Littlest Lifeguard

The Littlest Lifeguard -- Part 13 By Ocean Lover Guy

Tim Spencer woke up in his new bedroom on Saturday morning. This was his second full day as a legal adult. The first thing that popped into his mind wasn't food or the need for a visit to the bathroom. It was a feeling of stupidity as he hadn't yet told Kyle about what happened. Tim loved Kyle like a brother. In fact, he thought he might love the kid more than that. But Kyle was gay and he needed someone who could love him and give him the physical attentions he would need.

Tim got out of bed, still naked, and dug out his new cell phone. It had been an "adult day" present from his lawyer. Ryan had tried to explain who the man was, but it still didn't really make sense. Tim knew that the lawyer would get the bill for this phone, not him, so he would have to be careful with it.

"Hello," came the tired response.

"May I speak to the dicklicker of the house?"

"Tim?"

The littlest lifeguard couldn't keep from laughing. "Yeah."

"The phone didn't recognize the number."

"I got a new cell phone, Kyle."

"Cool. But, bud, it's early and I'm tired so no more fag jokes, okay."

"Yeah, yeah. So I got some news."

"Yeah?" Kyle seemed more interested.

"You got the car today?"

"Yeah?"

"Come out and visit me this morning. I have to work at two, but I want to show you where I'm living now."

"What." Kyle asked. He was tired and not great in the mornings.

Tim said the address twice and Kyle indicated he could find it.

Tim got a shower, put his clothes on, and then ate some breakfast while he waited.

Tim's cell phone rang while he was sitting waiting for his bud to show up. "Give me that address again," came the voice. Kyle seemed pissed off.

Tim rattled it off again.

"I'm not some schmuck pizza delivery boy. You want to tell me where you really are?"

Tim's forehead scrunched up. "I'm not lying. Where the hell are you?"

"Outside the gates to the address you gave me. You live on a farm now?"

"Well, yes," Tim said. He walked out the front door of his cabin. "Can you see me? I can see your car, Kyle."

Tim waved big. He heard the word "fucker" over his phone before Kyle's car, a rat trap of a no-name Chevy, started moving.

"What the fuck, Tim?"

"I can tell you're hungry, Kyle. Come in, I'll make you some food, you'll calm down, and then I'll explain everything."

The rest of the morning went just as Tim had thought. Kyle eventually calmed down and Tim explained what he could. He still didn't understand why the lawyer was involved. He knew the money for the little cabin he was renting from Bert was coming from the lawyer. The old man said he was holding it for the use of Tim, Ryan, and their sister.

"Bullshit you're an adult. You're a bigger kid than I am," was Kyle's final statement on the matter. Of course, he lit up in a huge smile afterwards. "I call this room," he said, pointing to the smaller of the two rooms in the cabin, "as mine. When I find some hot ass, this is where I'm bringing him."

The shrieking noise finally woke Ryan from his sleep. He was staying in that very room. He opened the door, stepped out, and flashed hard in his boxers. As he turned with a grunt into the bathroom, his little pink friend poked out and made his presence known.

"He's hot, Tim."

"Eww."

"And he's in my bedroom. He's all mine."

Tim drug his friend around the grounds until Kyle finally started asking the obvious questions. "Who the hell owns this place?"

Tim smiled. "Want to meet the landlord?"

Kyle looked at Tim like he was crazy. Still he followed right along as Tim steered them to the large home at the top of a small hill. Tim knocked then opened the door and walked in. He kicked off his shoes, so Kyle did the same. "Bert?"

"In the office, Tim."

Tim started moving around the beautiful, but small, home like he knew it well. Eventually Tim lead them to the back of the home and Kyle caught a glimpse of a large bed before Tim turned and led them into a small, book-lined office. An older man stood up and hugged Tim.

Kyle felt instantly jealous. The guy was hot and he looked a bit familiar.

"Kyle, this is my landlord Bert Tate."

Kyle stuck out his hand for a "straight" handshake. Tim rolled his eyes. Kyle thought about the name for a second. "Herbert Tate, the writer?"

The tall man nodded. Wow, Kyle thought. He'd met the man before, just as Tim had, when the writer came to speak to his school. Now he was really meeting the writer.

Tim watched the two interact with each other. Bert was his typical shy self. But then Kyle was acting shy, too. He was never shy around people. It took a few minutes before Tim understood what he was seeing.

