the required majority of two thirds plus one should not be expected until the second or third ballot. The Gunner had not expected to be elected on the first ballot.

For his part, Michael had not expected that The Gunner would be elected on the first ballot and so he was mildly surprised when Rick announced that fifty-five votes (three more than required) had been cast for The Gunner. He was not at all surprised that thirteen votes had been cast for Rick, a popular and well-respected man. What had shocked him to his core had been the eleven votes cast for a man he loathed above all others, a man so mistrusted that wise men crossed to the other side of the street when they saw him coming.

Percy Robert Simpson stood six feet seven inches tall, was as bald as a coot, and to call him merely obese was an understatement that strained credibility. He was ninety years old and all but in his dotage. He was also venal, vicious, totally untrustworthy, had never worked a day in life and had never lifted a pudgy finger save for his personal gain or pleasure. He had all his life lived a life of sybaritic luxury, first in Montreal, latterly in Rosedale, the leafy enclave in the centre of Toronto that was the province of the truly rich. He was enormously wealthy, and had never been known to spend a dime that did not, in some way, pay him a handsome return. Aside from his yearly membership fees, he had refused to support the Order. He had never been known to make a charitable donation to anybody. He was surrounded by servants, well paid it was assumed, and always had in attendance one or more "nephews" whose youth barely skirted felony charges and, for reasons best known to Percy, were always German.

A vote for Percy Robert Simpson was a calculated, deliberate insult.

Michael's face was void of emotion. He had been schooled never to show emotion. Outwardly he was as stone-faced as ever. But his eyes betrayed him. They blazed with anger. The Gunner put aside his drink and looked into the small fire he had lit, more for the ambiance than the warmth. There would be repercussions, of course. Michael never forgot an insult or an injury. Nor forgave.

There was a light tap at the door and Laurence entered. A small Asian man carrying a suit bag followed Laurence. "This is Mister Leung," said Laurence, introducing the stranger. He opened the suit bag and pulled out a dark, three-piece suit. "This is your suit for your Investiture."

"I have my blues and greys," protested The Gunner.

"Not good enough," returned Laurence. "If you will be good enough to remove your clothing, Mr. Leung is a master tailor and will make the necessary adjustments." After undressing, and then dressing again in the suit, The Gunner endured Mr. Leung's fussing as he pinned and marked the dark cloth. He also endured a lecture from Laurence. "You are Chancellor now," adjured Laurence. "As such you have a certain status to maintain. That includes dressing well."

"Come on, Laurence, I'm a sailor!" replied The Gunner with a low growl.

"Something that is not held against you," replied the Royal Marine, a touch of smugness in his voice.

"Thank you, Laurence!" sniffed The Gunner in reply.

"You are welcome, Sir Stephen!" returned Laurence seriously. Then he grinned. "Please understand that I mean no disrespect but you will, from now on, be meeting some very important people who will judge you by the way you act and by the way you dress. Your blazer is perfectly all right for an afternoon drink in the garden, or attendance at a Naval Reunion."

"But?"

"A well-cut lounge suit for meetings and an afternoon reception." He looked steadily at The Gunner. "A pity you never took your Commission. A Naval Mess Kit would suit you well. You have the body for it."

"I hope you are speaking professionally, Laurence," feigning a worried look.

"I am," replied Laurence firmly. Not that I'd mind, he finished silently. "After dinner Mister Michael will want to discuss the day's events."

"He's upset, I believe."

Laurence nodded slowly. "I have been with him two years and have come to know that when he is as quiet as he is now it is best to stay well away from him unless he calls for you."

"There is trouble coming, Laurence," The Gunner stated flatly.

"I know."

As the last bugle note sounding "Lights Out" faded Todd left his bunk and turned out the lights. He returned to his bed and lay down, listening impatiently. Finally he heard the soft patter of bare feet on the polished deck. Thumper had finally gone to the heads. "And about time, too," Todd whispered to Cory.

Cory snickered. "He's right on time. The bugle blows and ten minutes later into the heads goes Thumper!"

Todd chuckled softly and sat up. "You want to go to the place?"

Cory shook his head slowly. "Nicholas says the Met boys are predicting rain."

"We can at least sit outside for a while. Maybe fool around a bit?"

"Definitely fool around a bit!" replied Cory, snickering loudly. He left his bunk and with his pillow under his arm trailed Todd as he left the Gunroom.

They arranged their pillows and sat down on the barracks stoop. Except for the sounds of the night critters and the distant scream of a gull it was very quiet. The sky was darker than it had been for several days and low clouds scudded across it, obscuring the bright lights of the stars. Todd looked up and nodded. "Rain, " he said glumly.

