Tales from the Birchfield farm

PREFACE: Months have flown (and other stories of mine appeared) since the previous chapter of this series, months during which readers may have forgotten the location, its purpose, and cast of characters. The Farm is a farm all right but also a discrete destination for wealthy men to realize specialized sexual fantasies with highly trained males. No need to read the 14 preceding chapters (unless you like sex), when you can easily check on just the boys who matter so much to the Farm’s ‘Accidental Visitor: Cosmo, Ting, Hiram, Hank, & Sammie, Konstantin and Avery

I didn’t mean to come here. I never thought I’d write about my life, but here I am. Me, at a computer, encouraged by a boy who doesn’t talk much and his friends. They want me to write. I write because I love them.

Here’s what’s happened so far.

Days ago, I made some kind of wrong turn while driving without paying enough attention. Didn’t mean to wind up where I did, in the sticks, at a sleazy roadside establishment, the No-Tell Motel. Without realizing it was where an old movie had been made, I checked in for the night. You know, to get my bearings.

While in the lobby I came across a few cheap-print flyers, Around Town, announcing the local area’s big event, a 50th Anniversary Film Festival featuring “in order of release” the eight Tarzan movies in which Johnny Sheffield played ‘Boy.’

The special come-on was that boys ages eight through sixteen who came as Johnny Sheffield in the role of Boy were to be admitted free and provided popcorn and sodas.

Accompanying parents and other patrons had to buy admissions at regular rates. Place, something called the Fairfax Theater. Noticed the starting time: High Noon – reminded me of another, even older movie.

My brain began popping its own popcorn. Boys that looked like ‘Boy’ – would be curly-headed blondes in loincloths!

My eyes found the schedules for Saturday and Sunday. The first four films on Saturday, the later four on Sunday: Tarzan’s Desert Mystery, Tarzan and the Amazons, Tarzan and the Leopard Woman, and Tarzan and the Huntress. So, little kids with parents all day Saturday. Movies with Johnny Sheffied before he began adolescence. Forget that. Older boys, including teens (with friends maybe, instead of parents), on Sunday. Those were movies of Sheffield’s teenage years, when the actor’s growth spurt occurred. Yes.

As a fan who had always been hooked on the character ‘Boy” and on Johnny as he played him, I had to make sure. Had my bad luck while driving ended in good luck with this festival?

In matters of importance it pays to check facts. But my head was tizzified. As “in a tizzy,” like my Grandma used to say when rattled. Ting didn’t know the word. He thinks it’s funny. Ting and Cosmo are helping me with my words. So…

Two days away: Sunday, the Lord’s Day – and his mercy would be overflowing, surely, I thought.

I blinked. My watch told me it was almost four o’clock. I needed information.

The motel clerk didn’t know shit. But, he managed to say, “There’ll be folks that’ll know at Earl’s – Earl’s Diner – over at the town square. Funny place, not much real food there. That’s why we have all the dispensers here,” he pointed: sodas, snacks, sandwiches, ice cream bars.

“Jes’ about a half-mile down this road. You kin walk it easier than to park over there. I hear the lot’s hard to find. Tell ’em you’re from the No-Tell Motel. They’ll be wantin’ to talk. Hell, they’re tired of talkin’ to each other anyway, I bet.”

I turned. He asked, “You gonna be stayin’ longer?”

“We’ll see.”

* * * *

Nobody’s watching now, so I can write more easily. I screwed ’em good.

Here goes. I’m raring.

On his advice about parking being difficult, I decided to hoof it. Needed exercise after sitting so many hours in the car. Felt good to stir up circulation in my backside.

Walked past scraggly bushes and scrawny pine trees for the next twenty minutes or so before anything resembling a town appeared. Sure enough, it had a grass-planted square with a little hotel under construction, a small police and fire station, a gym of some sort, a white building that had to be – it was – City Hall, offices of a doctor and a dentist, and – yay! – Earl’s Diner.

Quaint. Almost like a movie set.

Funny, the few guys inside saw me approaching – every last one of them. Noticed only one girl, a blonde, young. Teenager I guessed.

“Hello,” I looked around. “Can any of y’all help me?”

“Are you lost?” the youthful counterman, Wade (his tag said), asked, an odd look on his face.

I held out the Fairfax flyer. “Desk clerk at the No-Tell Motel told me to ask about this over here.”

An older men looked at it and became grumpy, “This has no business being there. Good grief. Samantha, you know anything about this?"

The girl tittered. She placed a finger on her lower lip, “No, Uncle Syd, but you might ask Cosmo whether he does.”

A flirt!

Her Uncle Syd turned back to me, “Mister, sorry. This wasn’t meant for circulation. Do you suppose other people staying at the No-Tell have seen it?”