"Want a Coke, Bert? Kyle?"

Neither really said much.

"I'm thirsty. Be back in a sec."

Tim stayed away for a few minutes. He'd mostly finished a Coke before he walked back slowly. He heard two of the important men in his life talking together like they had known each other for a lifetime -- like they wanted to keep knowing each other for a lifetime.

Tim poked his head in the room. "I have to say bye to Ryan before he heads back to school. You two keep talking."

Tim scrambled back into his shoes and got out of that house before either person could realize what was going on. Both Bert and Kyle had been looking for a long time it seemed. Maybe now both had found someone of interest. Kyle was a major fan of Bert's books, but he didn't just love a person for his mind. He'd found people to fool around with since he was thirteen. He'd started early, Kyle always said, and wanted to finish late. Bert would have his hands full with that kid. He claimed to be continuously hard and horny. Tim shuddered to think of his best friend having sex. It wasn't the thought of him having sex with a man, it was the thought of him having sex at all. But if that's what he wanted, then that's what Tim wanted for him.

Tim walked back into his cabin. Funny word that, his. Tim had thought of it as "a" cabin or "the" cabin. Now it was "his" cabin, "my" cabin. A new home. A home that his mother had supported him in getting, that his brother had schemed for, that had actually appeared.

"Ryan, you still here?"

"Packing."

Tim walked into his cabin and back to where his brother had been staying. "Leaving already?"

"I'll stay for lunch. I want to get back and see if I can start catching up."

Tim smiled. "Plus you're probably horny."

"Let's just say there had better be no headaches tonight."

Tim laughed. "Thank you," he said. It sounded quiet. It sounded like Tim had never said anything he meant quite as much.

Ryan stopped packing and his head turned toward his brother.

"Give me a hug, you goof." Tim and Ryan hugged for a few seconds.

"Of course. And you're welcome."

"I didn't say why I was thanking you."

"You were offering up your thanks for my hugs. I give great hug."

"I'm related to an idiot," Tim said.

Ryan laughed. "Why aren't you with Kyle? Get bored with your friend?"

Tim smiled again, his little mischievous smile. "I think he got bored with me -- or he found someone more interesting."

"Who?"

"Guess."

"No. No way, you little yenta."

Tim shrugged. "I just wanted Kyle to meet Bert. You know, he likes what Bert writes. But then they were all quiet and staring so I just left them to it."

"Nature takes its course?"

"Of course."

Ryan put the last few items back into his quickly packed bag and zipped it up again. "I'm going to miss you, kid."

"You'll come back for the summer. I'll get Bert to make you the pool boy. You'll be a hell of a lot nicer than the last one."

Ryan looked shocked, but then he realized that his brother was joking about the man who had attacked him. Humor was usually a good sign. "I'll throw you in the deep end every time I see you."

"And, unlike you, Ryan, I can actually swim."

Ryan didn't have a rejoinder to that.

"Let's go see the love birds and find some food," Ryan said after a few minutes. He'd lost the battle of wits with his brother but he wouldn't admit it.

Robin Spencer had spent the morning golfing. His mind had been as calm as it ever was. He'd shot a 82 on a par 75 course, one of his better days on the greens. He'd tried calling Maggie once, but her cell phone number had been deactivated. Robin figured he didn't lose anything by having an estranged wife.

When he pulled up to the garage doors to his home, he tried the clicker but the doors weren't moving. Robin wondered if the power had gone out. This was a new-ish subdivision, very high end, but still they lost power from time to time. He parked his car in the drive way and walked to his front door. There was an envelope taped to it. Robin tore it down and jabbed his keys in the lock.

The lock wouldn't turn. The door wouldn't open. Robin swore before he remembered the envelope. He ripped the paper open and saw a one page letter from Wetschel & Ahmansen.

Robin knew what it would say before he even read it. Ryan had called Bunning. Bunning, the executor of the estate that purchased this house, had kicked Robin out.

The letter confirmed the whole thing. Robin felt the shock of embarrassment flow through him. He made $104,000 last year. He could afford a nice house, just not this nice a house. Now he was back to living on his own salary.

The letter told Robin to return in three days' time to collect his personal possessions from the house. Bunning was even making this whole an embarrassment. Robin would have to leave work early just to get his clothing and his diplomas. All the rest of it was just stuff.