Cory slipped his hand down the front of his brother's boxers. "I hope it rains for the next week! It's about the only way I can think of that might discourage Phantom from doing Little Big Man." He wrapped his fingers around Todd's warm, soft penis.

Todd nodded in agreement and slipped his hand down the front of Cory's boxers. His hand cupped his brother's smooth, silky, hairless balls. "The problem is that Phantom is convinced that Little Big Man will respond." Todd said presently. "Frankly, I am not so sure that he is wrong."

Cory thought a moment. "Well, first of all we have only ourselves to blame for that notion . . ."

"What do you mean, ourselves?" flared Todd. "If I remember correctly it was you who opened with a mouth and decided to practice psychiatry without a license!" Cory could hardly deny the truth. "Yeah, I did, and I will take the heat for that when The Gunner starts breathing fire and brimstone." He rubbed his thumb across Todd's warm, curving glans.

Todd gave Cory a slight squeeze. "In the mean time, we have to help Phantom."

Cory blew out a long breath. "It can work, you know, if Little Big Man responds and if we do our part."

Todd agreed. "The main thing is to convince Little Big Man that we know, and that we are prepared to proclaim that knowledge from the church door. Hopefully that gizmo we bought at Radio Shack will work. If it does, it's just a matter of . . ."

He was interrupted by the crunch of gravel. The Twins looked up and saw Harry coming down the path.

Harry saw The Twins sitting on the stoop. He also saw where their hands were. "Don't you guys ever get enough?" he asked with a low chuckle.

"It's not what it looks like, Harry," protested Todd.

Harry cocked his head and looked doubtfully at the Twins. "Well it looks like you two are sitting there with your hands down each others drawers." He shrugged his indifference. "I don't care, but you might want to consider the Duty Watch."

Cory waved his free hand dismissively. "No 'H' is the Duty Officer. He has already done Rounds and from what I hear he will spend the rest of his Watch curled up on the bunk in the Duty Officer's cabin bashing the bishop!"

Todd started to laugh so hard that he forgot where his hand was and gave Cory a most unpleasant squeeze. Cory growled his displeasure and Todd apologized by gently stroking his brother's testicles. "That's better," purred Cory. He regarded Harry. "Anson is Duty Petty Officer and I know he's so horny that if he hears No 'H' going at it he'll run and find a hidey-hole and do a Thumper."

"You seem to know a lot about everybody's sex life," opined Todd mildly.

"Or lack of it," groused Harry. He face broke into a broad grin. "I think I'll go inside and see if the Pride wants to go to sea."

Cory snorted. "It always does."

Harry laughed. "Just you two keep the noise down. You two squealing in ecstasy is hardly conducive to good order and discipline."

"You should talk!" retorted Todd. "And we already told you, we are not playing with each other. We're not even hard!"

Cory withdrew his hand from Todd's underwear. Todd obligingly spread his legs, the better for Harry to see that there was no telltale bulge. "See? He's sleeping like a baby," sniffed Cory, referring to Todd's quiescent penis. He motioned for Todd to remove his hand. Cory spread his legs and pointed to his crotch. "I'm not hard either. If you don't believe me, have a feel."

"What?" Harry's eyes widened at the invitation to feel the Twins' genitals. "You want me to what?"

"Have a feel," repeated Todd. "We are not playing with each other. We just like to sit and hold each other while we talk about things. It helps us to relax and think." He motioned toward his crotch. "Go ahead, have a feel."

Harry looked at the Twins with scepticism. "You really mean that? You want me to give you a feel just to prove a point?"

"Certainly," confirmed Cory. "Have a feel," he said, not really expecting that Harry would actually give them a feel.

"Well, all RIGHT!" Harry pushed between the seated Twins and forced them apart. He sat down and shoved his hands down the fronts of their boxers, thinking that with any luck at all the Pride would chart new waters tonight.

"Well?" asked Todd as Harry's hand enveloped his genitals.

Harry pretended to think for a moment. "It feels like I've got a little, warm, furry mouse in each hand."

The Twins, insulted, quickly manhandled Harry's hands from their shorts.

"Aw, come on, I was only pulling your pisser!" whined Harry. He tried to stuff his hand back down their boxers.

"Not tonight, asshole!" snapped Cory, pushing Harry away.

"That's not fair!" protested Harry. "You guys feel me up all the time. Hell, twice now Cory has taken the Pride to sea."

"I did not insult the Pride when I took it to sea," responded Cory witheringly.

"I did not mean to insult you!" declared Harry with some heat. "You asked me what it felt like so I told you!"

"Humph," grunted Cory. "You just want another chance to feel us up."