“I’ve no idea. There were some other cars in the parking area. Didn’t see anyone else.”

Eyes were staring. Caught a glimpse of one or two mouths sort of hanging open.

“Coffee?” Wade wondered, carafe in hand. Syd leaned on the counter with a gesture for me to sit on a stool, and said, “Sure. A cup on us.”

For minutes, as I sipped the steamy brew, I was prompted to admit my stay at the No-Tell was the result of driving too long, being tired, missing a turn-off, and getting lost. The sight of its neon sign blinking was like an oasis to me. That’s why I was there but hadn’t seen or talked to anyone except the guy at the sign-in desk.

“So what’s your interest in the film fest?”

I sputtered. Felt my face flush. “I…uh…really admired that actor.”

The girl came up to me. Stood real close. Batted her eyelashes and breathed, “I like the way he wore his loincloth. What about you, huh?”

Someone in one of the booths said, “The slut’s going for him.”

My thigh quivered at her brush of it. What could I say? Lordy, she was feeling for my you-know-what!

“I always hoped he wasn’t wearing anything underneath and I’d get to see his goodies,” she said.

Syd swiveled away. “Samantha, behave yourself.”

She paid him no mind. Her hand was working my pants – and I was panting! In front of other guys. But you know how horny you get on long drives, don’t you?

“You’re cute, all red as a traffic stop and big as a firetruck. See that door over there? Let’s go in there. It’ll be more private.”

Nobody was stopping her, least of all me. I felt crazy. What could I do but let her lead me by the hand?

“Go, Sammie, go,” I heard someone say.

“Don’t encourage her.”

A whisper, “Management won’t approve.” What was I in for?

At the rest room door near the ice cooler, she was bolder, “Which side of Johnny Sheffield did you want most to see? The parts under the front flap or the part under the back flap? Don’t be shy now. You can tell Sammie.”

I sweated. My brain whirled as she mentioned the flaps, because she backed against me, “Feel under my skirt back there and in front. I’ve got those parts.”

No panties. Sammie was a boy! Thought I’d die.

Her hand…his hand…unzipped me. Before I knew it, my best part was growing and being fitted in a hot, wet hole and my hands were holding balls and jerking a nice boy dick. Me, being had! In front of an audience!

Holy Jehosafat!

* * * *

Thanks for hanging with this. I needed a breather. The computer room’s still free. I’ll get back on track.

Sammie was a slut I couldn’t resist, even in front of other eyes. This didn’t make sense but it was out of my control. Lust my momma had warned me against years ago took hold.

I crammed hard. Squeezed those balls. The ass swirled, froze, clutched. There was a yelp. Epileptic-like, he came before I did, hung there until my prong stood still, then pulled off, sucking the juice from me – to applause and a few catcalls.

Sam(mie) ran across the diner and fell into the arms of a friend who helped him right his blonde wig and smooth his plaid skirt. I heard the name of Jesus invoked and something said like, “It’s been too long without anybody new” and a whistle about my size. Whoever was helping him whispered something – and Sam(mie) took off, saying, “I’ll get Cosmo.”

Syd shook my hand. Admired what dangled – Oh Lordy, I’d forgotten! – dangled from my open zipper. Said I was “quite a grower.” Called a friend, Charles, to come over. “Be a good fellow and tell our visitor what will be going on at the Fairfax. He might like a cameo role.”

Affable Charles, a man of middle age, suggested I zip up and join him in a booth.

Wade hustled fresh coffee our way. “What, no tip?” he directed to Charles. A kiss on the mouth was his reward. Noticed his name tag boasted Let me serve you.

Charles, who told me his family name was Spratt, skipped any explanation except to inform me that there was no actual Johnny Sheffield Film Festival. “You see, it’s the peg on which we’re hanging a film we’re making. An excuse really to highlight the beauty and sexual potential of young flanks in loincloths. You’ll understand the allure, for sure.”

I blew on the hot brew. “Tell me more.”

A ‘cameo role’?

“Yesterday, we filmed the arrival of the youngest boys – ages eight through thirteen. They came

from Marcella’s School of Dance in Treydon (It’s a nearby town). Marcella, who’s very sympathetic to out-of-town engagements when money’s involved, got seven Moms to cooperate by making individualized loincloths more or less to patterns our designer, Mike Manleigh, came up with.”

They have a designer?

“We furnished fabrics such as soft glove leather in brown, white, and black, regular suede in tan, animal print cloth – zebra, leopard, tiger, dalmatian – gold and silver lame and actual snakeskin as well as curly blond wigs which we let Marcella and the Moms fit. Oh, and we included instructions on how to take measurements for the loincloths.”

I didn’t ask what such outlandish outfits had to do with Johnny Sheffield.

