A Picture is Worth About a Thousand Words

Harry sent a car to the hotel to fetch me. I put my nose into my notes as I rode and ignored the scenery. I looked up when we’d got to the front gate of Fletcher House. All the windows went down, a guard looked in, plastic security badges were exchanged with the driver, pleasant smiles all around, windows back up and a curvy route through oak forest around to a back service entrance. A man was waiting there who looked like someone’s secretary; he opened the car door and escorted me into the building, up an iron staircase and down great lengths of dimly lit empty hallways. My escort explained briefly that Harry was just now finishing up his calendar for the day and would be found just here at this door, which he opened and ushered me through.

The room was mostly bare. It looked a lot like an empty school room. I was shown to an elegant leather club chair across from the desk where Harry sat talking on the telephone. I gave over scarf, gloves, coat, hat, briefcase, and walking stick to a porter who having slipped in from a side door had already put down a gin and tonic on the side table next to my chair. A distracted wave of the hand from Harry cleared the room of porter, secretary, and an aide de camp already present when i came in. And as the doors clicked shut behind them, so did Harry conclude his call. He smiled his welcome, raised his glass to mine and said, “Not dead yet!” And I replied, “Praise be!”

We each sat back quietly for a while appraising each other in silence. Finally, Harry said, “I have just one more thing to do today and then we’ll have lunch in the sun room.”

At that, a door opened at the far end of the room and a trainer in standard issue blue-and-grey led in a naked boy on a leash -- a simple rough-rope chest-and-crotch harness, hands cuffed behind, short rope between the ankles, and a ball gag strapped in. “This is 1124, Ian. You’ve written so much on this year’s harvest, I thought you might like to see this one for yourself.”

Harry got up from his desk and walked over to talk to the boy. “Staff tell me you’re doing very well, that you are sweet and quick to please.” He put the palm of one hand on the boy’s butt and with the other hand, trailed his fingers along the abdominals. “In your first two months here, the large and fine muscles are noticeably improved in all the targeted places.” Then he stroked the inside of the boy’s thigh and sighed audibly. “You must keep up your workouts and do what your trainers tell you. You have been chosen for the Harvest Festival Yearling Games.”

Harry pats the boy’s face smartly. “Listen to me. In the next ten months, you will learn five skills and you will compete in an international match with other yearlings and you will be expected to win. Much hangs on your success against four other teams of four -- all of whom want to win. I know you can work hard, I know your rank. I see how well you’ve done with us, how diligent you’ve been. Will you work to win? There are many inducements and rewards in store for you along the way. Why, there’ll be so many rewards that by the time we get you to the first trials, you’ll be riding in on a cloud of bliss.”

Harry pats the boy’s head. “No. I’m kidding. It’ll be hard work. And here’s the lineup: 1) You’ll need to be able to get hard and stay hard, on command at any time. 2) You’ll need to learn how to cum on command while getting fucked. 3) You’ll need to cum for distance. 4) You’ll need to cum repeatedly within a certain time frame. And 5) you’ll need to cum for volume. You’ll train on all of these every day and you will focus on each aspect for two months. The good news is we’ll start by seeing how often and how much cum you can produce in four days. That test will start tomorrow. And then, about every hundred days or so, we’ll try again.

“Look, we want you to succeed in this, and we’re going to give you the best chance to do that. Show us what you can do. Everyone will be watching.” A glance at the trainer was sufficient to conclude the meeting -- both were soon out of the room. Harry circled back to his desk and downed what was left of his drink and waved me to follow him through a secret door in the paneling to a low, narrow hallway that led us after many turns into a grand hallway just across from the sun room where the noise of a hundred diners filled the air.

Lunch was surprising, rare, and perfect, the service was nearly invisible. We talked and drank wine and finally Harry got around to the point. “His Nibs has become involved in the coffee table book project. He’s removed Nichols and made me responsible. He wants to apologize to you personally. He’s looking for a way to make this right. Ian, he’s excited about the project and he wants you to write it.”

I thought about it, sort of. No doubt much has changed in the two months I’ve been away from the project. 1124 and 23, 25, and 26 are already through basic training now. 24 was the third to be informed of the harvest games training regimen. only 1126 remains to be told. and then we’ll be off to the races. I suppose I could write a somewhat fictionalized version of those two months -- I’d seen it often enough -- just not personally with these four. Or better yet, we could just start here, or in the schoolroom with the trainer, and occasionally circle back to accounts of basic training where relevant.

“Yes,” I said. “They are still my little weanlings! You mend my broken heart.“

And as a show of good will, Fletcher House established me that evening under the highest roof set in a much broader series of rooves, and distant from all distractions, with windows on three sides and a view to the horizon. I was given pass to the serai and many other curious places. The gamekeeper has promised to send me the daily schedules for my charges. And while i write the text for a coffee table book on the 125th Annual Harvest Festival Games, I’ll make occasional notes in a series called “A Picture is Worth About a Thousand Words,” of which, this is the first.