"Yeah, because he doesn't believe that we have the willpower not to turn a warm and sentimental moment between brothers into something low and sordid," sniffed Todd. He gave Harry a look of utter disgust. "Cory and I have been doing this for years. We know we can control ourselves."

"And you think I can't?" demanded Harry.

Cory leaned back and looked at Todd behind Harry's back. There was a gleam in his eye and an evil smile on his face. Todd returned Cory's grin, his eyes sparkling lasciviously.

For the Twins Harry had long been the unattainable male. From the first moment, in Kingston, five years before, he had been the subject of many late night conversations. If Harry had been magnificent at 13, he was beyond description at 18. He had always been the most masculine of males. Harry also had charisma and presence and, until his recent revelations about his relationship with Stefan, and his affair with Greg, they had never thought it possible that he would consent to being with them.

Granted, Harry fooled around, and had let Cory take the Pride to sea, but that had just been guy stuff. Now that they knew differently, and Harry had offered, they both silently agreed that perhaps Harry just might be receptive to a little more serious relationship. Now that the object of their masturbatory fantasies for years past was sitting between them, if the Pride was going to set sail - and knowing Harry they were very sure that it would - well then, they would just have to make sure that it had fair winds and a following sea.

"Harry, you have to remember that we've been doing this for a long time," began Todd.

"And it has nothing to do with sex," continued Cory.

"Okay, I understand that," agreed Harry.

"It's just three friends together, being warm and friendly."

Harry grinned. "Not a problem." What the Twins did not quite realize was that while he was the object of their affection, he had lusted after them just as much as they had lusted after him. He squirmed a bit, and then spread his legs. "I have just as much willpower as you guys!"

In response the Twins opened their legs and nodded towards their crotches. Before slipping his hand down the front of their underwear Harry asked the Twins if there were any rules. Was it balls only, dicks only, both, or personal choice?

"You can hold our dicks, or our balls, or both. Just remember, no squeezing, no rubbing, and you can't make jerking motions," replied Todd.

"This is supposed to be a special, reflective moment after all," finished Cory.

Harry grinned and slipped his hands into the Twins' underwear. He gently wrapped his fingers around their soft and very warm dicks. The Twins reciprocated by putting their hands into Harry's shorts. "Jesus, you're wearing underwear!" groused Todd. "Do you always wear briefs under your shorts?"

"Do you always never wear underwear under your shorts?" retorted Harry.

"Now Todd, Harry, this is supposed to be a special, reflective moment," said Cory soothingly. He slipped his hand under the waistband of Harry's briefs and cupped his balls. Todd, not wanting to fuck up a good thing, wrapped his hand around the Pride. They sat for a few moments, reflecting.

"So what happens next?" asked Harry,

"Well, now we talk about our day, maybe about something that happened to us."

"Okay."

"So then, Harry, what did you do tonight," asked Cory trying to keep the mood conversational.

Unconsciously Harry gave the Twins' genitals a slight squeeze. He did not see the Twins smiles. "I called Stefan," he continued quietly. "I explained to him about the letters, and Little Big Man, you know, and what could happen to us if word got out."

"Ah, Jesus, Harry . . ." began Todd. He knew how difficult Harry's task had been.

Harry shook his head. "It had to be done, Todd. Stefan needed to know that no matter what happens I love him and he is not to blame himself for what we did."

"He's pretty young, Harry. And he's in love with you." Cory gave Harry's balls and the lower half of the soft Pride a gentle squeeze.

"I know. He cried a bit, when I told him what was going on." Harry gave Cory a small 'thank-you' squeeze. "I also told him that no matter what happens, we can't, you know, be together for sex until he is older. I will see him, and I mean that, and I will be with him, but sex is out until he's older, maybe 18 or so."

"And he accepted that?" asked Todd. He gently squeezed the top half of Harry's dick.

"He did not want to, but I explained to him that we had to wait." Harry sighed heavily.

"Nothing's going to happen, Harry," said Cory kindly. He rubbed his finger along the underside of Harry's soft penis. The Pride twitched and swelled slightly.

"You don't know that," said Harry. He gave both Twins another squeeze.

"Don't be too sure," responded Todd as he ran his thumb over Harry's perfect glans. The Pride twitched and grew slightly longer. A small drop of precum oozed from the slit and was quickly wiped away by Todd's caressing thumb.

Harry moaned softly. He knew what was happening. He wanted it to happen.

"Um, Harry, I think the bridge just rang down to stand by main engines," murmured Cory. He began to roll and massage Harry's finely shaped balls.

The Pride thickened and began to rise. Harry shuddered as the Twins' expertly manipulated him. Todd glanced at Harry's straining face. "I think the bugler just blew Hands to Station for Leaving Harbour!" Todd said with a slight snicker as his thumb wiped a larger drop of precum from the handsome, curving dome of the Pride.