On a roll and proud about it, Charles continued. “Those boys, rambunctious rascals, loved to prance around, swing from vines we rigged, climb trees and jump from low-lying limbs into soft piles of leaves. Every inch of skin that could be seen for any angle we got against our green screen.

“When we edit, each portrayal of ‘Boy’ will seem to be a deep jungle.”

“Wait, I don’t get it. What’s this flyer for?”

“It’s a prop. We filmed mothers (and a Dad or two) picking them up at a grocery store, at a pharmacy, two schools, our dentist’s and doctor’s offices, at Poole’s Gym and, of course, in the boys’ dressing room at Marcella’s School of Dance. We filmed one or another parent (or both) arriving and entering the Fairfax Theater with their personal, if ersatz, Johnny Sheffield.”

I was curious. “So, what about the older ones?”

“They’ll be coming under the camera’s scrutiny before you know it,” Charles confided. “Bet you’d like to…”

He was cut short by the sudden arrival of two teens who burst through the diner’s door. Neither was my Sam(mie).

The short one, cute as an apple turnover, and the tall, lanky one, almond-eyed sultry, called Syd’s name almost at the same time. Syd stood and glared (not seriously, I thought), a Film Festival handout held up.

“I can explain,” the cutie-pie said.

Charles pointed, “That’s Cosmo.”

“I’m here to back him up,” chimed the Asian fellow.

“That’s Ting.”

They babbled a bit, excitement in their voices. Cosmo confessed to dumping some flyers in the No-Tell’s lobby just as a prank. “It would be fun to see if anyone noticed – and, sure enough, this one did,” he said before introducing himself. “We hear you’re hung.”

That boy, like Sam(mie) was shameless.

Ting and I shook hands. I was smitten.

A take-charge guy named Randy-James something-or-other showed up to make me an offer. I’d be a judge in the competition – that is, if I could stay around a few days. He must’ve figured me out. Or did I even have an idea what was really going on?

“We’ll take care of your bill at the No-Tell. You’ll come over here to spend the day at the Fairfax, have lunch with some of us here in Earl’s, and – if you cooperate with our director, Mike – you’ll be rewarded handsomely.”

“Say yes,” Sam(mie) said. “We need a fresh face. And I want your big dong again.”

What kind of place is this? Was I being buffaloed?

Randy-James looked me square in the face. “Any questions before you head back to the No-Tell?”

“Just one. Can I get something for supper from here? The No-Tell’s only got dispensing machines for soft drinks and sandwiches. My room does have a small microwave, I guess for coffee in the morning.”

“Ting,” Randy-James snapped his finger, “use your long legs. Scoot over to Mama’s kitchen. I’ll call her to put something together for our guest.”

He explained, “This diner’s mostly for show – in our films. We have a real kitchen not far away with a very good cook.”

In fifteen minutes or so, Ting lugged in a picnic hamper that weighed a lot. Had a whole bottle of wine in it and other things all wrapped up. I was patted on the back and pointed to the door. Wasn’t offered a ride. Oh well.

Before hoofing it back down the road, I met several other nice fellows – Blaine, Javier, and Belamy who had been observing us, and Vasily (I thought of Vaseline) and Uldis (I didn’t know what to think of that name), who had been setting up equipment at the Fairfax.

The lot wished me well for the evening and said they would expect me in the morning at ten o’clock. Told me, “Bring a jacket.”

By the time I made it to my room, my arms and legs were tired. I freshened up in the bathroom before opening the hamper. There was a bottle of chardonnay, half a roasted chicken, containers of sweet potato puree, a serving of broccoli, another of black-eyed peas, and a tomato salad with vinaigrette dressing, a cupcake with chocolate icing, two boiled eggs, a huge croissant, butter pats and a tear-open envelope of grape jelly. Supper and breakfast!

* * * *

I was daisy-fresh after a good night’s sleep on a full stomach. The eggs, croissant, and jelly went well with instant coffee I found in my room. That breakfast behind me, freshly showered and shaved, I watched morning TV shows until time to head for Earl’s. In the No-Tell’s lobby, I thought of asking the man there whether this place had a name.

“You mean over where Earl’s is?”

I did.

“Birchfield,” he said. “It’s like some kind of experimental farm or something.”

With thanks, I started my walk. Was I ever glad.

Randy-James, alone in Earl’s, greeted me. “Our cast and crew are at the Fairfax rehearsing.”

Together, we headed that way. “Have you been involved in a film shoot before?”

I hadn’t.

“Takes are not shot in script sequence but according to a different schedule. We’re starting with what represents a competition, its competitors strutting their stuff – the broad elements. Think samples of talent. First though, you’ll meet you fellow judges. Nice men. There they are.”