"Well, fuck it," Robin said. He walked around the house to the patio. He picked up one of the heavy wooden chairs and threw it through the floor-to-ceiling glass. He stepped through the gaping hole in his former home and walked upstairs. The alarm was firing, but Robin didn't care. He'd be gone in a few minutes. He threw everything he wanted into three pieces of luggage.

He walked back out of the house, this time leaving the front door wide open to whoever wanted to come in, and never looked back.

Mr. Featherstone felt that the tension in his boy's body was slackening. He wasn't scared any more. He felt the routine with Mr. Featherstone. He felt lulled in a false sense of safety. He gave up his worn hole twice a day, answered some questions, exercised, and ate his single meal a day.

Mr. Featherstone decided to play one of his cards.

He was still inside the boy. He'd cum, but his cock was still hard. Mr. Featherstone started thrusting again. The boy groaned in frustration. The desensitizers had let Mr. Featherstone last a very long time.

He pulled out of the boy and decided to try a more painful approach. The hole seemed plenty slack now. It was time to fix that. Mr. Featherstone reached into the small kit he'd brought with him and removed a bottle of astringent, for tightening the skin. He turned the boy over on the armature he'd constructed so his hole was straight up and the boy's head was toward the ground. He poured half an ounce of the stuff right on the boy's pucker. Aside from the sting it provided to all the cuts and scraps, it was starting to pull the slackness back into tightness. The wanton whore was becoming virginal again. So much more for the pain.

Mr. Featherstone let the boy suffer for a few minutes in that position. He pulled off the spent condom and pulled on another. This one, this one would be special. The boy was already in all kinds of pain. Mr. Featherstone opened a small tube and applied a substance to the end of the condom. He was careful about how much and where he put it. He was sure not to get any on his fingers. Fucking this way wouldn't feel good for either party. To be sure that the slop didn't hit Mr. Featherstone's flesh, he would be able to push very far in. Mr. Featherstone wasn't packing much in the length department to start with, he almost laughed at himself.

He returned the boy to a fuckable position and then stabbed himself inside the tightening hole. Far from a slack response, every part of the boy's body fired in response.

Mr. Featherstone began plugging away, a porn star working for an unappreciative audience. The boy was really wailing now. He must feel the enormous heat lodged around his anus. The goop was a capsaicin cream, the stuff that made chile peppers hot, the stuff that made pepper spray so painful. Now the boy had a good wad of it being rubbed into his tender asshole with every partial stroke. It would continue heating up for a good while. It would stay hot for even longer.

Mr. Featherstone continued on his merry way until he decided to stop and begin his campaign of terror.

"Do I have your attention, boy?"

"Yes," he sobbed out.

"Yes?"

"Yes, Mr. Featherstone."

Mr. Featherstone gave the boy a few more strokes.

"Good. Tell me, how many Herbert Tate novels have you read?"

"What?"

Instead of answering, Mr. Featherstone started thrusting again.

"Most of them," came the answer.

"Did you read his fourth book?"

"Of course. It's infamous."

"Why?"

"The villain who gets away. He was a horrible creation, as savage as Hannibal Lecter, but treated with loving care in the book."

"Why was he horrible?"

"He broke people. He tortured them. He tried to change them." At that the boy shrieked. Mr. Featherstone hadn't resumed his fucking. He hadn't needed to. The boy was beginning to realize something.

"What was the villain's name?"

"August Featherstone," the boy choked out.

"You're very slow, boy. I put this in front of you the first day we met. In fact, I picked the name just for you. In this case, I really am Mr. Featherstone. I told Herbert many of my stories years ago and he based this `horrible' creature on me. You should see how Herbert dedicated the copy of the book he gave me. It would make you laugh." Hearing the sobbing coming from the armature, Mr. Featherstone realized that his point was made. "Or maybe not. That Mr. Featherstone is fiction. I am all too real."

Mr. Featherstone resumed his fucking. The boy had begun to learn his lesson. He had begun to understand the depths of what was happening to him. He would change or, according to the book, the infamous one, he would die.

The Littlest Lifeguard -- Part 14 By Ocean Lover Guy

Herbert Tate woke up and felt alive. He reached out and felt the warm lump in his bed. Nominally, the lump, known as Kyle, was staying with Tim in the boy's cabin over the long weekend. But he kept finding his way into Herbert's bed. He had long ago clawed his way into Herbert's heart.