Harry groaned and began to breath heavily. He could feel his dick getting harder. "You don't have to worry until he sounds Special Sea Dutymen and Cable Party - Close Up!" Harry managed to say between moans. God, the Twins knew how to pleasure a guy!

"What happens then?" asked Cory, pretending innocence. He had a very good idea what would happen.

Harry slowly thrust his raging hardon upward. "Then it's let go all lines, slow ahead both, the Pride is puttin' out to sea!"

Cory felt the thick, heated shaft under his hand. "It's definitely left the jetty!" Then he began giggling. Cory's giggling was infectious and all three teens left off feeling each other.

"You can't stop now!" complained Harry with a loud moan. He growled angrily when the Twins quickly pulled their hands from his shorts.

Between giggles Todd managed to explain to Harry that the stoop of the Gunroom barracks was hardly an ideal place to fool around.

"Not to mention that Anson might decide to do Rounds," put in Cory. "Sneaky little git!"

Harry sobered abruptly. "I know a place. If you want to, um, you know . . ."

"You do?" Cory looked at Todd. "And yes, we want to, um, you know!"

Harry nodded. "The School of Wind. Nobody ever goes there after working hours. I have the keys." He stood up and pulled open the door leading to the Gunroom.

Todd stopped him. "Harry, we want to . . ." He looked at Cory who nodded enthusiastically. "Are you sure that you want to?"

Harry grinned wickedly. He leaned down and chucked Todd under his chin. "Tigers ain't the only ones who dream!"

Harry pushed open the door to the Unwinding Room and motioned for the Twins to enter. He switched on one of the small table lamps that stood on the corner tables. The room was bathed in a soft, white glow.

Even though the room was at the rear of the School of Wind, and any light showing was invisible from the buildings of the camp, including the Guard House, Harry took no chances. He quickly moved to the window at the end of the room and pulled the curtains closed. With the front doors secured they would have complete privacy. The Unwinding Room, while small, was actually a pleasant little chamber, the lingering odour of Lord knew how many smoked cigarettes not withstanding.

Down each side of the room, and across the back, were built-in settees upholstered in a dark, navy-coloured fabric. Down the centre of the room were ranged three small tables on which sat, empty now, brown glass ashtrays. Just below the deckhead was fitted a wide, mahogany band which ran down the length each bulkhead. Affixed to this wooden band were brightly painted and gilded crests, mementoes of Sea Cadet corps, visiting ships and Army Cadet units. Hanging on the bulkheads on either side were large prints and coloured lithographs, to port a huge rendering of Lord Jellicoe dictating the terms of surrender to the German High Seas Fleet in 1918, to starboard a vivid, colourful watercolour of the Memorial Window in the Chapel of HMCS CORNWALLIS.

After moving aside one of the small tables Harry settled onto the settee under the surrender lithograph. Cory sat to his right, Todd to his left. None of the boys spoke, and the room was quiet except for their shallow breathing. Harry finally reached a tentative hand and rubbed Cory's exposed leg below the edge of his shorts.

"Harry, playing around is one thing, but, well, we always ask. Are you sure you want to be with us?" asked Cory presently.

"As sure as I have ever been of anything," replied Harry. He reached over and pulled Cory close to him. He wrapped his arms around Cory and they kissed deeply. Harry pulled away from Cory and drew Todd to him, kissing him as deeply as he had kissed Cory and slipping his hand down the front of Todd's shorts, gently fondling Todd's growing erection.

Cory leaned over and slipped his hand under Harry's T-shirt. His fingers began rubbing and pinching Harry's right nipple. Harry moaned in pleasure.

"We will do anything you feel comfortable doing, Harry," whispered Cory. "If you want us to stop, just say so. We'll stop."

Harry bit his lip as Todd's hand found the rampant Pride. "I meant what I said before," Harry muttered between moans of pleasure. "I have loved you two from almost the first time I saw you back in Kingston. I've wanted this for a long time. Let's just let whatever happens, happen."

"Okay, Harry," breathed Todd. He reached down and began to pull Harry's T-shirt off. Cory dropped to the floor and quickly untied Harry's sneakers, then pulled them off. Next came Harry's white socks. "Lie down, Harry," instructed Todd.

Harry stretched out full length on the settee. The Twins' hands found the waist of his shorts and began to slowly pull them down. Harry raised his hips and the shorts slid effortlessly off his body. His white briefs were tented with a huge bulge, and the rosy pink crown of the Pride poked deliciously above the waistband. Harry raised his hips again and his briefs slowly went the way of his shorts. He had kept his eyes closed, revelling in the sensual feelings of being stripped naked by two of the most handsome boys in Creation. He heard them gasp in unison and opened his eyes to see the Twins staring down.