The tall one was J. Carter Springwell. The more amply round one was Duane Wilderforce. They appeared to know each other. Handsome was the peculiarly named Mieczyslaw Brownstone. He was an art dealer. I had to practice pronouncing his first name – something like MIEH-CHI-SWOFF. Alan Ecks was easier, although he looked severe.

A hand-held boom microphone and two cameramen were involved as we went through the introductions two more times. Mike Manleigh told us just how.

Wade (from the diner), in a closely fitted usher’s uniform (a fine backside), led our party in and we were filmed being seated on row K, a chair apart. One extra time took care of that. Mike was ‘satisfied.” Said it “was a wrap.” Nice lingo. Like Hollywood, I guessed.

Lights lowered in the house, came up onstage.

Somebody in a hairy animal suit – some kind of ape or something, or maybe a chimp (I should have watched more National Geo) – shuffled into view, looked our way, snorted (high-pitched like it was trying to sound low-pitch), shuffled to the wings and drew onstage a vision from the movies. Johnny Sheffield?

No, even cuter. Naked as a jaybird but modestly loinclothed in the two key places, he stood with hands on hips. Light played on blond curls. Kid barely in his teens. Wow.

Off went the – uh – chimp, snorting to the other side of the stage when he stopped, put out a furry index finger and beckoned onstage another Johnny Sheffield! Same diminutive size, general shape, maybe more muscular chest. Similar loincloth. Hands similarly to hips. About the same age.

Why weren’t they in yesterday’s shoot? That was for pre-adolescents. These two must’ve already popped/ I didn’t care. Learned later they lived here – with Randy-James!

Jungle drums thumped tribal rhythms. Our event’s ape, centerstage, clapped pink palms. The two Johnnies cartwheeled toward, loin flaps meeting gravity, revealing packed pouches!

I caught my breath before the slightly taller ‘Boy’ was taken in the arms of the slightly shorter ‘Boy’ to be kissed with porn-movie passion. My heart stopped as they crumbled to the floor – and the lights went out.

A roar of recorded applause filled the darkness.

I squeezed between my legs. Tried to clap.

More drumming. The ape or chimp or whatever he was, stage right, burst on, stood up, did a few bumps and grinds, snorted, and – I swear – laughed like a boy – then cartwheeled to the middle, jumped up and down, and flung its arms out.

At that moment, two fully-grown Johnnies, slender musculatures exactly the same, strode toward each other like blond panthers, passed the little hairy monster which I then knew stood in for Cheetah (I’m not always swift), embraced, stroked each other’s nipples, opened their mouths, toyed tongue-tips together, felt their way down to the backs of their loincloths, and shivered.

I shivered, too. They faced each other, fingering clefts under skimpy material – with lights dimming. Distinctly, Mieczyslaw led the in-house applause saying to himself, “So that’s why they wanted my boys.”

Piped in applause covered anything else he said but, with the lights at half, Wade bustled in with a page for each of us. The program with space for comments. There was time only to note that item one listed HIRAM & HANK, and number two listed FLOYD & FLORIAN.

Floyd and Florian? Brownstone’s ‘Boys’? Were those beauties twins?

I should get to know Mieczyslaw. Maybe he shares… They looked, um, tasty.

Followed by a spotlight, the hairy chimp swung in on a vine-disguised rope. Made a few of its snort imitations as the drums thrummed. The creature turned its head up in the opposite direction – from which a Tarzan arrived by vine. A spotlight followed him

Mature by the look of him, he sported shoulder-length black hair, polished bronze-tone skin, a necklace – possibly – of tiger teeth (points up, not down), and a loincloth that meant business. Real muscles. A striking presence the way his chest heaved and his expression exuded lust.

A strong hand pushed aside the loincloth to fondle beneath. Head thrown back and mouth open, the Tarzan yell came from the sound system with blood-curdling effect.

Two-and-two came together. Duh. The hairy thing really was a stand-in for Tarzan’s sidekick, Cheetah!

What was I thinking before? Me, the tizziest person around.

Cheetah’s mad scurry took him by this whoop-it-up Tarzan whose crotch he reached for but was swatted away. Tarzan, a hand on his hip, the other on his bulge, called loudly, “Tarzan want Boy!”

The chimp – now Cheetah for sure – dashed past again, running fast enough to escape Tarzan’s kick. His spotlight vanished

From the corner of my eye, I saw a dark-haired boy in a beige pullover and pretty as an angel, slip beside Carter. They clasped hands.

Both watched intently as a shy, slim youngster, girlishly adorable under blond curls looser and more ample than those of previous Johnnies, entered to a perfectly timed return of the spotlight and headed in Tarzan’s direction.

The new ‘Boy’ took a few timid steps, spun on a heel – his loincloth had no back panel!

Tarzan sighed audibly.