The kid kept pushing to go full-anal, but Herbert kept using only his mouth on the kid's always-hard cock. He was taller than Herbert and bigger, too, in the cock-and-ball department. Plus, he didn't summon up ghosts every time Herbert looked at him. The straight boys Tim and Ryan were near doppelgangers for the dead Paul Wolfe, scarily similar for first cousins.

Herbert put his hand on the man-child and felt his moving chest. He was so beautiful. Herbert traced Kyle's shape under the covers. He loved every muscle he touched. The kid had beautiful skin. It always had a touch of salt whenever Herbert licked at it. It always made Kyle laugh when Herbert caressed it or tickled the man-child's flesh.

Herbert's hand sought out Kyle's hard appendage. It was pretty much always hard. He shifted his body in the bed and threw off the top comforter. He was going to be visiting Kyle's favorite friend for a few minutes. Herbert enjoyed giving pleasure, but he didn't want to smother from his efforts. His tongue, a kind of heat-seaking missile, found the man-child's slit and then took a leisurely lick down the entire length. Kyle squeaked in the bed. Herbert knew that Kyle was faking being asleep.

Since he didn't have to fear waking the boy up, Herbert went to work, with aggressive intent, on his favorite person. The cock slammed its way into Herbert's throat. His tongue was everywhere all at once. Then Herbert pulled the boy slowly back out, slow and torturous, all the better for Kyle's pleasure. Then Herbert attacked Kyle's softest skin, his sac, his bag, his lovely bunch of coconuts.

Herbert had Kyle moving around the bed. He was very ticklish, especially in his erogenous zones, so he was almost scooting off the bed even when he wanted Herbert's tongue exactly where it was.

Herbert crawled up and then pinned Kyle to the bed and went back to work on the man-child's beautiful cock. It was big, but it felt just right in Herbert's mouth and throat. It was also a leaker, but Herbert found he liked all the added flavor. He liked everything Kyle-flavored.

Kyle grunted twice and then Herbert's mouth filled with essence of Kyle. Quite a bunch leaked out of his full mouth. Herbert had never been able to drink and swallow at the same time. What he collected, though, it was quite nice.

Kyle, almost immediately, resumed his slumber breathing pattern. He was a boy of mystery. He'd just shot off and then conked out again. Herbert could wake him up in thirty minutes and have his way with the boy again. He was a beautiful little spunk pump.

As Kyle had now basically stripped the bed clean with all his movements over it, plus the fact that he was spreadeagled in the middle of the bed, Herbert decided he had to get up. He'd let Kyle sleep some more, the tired little sex moppet, and then come and wake up his tender morsels later on.

Herbert had tugged on his ratty robe, the one he loved, the one that Paul had purchased for him, when the phone rang. Herbert was passing his office so he ducked in and picked up the phone. He didn't want Kyle to wake up because of this telephonic intruder.

Herbert listened to the insistent caller without saying anything for the first minute. Herbert blanched immediately and slowly his color came back. "Yes, yes, I'll do it. Stanley, I think that would be for the best," he said.

A number of people would eventually find out what Herbert had just learned. Herbert thought that one person in particular needed to know. He lifted up the phone, dug around on his desk for the business card, and dialed the numbers.

Tim woke up with the nightmare again. Ever since the stunt, as he termed it, he'd been waking up a couple nights a week dreaming of burning alive. The funny part was that Tim was physically fine from the whole thing. His leg hair had even had time to regrow. Tim had intervened on behalf of the two bullies and tried to get the system to treat them with leniency. "It was a joke, a stupid one, not even funny. They didn't mean for it to happen that way," he'd said. Tim was still waiting to hear what would happen.

He had work in a couple hours. He'd watch the ladies who liked their lunch. Then he'd have to spend his last two hours at the pool in the same enclosed space as Roger the Fuck Up. Roger Who Had a Friend Named Trance. At least Ellie would be there and several other people, too.

Tim felt incredibly sad lying alone in his bed. He got up, though, because that's who he was. He stood naked in his bedroom inside his cabin. That made him feel better. He was going to have dinner with his mother and Jessie tomorrow night, Sunday. The estate had decided to rent the home Tim had spent the last few years in back to his mother and sister. And for a way-below-market-rate. Jessie was still confused as hell, but she wasn't quite old enough to really get into the details.