The Twins had seen Harry's erection on countless mornings over the years. They had become inured to it, and most mornings hardly paid it a second glance. Harry's morning woody was magnificent, but what they saw now was beyond mere words. Before their eyes was The Pride of the Fleet, rising and falling slowly as Harry breathed. The Pride had put to sea with all guns manned and ready and Battle Ensigns Flying.

Harry looked down at the object of their adoration. "Not bad, huh?" he gloated, a huge smile creasing his tanned, handsome features.

The Twins, wide-eyed, nodded dumbly. What lay before them was much too beautiful to be called a penis, which sounded so anatomical and every male on earth had one of those. To call it a cock, or a dick, or a prick, was much too crude and demeaning for before them was what to them was the most unique male organ God had ever created. The Pride rose majestically out of an almost perfect 'V' of black, curly pubic hair, which spiralled and curled deliciously like elegant Victorian copperplate flourishes around Harry's escorting testicles, rising delicately to just kiss his sunken navel.

Harry had been brilliantly circumcised and the Pride, save for the palest of a pale tan ring on the shaft two inches below his classic, deep pink glans, was flawless. Smooth and unmarred, the Pride was large, but not unpleasantly so, seven and a half inches of perfection, its girth not too thick, not too thin, just, well, just right for the magnificent length of it. Pendant to the Pride and contained in a silky smooth, sweet smelling sac, were the Escorts, substantial, perfect ovals, large in comparison to many other boys, but of a perfect size and shape to complement the Pride. Before the Twins amazed, admiring eyes, oozing clear precum, rising and falling languorously was no mere penis, no crude cock or rude dick. Before them was The Pride of the Fleet!

Both Todd and Cory quickly stripped away their clothing. Cory moved slowly off the settee and knelt on the deck beside Harry. He reached out and took the Pride in his hand. Harry groaned in pleasure and arched his back. Cory then pushed down, stretching the skin of the Pride as tightly as he could, and, or so it seemed, adding another half-inch to its length. Harry did not know what was coming but what Cory was doing felt wonderful and his body tensed in anticipation. "Harry, think of a wonderful place, a place where only glorious things happen to you," whispered Cory as he leaned forward. He cast a sideways glance at Todd who nodded and moved between Harry's legs.

Harry thought of home. He was sitting on the porch overlooking the fields of wheat that surrounded the house, yellow gold fields undulating as the wind blew softly over the wheat.

Todd leaned forward and slowly began to lick and nuzzle Harry's balls, tasting the sweet taste of them, drinking in the wonderful odour that they exuded. Cory also leaned forward and his tongue, wet, warm and feather-like in its touch, began to trace a slow, deliberate path along Harry's shaft. Cory took great care to just barely touch the flesh of Harry's erection, lingering only at the soft knot of scar tissue under the curvature of Harry's mushroom-shaped helmet.

As Cory's tongue lovingly caressed what was without doubt the most sensitive part of his dick, Harry tensed. A wave of . . . it was like the birth of a summer storm, a small, dark cloud appearing on a distant horizon heralding the cleansing rain to come. As Cory's tongue caressed him Harry felt the storm building deep, deep within his groin. He began to breathe heavily as the storm grew stronger. His body arched ever higher until suddenly the storm broke over him.

Harry heard the rolling thunder and saw the lightning flash. He arched his back and thrust his hips upward. His eyes rolled back in his head and he groaned loudly as his orgasm exploded and the Pride thickened, grew longer, and pulsed a thick stream of creamy white cum. Harry had no time to recover as yet another orgasm rolled through him and again the Pride pulsed. Within seconds yet another roll of thunder, a deep and glorious orgasm, crashed through him.

The intensity of his experience was so great that Harry had no idea how many times he orgasmed. It could have been three, more likely four, each more intense and stronger than the one before it. He only knew that his whole being had been consumed by the most glorious feeling he had ever experienced. Emotionally drained, the Pride dripping with his juices, Harry collapsed against the cushions, his whole body glowing with pleasure.

Seeing that Harry had finished, Cory released him and lay beside him, a grin of total satisfaction on his face.

"Holy Jesus and Nancy Lee!" gasped Harry when he was finally able to recover at least a part of his breath. "What did you do to me?"

"I took you across the river," Cory whispered, a note of triumph in his voice, and thinking that he had to remember to thank The Phantom for teaching him how to do it.