‘Boy’ paused to stroke baby-sized nipples. Stepped a pace, turned around again, rushed suddenly to his man – and knelt upstage. Delicate hands moved up Tarzan’s shins.

“Find what waits for you.”

When he said that, I recognized the voice, finally. From yesterday. To confirm, I held up my program sheet to make out number three: ULDIS & AVERY. Handsome, funny-named Uldis! – I’d hardly noticed his facial features. What a Tarzan he was. Far better-looking than Weismuller. And Avery – he looked nothing like Johnny Sheffield. Rather, wispy as a vision from a fairy tale.

He could enchant me!

My cock seeped as Avery rubbed Uldis’ kneecaps and moved North, over his well-firmed thighs. His destination wasn’t what I thought. He went straight up to the string that held his Tarzan’s loincloth – and loosed the knot to let the garment slide down. What sprang up and out would choke a horse. No kidding.

The unlikely ‘Boy’ massaged the great manhood with his face’s soft cheeks and, for all I could tell, the rest of his face. As he leaned so far forward, there could be no doubt where the cock went. The spotlights faded – not too fast for me to miss the black shape punctuating Avery’s ass.

Gollygeewhillikers!

I’d seen porn of plugs, read about them, thought how they might feel. Innocent and ignorant, I wondered what the experience would be to insert one in a young boy. The pressure in my pants grew too great.

What could I do but bolt for the restroom?

Wade saw my state, pointed the way, and followed. “Sir,” he said, “let me serve you.”

Startled by his fearlessness, I think, I did nothing to stop his reaching through my unzipped fly. Or his experienced hands tugging for control. Of my leak-prone cock. Yes. Oh yes. He grasped, pulled, slid back, found the exact pace, and jerked me to climax on his smart uniform.

I was sorry. Tried an apology.

“Not to mind, sir. I’ll wear these soppy spots as badges of honor. You know, proof of service.”

A quick clean-up took me past the cameras to my seat again. On the stage, another long-haired Tarzan (beefier than Uldis) was spanking a bare-butt, oddly light-skinned, differently blond-headed ‘Boy’ to Cheetah’s loud claps with each strike of the man’s palm where it aimed. By the third “whap,” out went the lights.

Alan Ecks, two seats from me, had a penlight to study his program. I asked the performers’ identity.

“Vas and Clyff were in number four.”

“Vas I met yesterday. Who’s Clyff?” I asked.

“Our albino. Most amenable.”

Illuminated again, the stage provided Cheetah space to scamper wildly from pursuit by a quite long-legged Johnny only to confront another Johnny coming from the other direction. “You’re gonna get it, you miserable ape!” the one yelled as, miraculously, the viney rope descended to Cheetah’s grab. He was whisked up, up and away. His chasers stopped at the sight of each other, seemed to ogle, then swept into an embrace bumping loincloths and kissing so lasciviously my lap began to stir all over again.

Dear me. Writing this and thinking back, I get sweaty.

Thank goodness, the lights lowered. I groped for my program to learn, as the next event began, that LON & BELAMY has starred in number five and that AHMED & TING were to be in number six, which was happening.

A Near Eastern and a Far Eastern! Neither remotely a Johnny Sheffield. Black hair. Earrings. Nipple rings. Rhinestone G-string thongs. Ahmed wore glitter on his eyelids!

Nobody even tried to make them look like Johnny. Were they an interlude? To break the mood?

Centerstage, they put down a large, satiny cushion and craned their necks as to the sky. Before we could see it, we heard the chimp’s whiny cries. All aquiver, there was Cheetah being lowered by vine to waiting arms – as if injured.

Exotic anatomies swayed, beautifully pigmented arms of silken-skin sought to collect the apparent victim of attack. The critter was placed lovingly on the cushion and its head removed. Whose face popped into view, you wonder? Cosmo. Cute as yesterday, he thanked them. Complained the outfit was “scratchy.”

They unzipped it and turned him out. I gawped at his baby-licious, nubile bottom. Ludicrously lusting by sight, my brain messaged again what launched hard in my lap. Did what I could to ease the constriction there, not taking my eyes from the trio. Was more cum building up?

I always had a lot. Held the record back in school for the most jerk-offs during recess. Ok, I’m bragging, but it’s true.

“You guys sparkle,” Cosmo ventured, a hand to each rhinestone pouch.

Ting told Ahmed, “He’s recovering.”

“Lets make it swifter,” Ahmed said. “You fill his mouth. I’ll take his ass.”

Cosmo did not budge. Well, not much. He opened his mouth and spread his legs.

Glittery G-strings abandoned, the two took their places and moved toward each other – as the lights lowered…for mere seconds. Damn! Nobody’s getting to have sex in this fakey program.