Tim walked to the kitchen without bothering to put anything on. If Kyle were actually staying in the spare bedroom, he'd cover up his body. But Tim had the cabin to himself. He poured himself some cereal, threw on the milk, and skipped the sugar. Tim already had enough excess energy. He stood at his kitchen counter, one hand scratching his balls, the other scooping semi-soggy bits of cereal into his mouth.

After he showered and dressed, with his speedo on underneath his lifeguard uniform, Tim threw on a light coat. The weather wasn't too bad these days, but you could never count on what was going to happen later in the day. Sunshine in the morning, but maybe rain or sleet by the time his working day was done.

Tim showed up to the pool a few minutes before Ellie showed. She had the key to the place so Tim sat in his new used Civic. The lawyer had really come through on all fronts. The guy had even offered a new Civic, but Tim knew exactly which one he wanted. It was metallic blue and about four years old. It was just right.

Ellie waved to him when she got out of her car. Tim thought she was nice. He got out and walked to the door of the pool. They'd be working together for the first two hours before the next staffers showed up.

She spent most of the time interrogating him on what had happened to him over the past few weeks. She had heard a lot of gossip, most of it dead wrong, from fellow coworkers, but she wanted the story straight from the source.

Tim was flattered and a little embarrassed to talk about himself so much. Ellie was older, in college already, and had a mind and a body that matched. He liked looking at her and he liked speaking to her even more.

By the time Roger showed up, Tim was in a relaxed state. He almost didn't catch what Ellie asked him. "What," he said.

"I'll kick him in the nuts for you if you'll have dinner with me tonight," she said.

"I'll have dinner with you if you just promise not to kick me in the nuts," Tim said.

"Deal," she said. She wandered off and Tim wondered what he'd just done. He'd never been on a date before -- and this dinner with Ellie sounded like a date.

He helped a couple customers at the front desk, answered the phone twice, and fifteen minutes had passed before he remembered what Ellie had asked. He turned around to stare at the pool and try to find her. When he did, she intercepted Roger, blocked the general view of what was happening, and let his little boys have a violent whack. Tim saw Roger hit the concrete deck.

Ellie was smiling. Then she bent down to "help" her victim. Tim decided he definitely didn't want to cross this woman.

The rest of the day passed quickly. Roger played the sympathy card and spent his working time in the employee changing area lying down from his "fall." He didn't have the balls to tell anyone how Ellie had attacked him in full view of the public without retribution.

Tim wandered into the break area where Roger was lying like a drunken lord. He took his clothes out of the room and went into the public changing area to get into real clothes again. He left his speedo on because he often preferred swimwear to underwear. He hadn't said a thing to Roger, but Ellie made sure that he didn't need to.

Tim walked over to Ellie and they settled on plans for dinner. Tim would meet her at Bennigan's up the road at seven. Ellie had to work another hour before her day ended. Tim smiled and then walked out the door.

Robin Spencer sat in the parking lot in rented car. His own car, the Lexus, had been repossessed. It had also been owned by his father's estate. Now Robin lived in a furnished rental and drove a rental car. He was trying to fix both problems. He was trying to fix his problems permanently.

He saw the faggot come out of the pool and start walking toward a blue Civic. Someone had bought him a car, probably the same older faggot who was tapping his ass. Tit-for-tat, car-for-ass.

He was following his son now, learning his routines. He'd never paid much attention earlier, never really cared what the little boy-cunt was doing with his time. Now Robin cared. He'd take care of Tim, then he'd made short work of Maggie. She'd betrayed Robin; she'd gone into the judge and supported the faggot and gotten the judge to declare him a fist-cramming, ass feltching legal adult. Robin felt sick.

Robin had heard that the little faggot was living with the writer, the big faggot. Robin wanted to see it for himself. He had plenty of ideas how to make the problem go away.

When the little fag drove off, Robin followed. Tim drove in exactly the most direct path back to the writer-fag's house. Robin knew what he needed to know. He'd be in front tomorrow to start the problem solving.

Robin drove his rental back to the apartment he was renting. When he opened the door and walked in, he felt someone grab him and he felt the prick of a needle. That was all he knew.