Harry could only swallow hard and breathe heavily through his nose. Cory resisted the temptation to reach down and clean the Pride. Not so Todd. He left off licking Harry's now shrivelled bag and leaned upward. He ran his tongue along the still hard shaft, slowly drinking the sweetest of nectars. He was totally unprepared for what happened when he placed his lips against the deep red glans of Harry's cock. Harry's glans, after four orgasms or more (he never did know how many) was so sensitive that the slightest touch sent a jolt of excruciating pleasure through him. He let out a loud yelp, pulled back, leapt like a salmon in spawning season and rolled to his side, pushing Cory roughly onto the deck. Harry had jerked so rapidly that he lost his balance and kept on rolling. He landed with a thud, all six feet, 180 pounds of him, on top of Cory. When he recovered from the shock, Cory looked up at Todd, who was laughing so hard he was doubled over clutching his stomach and deathly afraid that he was go to pee himself.

Harry lay on top of Cory mumbling his apologies. Cory was a bit stunned, but not all that upset. He could feel the warm, sweaty sheen of Harry's body against his. The Pride, still iron hard, lay alongside his own equally hard erection.

Harry's mumbling subsided and his arms snaked around Cory's body. He began to lick and kiss Cory's shoulder and his hips slowly began to thrust as he humped the Pride over and through Cory's patch of dark blonde pubic hair. Harry slowly moved his arms, supporting most of his weight on his elbows. He never released his hold on Cory and he continued to hump, rubbing the Pride expertly across Cory's hardon.

Not that Cory minded. The friction of Harry's hot penis against his own was mind numbing, and he was about to give himself over to enjoying a dry rub when he realized that there was something much more pleasurable for them to do. "Harry," he whispered seductively.

Harry, much too engrossed in the pleasure that was radiating from his groin, grunted.

"Harry!" said Cory louder, and much less seductively.

Harry, who could feel another orgasm slowly building, thrust The Pride slowly along Cory's belly. And grunted.

Cory, by now pissed off, thumped the top of Harry's head. "HARRY!"

Harry, distracted by Cory's blow, jerk upright. "What? What the hell did you do that for?"

Cory reached up and tweaked Harry's nipples. "Harry, you know how you said whatever happens, happens?" he asked sweetly.

Todd leaned forward. "This ought to be good," he thought.

"Well, Harry, I like what you're doing. It feels very nice and all, but really, Harry, I would like . . . Cory smiled at Harry and pinched both of his nipples. "Please?"

"You want what to happen?" replied Harry as Cory's hand slipped down and fisted the Pride. Cory's thumb slowly passed over Harry's leaking helmet, cleaning it of the precum that seeped slowly from the slit. As Harry watched Cory raised his thumb to his mouth, then slowly sucked it in. A smile of wondrous joy broke Cory's fine, golden face and Harry realized what Cory wanted him to do. "You . . .you . . .you want me to fuck you?" he stammered. He looked down at the Pride, still tall, still hard, standing proud. The Pride looked back. "I'm pretty big, Cory," Harry said doubtfully. "I might hurt you."

Cory slowly shook his head from side to side. "Harry, when you and Stefan are finally together, do you plan on fucking him or making love to him?" he asked calmly.

Harry puffed up with indignation. "Fuck him? Why would you say that? I love him and one day I want to make love to him!"

Cory cocked an eyebrow but said nothing.

Harry sat back on his heels and looked longingly at Cory. Suddenly he raised his hands to his face. "Aw, shit!" He dropped his hands and lowered himself onto Cory. Their lips met and their tongues embraced. "I'm sorry, honest. I didn't mean it like it sounded. I don't want to fuck you. I do want to make love to you," he murmured as their lips parted.

Todd raised his eyes to heaven and flopped against the back of the settee. He stuck his finger into his mouth as if to make himself vomit.

"But Cory," wailed Harry. "I don't know what to do! I've never made love to anybody before. Not even a girl!"

Todd sat upright. "Get outta here! Are you saying that you're still a virgin?"

Harry looked stricken. "I am, honest. Stefan and me, we never did much more than rub each other and suck each other. And kissing. He loves to kiss. Greg, well him and me, we did blow each other, but nothing more."

Todd sank back against the cushions. "Well I will be damned," he muttered. Then he saw the look on Cory's face. "All hands to the pumps, Cory just hit pay dirt!" he murmured.

Cory gave his brother a dirty look. Then he smiled at Harry. "Harry," he began softly, "if you want, we will teach you how to love."

Todd almost suffocated trying to squelch his snort of disgust. And where did Cory get this we will teach you how to love shit?

Fortunately for Cory, Harry did not hear Todd.

"The first thing you have to know is that when you are making love you have to make it as pleasurable to the other guy as it is for you." Cory gently stroked the Pride.