Just time to note FÉLIX & SAM listed as number seven.

Sam! My heart boomed.

Not a stitch of loincloth clothing, but a ribbon-tied leafy pouch to hide a few inches of his hermaphrodite’s body’s male parts. His wig approximated Johnny Sheffield’s curly nest, though. I’m talking in circles. I mean, Sam combined qualities of both genders. With leaves, he was like someone from the Jungle of Eden – halfway between Adam and Eve. That made him real hot to me. Thoughts zapped back to when I’d been in him!

In his fast-action boy-twat.

In the diner, in front of those guys, fucking like a mink.

Sorry. Got to get back on-track. I’m really sweating now.

OK, there was a black guy – body by ancient Afro-Greek gods, vast penis like a Neanderthal’s club – steering Sam with a lighted low-wattage white bulb of a dildo on the end of a long handle. Sam’s back cheeks radiated pink from the glow. In turn, Félix’s oiled skin was highlighted too, like sculpture in a museum. His glance our way revealed startlingly blue eyes. A walking fuck, the team reached centerstage where Sam’s steering was withdrawn, its glow turned off, and he bent at the waist.

My jaw dropped. Félix lubricated his incredible cudgel of a cock with a wad of spit, steadied Sam, penetrated him (to an audible gasp), used his muscles to lift and settle my wide-eyed darling, feet off the floor, on the weapon and strode away, his every step bouncing Sam (who gasped more audibly).

Suddenly, the idea of a black Tarzan didn’t seem far-fetched. One like this could make a fortune in a new world of equal rights in the jungle.

I even wondered how a feature of this sort might play in Africa.

Heavy breathing nearby.

Alan Ecks adjusted his lap. Was it Sam who turned him on or what Félix was doing with Sam?

I was grateful not to be the only succumbing witness to a sex scene that flew off the charts. Hell’s bells, my crotch verged on combusting another time!

Told you I was a record setter.

Jungle drum throbs rose from dying applause, more intense the louder they grew, more insistent than any. Something big was coming, but what?

The famous ululating call filled the room with terrifying effect. I gripped my chair arms at the Tarzan who appeared as from nowhere.

Drum rhythms pounded and compounded.

A tremendous figure of pure masculinity – deeply muscled – streaming long dark tresses, a face so magnificent it could inspire a sculptor, skin boasting undertones of russet and overtones of sunset yellow, his neck encircled by a collar of cowrie shells boldly worn. From his loins what looked to be a hanging basket woven loosely of narrow soft animal-skin strips burgeoned by massive contents. Sinewy legs, sturdy bare feet completed the apparition of savage sexual power.

A new ‘Boy’clung to the vine rope’s arc as if from a tree and was caught by Tarzan who slapped his face. And what a face it was as it took the blow.

Face from an ancient race, Teutonic maybe, squarish (broad cheeks), perhaps Russian or…or Mayan… Possessed a haunting beauty. His body, too.

If Johnny Sheffield were reincarnated as a miniature version of this superlative Tarzan, I thought, he might display some portion of the close-cropped curly blond’s allure. But muscles galore, sensuous gold-ringed nipples, frightened eyes, a tremor to his outstretched arms. Was this apprehensive willingness to accept – discipline?

My turns of phrase are getting better, I know. For sure, my cock was getting ready to erupt. Dared not leave. What will be, will be. You know that.

Tarzan slapped him again. Harder. ‘Boy’ reached the vine to steady himself, revolving as he did so. The small, cannonball-round posterior took my breath, more so as it received a resounding thwack from the man’s cupped hand. Why the anger? Or was it responsibility to punish for misbehavior?

‘Boy’ shook with each spank but held the vine and made no effort to escape his fate. Tarzan’s vigor brought up bright color to the receptive butt. Brought up my own heat. But the situation became more thermal when, magically there materialized in Tarzan’s clutch a tawse!

Two things happened as Tarzan began to blister ‘Boy’ with the weapon: the lights went out and I came in my pants.

Mortified, my eyes stole glances: Alan Ecks was beaming; Mieczyslaw Brownstone and Duane Wilderforce were shaking hands; J. Carter Springwell’s lovely lad was on his lap, and they were hugging as if copulating through clothes.

Canned applause abated. There were lights. In my dazzlement, I read the names: BEN & KONSTANTIN. That spelling – with a K – the ‘Boy’ must be Russian. I was right. Gosh, what a partner he’d be for some rough stuff! My mind was going crazy when…

…Randy-James informed us to follow Wade. “He will conduct you to complete your judging of the competitors. With him, please.”

Cameramen went along. One aimed his lens at my wet-splotched front. Wade indicated a bamboo patch nearby where there were five benches, one for each of us. Mike, the director, came over, a serious look to his face.