The Littlest Lifeguard -- Part 15 By Ocean Lover Guy

Mr. Featherstone had spent the last four weeks asking the same questions over and over again. The boy was getting so close to breaking, but he never quite did. He decided on a different tact today: killing with kindness. The boy was so close.

He brought the boy in a veritable feast. Then he sat down and ate with the boy. Preston betrayed no shock, but he was slower to move, slower to take the food into his body. Then Mr. Featherstone cleared away the plates and started to rub the boy's body. At first, the boy was filled with tension, waiting for the trick and the pain to arrive. It never did. Mr. Featherstone pushed the boy to the floor and then took his hardness in his mouth. Since Preston had been here, he had been allowed three orgasms. The fourth one flooded Mr. Featherstone's mouth.

Then Mr. Featherstone asked the boy to blow him. He knew when spiteful subjects meant him harm. He read the boy and could see no malice, only pain slowly leaching away. Pain and desire. Mr. Featherstone lasted a long time inside the boy's mouth before he finally gave way.

He let the boy sleep for an hour before he roused him to begin their lessons.

"You may wear this, if you choose," Mr. Featherstone said, offering a pair of white low-rise briefs to the boy.

"What?"

"You're nearing graduation, boy. You can have some modesty back, if you'd like it."

Preston took the offered gift of clothing, but he did not put them on. Mr. Featherstone suspected that he never would.

"Tell me again," Mr. Featherstone started, "why you wanted to hurt Herbert Tate."

Instead of the usual words the boy uttered every other time the question got asked, Preston started sobbing. Mr. Featherstone leaned over to the boy and engulfed him in his arms. "Get it all out. All of it."

Then the explanation came in spluttered bursts. How Preston felt that Herbert pushed him away. How Preston had wanted to stay, even though Herbert had gotten him an agent and a book deal. How Preston only wanted to be with Herbert, even though the entire time he'd demonstrated his sluttish ways as often as he could.

"Why did you try to hurt the young man?"

Preston started crying harder. Mr. Featherstone hugged him even tighter. "It's okay. It's okay. He's alright. You can apologize to him. You can help to make it a little better for him."

"He was so beautiful," Preston said. "I just wanted to own him for a while, to break him, to make it so that no one would ever want him."

"Like how you thought Herbert didn't want you?"

Preston's head moved against Mr. Featherstone's shoulder. "Herbert loved you in his own way, but I think he was still grieving for a man you never knew. What you did, though, it snapped Herbert out of his stupor. You're both different people, Preston. You can have your life back."

The words fell on deaf ears. Preston had cried himself asleep. Mr. Featherstone was glad. They were now past the half-way point. Now Mr. Featherstone could split his time between this young man on the mend and other subjects who needed his attentions, whether they knew it or not.

Mr. Featherstone held the boy until his shoulder and arm went numb, then he woke Preston up and invited him to come into the house for the evening meal. The two, hand in hand, walked out naked as the day they were born.

Tim, Kyle, Maggie Spencer, and Jessie all had a wonderful Sunday supper. Tim began to see his mother in new ways. He was glad that the gloom cloud his father cast had dissipated, but he still missed his father.

For nearly fifteen minutes, Tim couldn't stop talking about his first date. He talked about the fatty food they ate. He talked about what he and Ellie had talked about. He talked about how pretty she was. He repeated himself more than once in his exuberance. His happiness was almost sickening.

All Kyle could do was smile. He had his own happy thoughts to keep him content.

Maggie picked up her dish to carry it into the kitchen when the phone rang. She had had the home phone number changed after Robin had pulled his psycho act. Very few people knew this new number. She picked up the phone with a nervous hesitation.

"Oh, Mr. Tate, Tim is right here."

She waved Tim over to the phone and then sat down again. "Doesn't he have a cell phone?"

Kyle smiled. "He leaves it in his car most of the time."

"At least he's not chewing up the minutes."

Tim came back into the room and looked a bit pale. "Mom, Bert said that someone has come to see me at the farm."

"Who? Not your asshole father?"

"No, not him. I'll tell you about it later. Kyle, are you ready? I can drop you at home." Tim was very clear in his statement that Kyle was not spending a school night sleeping in "the cabin," which for Kyle meant Herbert Tate's bed.

"Okay," Kyle said.