"Okay," replied Harry. He exhaled loudly. "Gosh, that feels good." Cory nodded. "Okay, first we need some lubrication. You've got a real gusher here but it's not enough. Is there any Vaseline in this place?"

Silently Todd fumbled for his shorts. He reached into the pocket and pulled out a tube of Vaseline. He leaned forward and handed it to Cory who looked at him quizzically. "I had great expectations if it didn't rain," Todd sighed.

Cory giggled and returned to Harry. "Now, first off, you have to be really lubed up." Harry reached for the tube but Cory gently pushed his hand aside. "I'll do it." With loving care Cory spread a huge glob of lubricant over, around and down the Pride. He did it slowly and carefully, sending shivers through Harry's body. When he was satisfied Cory handed the tube to Harry. Then he drew his legs back, raising his ass higher, exposing his pink and brown, wrinkled love hole. "Now, put some on your finger. Then I want you to stick your finger very slowly up my bum and wiggle it around," he instructed.

It all sounded clinical to Todd, but Harry was fascinated. "You rubbing my dick, and me sticking my finger into you, that's foreplay, huh?"

Cory gasped slightly as Harry's finger probed his hole. "Slow, Harry."

Harry nodded his understanding and slowly inserted his finger. He felt the tip cross a small, spongy mass and smiled as Cory jerked and shuddered.

"Oh, yeah!" Cory moaned as his legs quivered.

Harry was a quick learner. He withdrew his finger and lubed up two fingers. He again slowly inserted them, probing slowly for Cory's prostate. Cory bucked when Harry's fingers again found his prostate. To heighten what was obviously a very pleasurable experience, Harry reached down and fisted Cory's deep red, 6-inch hardon. He ran his fingers up and across the sensitive bundle of skin just under the head of Cory's dick. Cory groaned as a huge river of precum oozed from his piss slit.

Todd, mesmerized, lay back and took his dick in his hand. He slowly stroked himself and his own erection rose thick and strong.

Harry had a good idea as to what he should do next. He withdrew his fingers and pushed The Pride down. He moved forward until the head of his dick was just touching Cory's hole. "Just go slow, Harry, go slow," instructed Cory.

Harry pushed and felt his round knob slide into Cory. Cory gasped, then nodded for Harry to proceed. Harry pushed again and the first third of the Pride disappeared into Cory. The warmth, and tightness, astounded him. He groaned slightly. He waited while Cory became accustomed to the thickness that he wanted to fill him completely. When Cory nodded again Harry pushed forward until all of the Pride was in Cory. His pubic hairs were crushed against Cory's hot, firm butt, and the Escorts brushed against the fine hairs lining Cory's crack.

Cory reached out and pulled Harry to him. Harry nestled his mouth in the crook of Cory's shoulder. He was breathing heavily as Cory wrapped his legs around him. "Go slow, Harry,"

Instinctively Harry began slow, tentative movements, moving with deliberate slowness as he withdrew every inch of the Pride except the head. Without pausing he thrust slowly inward. Cory whimpered ecstatically as the head of the Pride crossed his prostate. Harry began a slow, gentle rhythm, sliding the Pride in and out of Cory. With each inward thrust Cory whimpered and clutched Harry closer.

Cory's tightness was unbelievable. The muscles of his channel seemed to be electrified and each thrust sent huge waves of pleasure roaring through Harry. He buried his head in Cory's neck and he moaned and licked the soft skin his mouth found there.

With each movement Harry's belly rubbed across Cory's raging, leaking hardon. The dual sensations of the Pride thrusting into him and nudging his prostate, and the soft hair of Harry's belly rubbing the underside of his dick, pushed Cory closer and closer to the edge.

Harry could feel his orgasm building and he increased the tempo of his thrusting, stoking the fire that raged within his balls. The increased friction across his erection sent Cory hurtling over the edge and his dick pulsed and jet after jet of his thick juice coated his belly and Harry's. As his first ejaculation slammed over him Cory tightened the muscles of his ass. This was more than Harry could take. He thrust deeply upward and a long, low moan escaped his lips. He jerked spasmodically as his balls emptied again.

Cory continued to moan as the last drops of his ejaculate oozed from his softening dick. He could feel the warm, thick liquid that was Harry fill him. Moaning deliriously Harry continued to make short, sharp thrusts until he was completely empty. He let out a final, long moan, and lay still, unable to move.

As Harry's moan died away Todd grunted loudly and his orgasm exploded from the end of his dick. A huge ribbon of his semen flew outward and splattered across Harry's back. Another, equally powerful jet followed, then another. Grunting with joy Todd continued to pump his dick until he too collapsed in exhaustion. Cory continued to hug Harry until he regained some semblance of sanity. All too soon he felt the Pride, soft now, drop out of his body.