“Gents, for this segment, you will be inspecting the contestants up close. Don’t look anywhere but at them. Our cameras will be taking in every aspect of what you do.

“The first two, Hiram and Hank, who’ll be holding hands, you may not touch although you may ask them to show themselves to you. Cosmo and Avery may be fondled with discretion. Not too provocatively, mind you. Floyd and Florian, through Mieczyslaw’s tolerance and their own, eagerly await meeting you and having your touches, even caresses.

“Once those pairs have strolled through, you will meet the other Providers.”

Providers? What’s that mean? I thought better of asking. Go-with-the-flow, my mom taught me. I would, no matter how hard it was, or might get to be.

Garbed as they were onstage, the hot-as-heck teens approached. “Stephanos!” the taller called out. “We didn’t know you were here.” They broke hands to greet Springwell’s boy with hugs and kisses.”

“You guys were great!” Stephanos exulted. “Can we get together later?”

How’d they know each other?

Hiram and Hank nodded and spoke to Duane, Mieczyslaw, and Alan before stopping before me.

Untying my tongue, I asked their ages.

“Almost fifteen and already fourteen,” the one I assumed to be Hank said with pride in his adolescent voice.

I was staring as one said, “Age is why you can’t touch us but, if you want to see our goodies, look under our loincloths.”

“Yes, it’s OK to lift the flaps,” said the other, “…only don’t cop a feel.”

Goodies – the word Sam(mie) had used yesterday! I was enchanted. With a murmur of appreciation, I thanked them for their offer.

My jaw managed to stay set, stoically, when Cosmo, former monkey (now in a loincloth of his own) led the ethereal Avery to our group – by a leash to a studded collar around his neck.

“You’re the boy who fell from the sky, aren’t you?” Carter inquired.

Received the sweetest smile in answer.

Duane stood to welcome both lovelies into a hug. “I hear everyone here loves you, Avery,” he rumbled.

Cosmo bussed his charge on a shoulder, saying, “We do. We all do. Next, Avery, is Mr. Brownstone from New York. He’s a good friend of Hiram’s.”

“Yes,” Mieczyslaw said, a hand to Avery’s susceptibly alluring flat tummy, “I have a gallery in Manhattan where Hiram’s photos of you will be displayed in a special exhibit. They do your charms good service.”

Avery giggled, and let himself be pulled before Alan, to whom he said in a flute-pretty voice, “Thank you.”

Alan looked my way. “Avery was a gift from the gods on high. Quite an asset.”

That struck me as curious. Guess, because I was more of a stranger to him than the other men judging, Avery had to be pushed shyly before me. Trying to make the best of the situation, I smiled and asked the boy, "And what is your asset, Avery?”

Cosmo whispered, “Show him.”

Obedient and without shame, Avery presented his plugged butt. Remained in position.

“If he’s not plugged, he gets in trouble,” Cosmo volunteered, and led unprotesting Avery away.

Puppy on a leash, I marveled (to myself).

A free-feels-for-all was announced by Randy-James. “Clyff, Lon, Belamy, Ahmed, Ting, Sam, and Konstantin will join us now so that you may familiarize yourselves with their attributes. They will place themselves in your hands.”

He sounded serious, but could we, really? Seven of them, five of us? How was that going to work?

My head percolated with questions. However, my beating heart was set on Sam(mie). It pulsed as he headed, I thought happily, my way. Maybe we could skip out, around the bamboo…

Wrong. He flung himself at Alan – seriously. Scrawny Alan! Queer. Were my eyes deceiving me? Was Sammie – the Sammie who’d come on to me so boldly and who took such pleasure from my big dick – actually opening Alan’s pants? What I saw wasn’t worthy of that dollfaced cutie’s lips, much less the mouth that was going down on him.

Alan convulsed for about five seconds about sixteen seconds (OK, I was counting) after Sammie went to work on him.

Disgusting!

Hot-to-trot Konstantin waved at Duane, zipped past the other boys, attention on my face, and – wordlessly – jumped at my lap’s steamy wet cock (by then in my hands), poised his butt, and sat…straight…down. A Tarzan-like scream signaled his pain, but he was ‘up’ for it.

Excitement hit my nuts before conscious thought. Pure reflexes took possession. Geysered his Russian guts!

Konstantin settled down, face glinting. “That hurt good.”

“You’re welcome. Thanks for the visit.”

Sam’s cum-streaked chin bobbed in disbelief at what Konstantin, still pinioned, then said. “Konstantin want another load. You got?”

“Uppity are you? Well, you want it, you work for it.” Where the idea for that came from, I don’t know, nor why I thought of pinching his nipples hard. But I did.

He lifted up and re-seated himself. I pinched hard. Up and down he went on my wide-awake cock, ass coasting on its coating of my cum.