The boys

"Is it bad," Kyle asked. They had a special vocabulary for discussing painful topics. Bad like this referred back to all manner of unwanted sexual issues, like the time Tim had been touched by his brother's older friend.

"No, I don't think so. It could be very good, Kyle."

That was all he would say. He dropped Kyle off and then sped off to the Tate Farm.

He stopped in front of the main house and Bert came outside. "He's down at the greenhouse. I thought you might want some privacy. I could have put him in your cabin..." Bert was probably as nervous as Tim was. He rambled when that happened.

"It's okay. I'll head down there."

Tim pulled in front of the greenhouse, a thirty foot long glass building, and got out of his Civic. He could see an older man in front of the building.

"Tim, my name is Stanley. I'm a friend of Herbert's. I specialize in helping card cases see the light. I think I have someone who wants to apologize to you."

Tim blinked a couple of times. His throat became instantly parched.

"He's just inside. I'll be just outside the door if you need me for any reason."

Tim opened the glass door and stepped inside. There he saw Trance. Tim's body froze up for a second. "I'm so sorry," Tim heard. By the fourth repetition, Tim was able to respond.

"Why," he croaked out.

The two young men spent nearly two hours that evening trying to answer and understand the answer to that question.

Mr. Featherstone dropped that name when he left the boy his morning meal. When he entered another one of the training rooms, he took on a new name. For this subject, he chose to be called Gregor Putin.

This one was a special one, but he was also a paying subject. Mr. Rodney Bunning, Esq., was shelling out an exorbitant amount of money to see this man corrected. When Mr. Putin, as he now thought of himself, heard the reasons why, he was glad to take this subject on.

The man had been kept in a safe house until late last night when Mr. Putin picked him up. Now he was probably riding the last rail of the sedatives he'd been given. Mr. Putin picked up the pliers and opened the door to the room. It was smaller and less well furnished than the one where Preston stayed. The Mr. Featherstone of that room was surer of his success. The Mr. Putin in this room doubted that he'd make much progress with the subject for quite some time.

Mr. Putin walked into the room and applied the pliers to the man's right nipple. He applied pressure until the man came awake. Then he began to turn and wiggle the pliers. Where he usually used fingers, with this subject, he'd increase the intensity.

The man was now thoroughly awake. His entire body, eyebrows included, was already bald.

"Now, Robin, do I have your attention?"

The man on the concrete floor swore twice. Mr. Putin crushed the man's nipple so that it started to bleed. He removed the pliers and stood up while he watched the man cringe, groaning, on the floor.

"I don't care for introductions much, so I will only tell you these things one time. I am a sexual sadist, so I get a good deal of pleasure by inflicting you with these licks of pains, mere wisps of what we'll eventually get into. I will hurt you as part of your re-education or whenever you disobey one of my laws or whenever I think you need it. Learn your lessons and obey my laws and you won't suffer -- much. But, be aware that I am well schooled in administering pain, exquisite levels of pain. When we fuck, I can make it the best experience of your life or, your choice, it can feel like you've been condemned to the Spanish Inquisition. Do you understand?"

Robin Spencer didn't say a single thing. Mr. Putin applied the pliers to the man's second nipple and began the introduction again.

"You may call me Gregor Putin."

The man finally paid attention. Gregor Putin was the name of Robin Spencer's one-time lover, an affair that began in high school and ended twenty-two years earlier when Gregor had been killed in a car crash. No one had known about exactly how close Robin and Gregor were. But this new Gregor Putin obviously did. Actually, the lawyer, Rod Bunning, he was quite helpful with a lot of details.

Robin groaned and it wasn't entirely because of the pain signals coming from his nipples. This man had already broken Robin's heart.

THE END

Author's Note: I would like to thank Nifty for presenting great stories from a wide variety of writers. I thank them for allowing me to bring this short tale to your attention. I hope you enjoyed it.

Quite a few people have written to express your enjoyment of the story. Thank you for your kind words! I'd love to hear from anyone who enjoyed the story. My email address is ocean_lover_guy@yahoo.com.

Several people have asked if I've written other stories. The answer is yes, but nothing else like this story. Here are a couple you might try if you're interested, though.

The Interviewee: /nifty/gay/beginnings/the-interviewee/ The Common Room: /nifty/gay/college/the-common-room Living in the Breaks: /nifty/gay/college/living-in-the-breaks