Harry raised his head and gave Cory a long, lingering kiss. He stared lovingly into the clear blue eyes of the boy he had just made love to, into the clear blue eyes of the boy who had given him such pleasures as he never, in all his wildest imaginings, thought existed.

Harry's first time at making love had been so glorious that he doubted he could ever again experience such ecstasy. Cory would have none of it. "A big, strapping guy like you, with your balls? You're good for at least a couple of more times." He waved his hand airily. "Fuck, I've only cum once and I'm good for at least three more cums."

Todd, intrigued, gave Cory a fishy look. "Three more times?" he asked suspiciously.

"Yup," confirmed Cory.

Harry did not believe him. "Cory, are you saying that you've cum four times in one session?"

"Yes, I did. And so have you, because you came at least four times when you went across the river, another time just now." Harry and Cory were lying side by each. Todd was sitting cross-legged on the settee. Cory reached down and fondled Harry's balls. "Good for at least a couple of more go-rounds," he chuckled lecherously.

Until this night Harry had never in his entire life cum more than once. He rather liked the thought that he and the Twins would be staying a little longer in the Unwinding Room. "You think so, then?"

"Sure. All you have to do is pace yourself. You are at the height of your sexuality."

"Is that how you managed to cum four times in one session?" asked Todd with heavy sarcasm.

"Yes," replied Cory, not paying the least attention to his brother.

"And just when did this happen, may I ask?" Todd's voice had taken on a brittle tone.

Harry cast a nervous glance at Todd. He did not at all like the way Todd was sounding.

"Do you remember Blake Ashby Putnam?" asked Cory with a grin.

"Who is Blake Ashby Putnam?" asked Harry in all innocence.

"He's the nephew of the cousin of one of our mother's best friends," snarled Todd as he gave Cory an evil look. "He is a corporal in the 1st Battalion, the Black Watch."

"That's him," confirmed Cory.

"And just what does Blake Ashby Putnam have to do with anything?" Todd's tone was icy.

Harry cringed, but said nothing.

Cory, who was not at all intimidated by his brother's dirty look, said frankly, "When you were on QUEST he was in town and since his Aunt Mary is Mummy's friend he decided to call. She had some meeting to go to so she asked me to entertain him."

Todd leaned forward, his face suffused with anger. "And entertain him you did!" he accused his brother. "You entertained him right out of his kilt!"

"Why shouldn't I?" Cory straightened his shoulders and look Todd square in the eye. "You were off chasing Sylvain around the boondocks."

"I was not!" roared Todd.

"Were too!" Cory roared back. "And him with a foreskin as long as his nose! You had your fun. I had mine!" He was beginning to tire of Todd's Mother Superior attitude.

"Fun! Ha!" returned Todd with an angry snarl. "All you did was find out that there's more under a Kiltie's skirt than a cold bum!"

"Four times!" returned Cory just as loudly, not at all ashamed of what he had done. "And you're right! There is a lot more under a Kiltie's skirt than a cold bum . . . " He looked directly at Todd's flaccid penis. " . . . A lot more!"

Harry, who knew the makings of a battle royal when he saw one, also knew that there was no use in trying to reason with the Twins when they went to war. By the same token, he did not want the night to end on such a sour note. Besides, he wanted to test Cory's theory of being able to cum at least two more times. He decided to do what he knew would shut them both up. He reached out and fisted Cory's dick. At almost the same time he leaned forward and sucked Todd's soft penis into his mouth.

Todd was so surprised that his mouth shut with a loud snap. His whole dick was in Harry's mouth and he could feel Harry's hot breath against his pubic mound.

Harry pumped Cory and sucked long and hard on Todd. Todd could not help himself. Harry's mouth was magnificent and he began thrusting his hips, moaning, "Oh, Jesus, Harry, not so fast. I'll cum, fuck Harry, I'll cum."

Harry ignored Todd's protest and continued to suck. He could hear Todd's raspy panting, and in just minutes he felt Todd's dick thicken.

"Holy Jesus, Harry, I'm gonna cum," squealed Todd.

"Me too!" yelped Cory.

Harry felt Todd's penis jerk and pulled back. Todd began thrusting rapidly and his thick cum filled Harry's mouth. Harry swallowed rapidly, not wanting to waste a drop of the sweetest tasting cum this side of Stefan. At the same time he could feel Cory's hot juices spattering his hand and oozing slowly down his fist.

Squalling almost as loudly as Harry had, Todd quickly jerked his dick out of Harry's mouth. With a small yelp Cory also pulled away.

Harry sat back and wiped a small dollop of semen from the corner of his lip. He grinned at Todd. "That's two down. Two to go."