Thumbs and forefingers squeezed faster and faster, driving his fuck to greater velocity. A glance-quick assessment told me he was tiring. Couldn’t have that. Hadn’t cum yet. Didn’t want to disappoint.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” I demanded – and slapped him hard. “Move!” I slapped the other side of his face. “Move!”

Motivation worked. He came clear off the head before thrusting seriously the whole length down. Fear I might stop caused him to lift his chin for a few more strikes of my palm. My balls were gathering their forces. They wanted to display their worth, I knew. Drama-like. What would have the most effect? I’ll tell you.

I choked him. Grabbed his neck and pressed my thumbs in. His face turned red. The red spread. His ass sent seismic activity through my netherworld. And I responded like a volcano, spewing lava – where it did the both of us the most good.

My heart was running like zebras fleeing an elephant.

Breathed hard. Released final flows. Relaxed, squirtily satisfied. My guess: We’d lasted no more than 30 seconds.

Konstantin looked disoriented. Managed eventually, “Fuck you very much.”

There was a storm of applause. It came from Ting and Belamy and…and Ahmed and Lon…and Belamy, Clyff, Charles, Floyd, Wade, Stephanos, Carter, Duane, Alan, Florian, Mieczyslaw, Randy-James, and – Ohmygod, I was out of brain breath! – the Tarzans and Félix. Gathered in a kind of semicircle, they offered compliments with cameras rolling.

“That was a helluva cameo,” Vas managed to say as the big guy, Ben, lifted Konstantin away and held him like a baby. Two figures I hadn’t noticed, Cosmo with Avery on his leash, brushed past the others. They stood, Avery staring at my limp largeness.

“He..wants..a..fuck,” Cosmo intoned in chant rhythm.

“Me, too,” some young voice hoped. Others looked interested.

Was this to be my Paradise?

* * * *

Randy-James and Nurse Blaire were together for the call to Ecks, who had been back in his Chicago office for a full week.

“The days and nights since you left were beyond…” Randy-James hesitated for the right word, “…beyond…no, that’s not it. Stupefying is what I mean. You know we moved him into the Farm House near my apartment. Mama, with help from Hiram and others in the kitchen, fixed him the most nutritious, sperm-making diet in history. Their research paid off. The guy, something of a dunderhead otherwise, was already a sexual freak. My god, how he could fuck! Every Provider, in between returns of Avery to his bed. That hot-bottom kid, who still hardly speaks, snuck in the back way after midnight several times. Of course, no one knew the guy had a weak heart. I mean, he went just like that,” Randy-James snapped a finger.

Blaire watched as his cohort listened. Took the phone.

“I did, objectively, as you wanted. We have a number of vials of his ejaculate well-frozen. When you find the right lab, we’ll ship them in dry ice. Ditto his genital system. I excised it and surrounding area and quick-froze that, too. Perhaps forensic science will reveal something about its mechanism. The guy was the most priapic man – ever. Abnormally so. Here, I’ll give you back to Randy-James.”

“We believe we’ve taken care of everything,” Randy-James recounted. “We paid his bill at the No-Tell Motel, when he moved in here. Since he died, we went through everything. His ID showed no immediate relative. The contact in case of emergency was the company for which he sold old auto parts on commission, apparently not enough that the receptionist who answered my call even knew his name. They had no unpaid bill from him, so it’s as if the guy didn’t matter.”

He covered the mouthpiece. “Alan wants to know how all the videos came out. He’s thinking business, like always. You talk to him about that.”

“Blaire here, Alan. Mike and team say that, when edited along with all the rest we shot, material’s on hand for several mind-blowing, highly stimulating, very special videos. They will market through your channels rather stunningly, we think. With all the checking we’ve done, we’re completely in the clear. We’ll invent a name that’s untraceable.”

Blaire returned the phone to Randy-James. “He wants you.”

Randy-James nodded as he listened. Listened longer. Cleared his throat to say, “Avery - we’ve taken pains to make certain - has no idea that he caused what happened. He thinks he simply exhausted another man through exhilarating sex.”

More was said from Chicago.

“Indeed. The guy’s clothes have been cleaned and placed in our costume wardrobe for possible future use. The car, its title, registration. and keys are with us. We buried the body in the soft earth down where Avery’s plane crashed. That seemed fitting, we thought. Oh, and I made sure to tell Avery how he would always be remembered by our guest, like forever. It pleased the boy so very much.”

The call wound down with Randy-James telling Alan Ecks, “His draft, entirely written here if never finished, may one day be publishable in some special context, it’s that good. Who knew?”

Special thanks are here with expressed to my much-prevailed-upon pre-readers, authors James and Vic, for their generous words of encouragement and comments for improvement.

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