Tales from the Birchfield farm

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HIRAM & HANK

I.

Four tired guys were bobbing about in the water when, through the indoor pool’s nearest doorway, a trio approached. Light-skinned Blaine and ebony-toned Félix led, each by a hand, a pale boy who lagged, petulant. Perhaps five feet in height. Anyway, an inch or two shorter than Hiram, the swimmers thought. His clothing looked stupid – infantile in fact. Baby blue shorts with white suspenders over a pull-on shirt, also baby blue, only lighter. White shoes and socks. An outfit suited to some fashion mag layout for rich kids.

“Hi gents,” Blaine spoke evenly. “This is Henry who likes to be called Hank. Hank, that’s Ting who’s friendly; over there, Ahmed, who plays games on his console; the fellow with the pretty pink eyes is Clyfford, our albino, who likes to be called Clyff the way you like to be called Hank; and somebody who’s real fun, Sam, who answers to Sammie. He’s sweet. Aren’t you, Sammie?”

Sammie flipped a feminine wrist into something resembling a wave.

Hank trusted his head to Félix’ upper arm. An image of reluctance.

Blaine explained, “Hank and Félix already met – in London. Hank here’s kind of shy. Now, tell me, where’s Hiram? Isn’t he with you?”

“He’s down there, on the bottom, trying to hold his breath for two minutes again,” Ting proudly pointed. “He’s coming up about…now!”

Hiram shot up like a seal, sank back to cries of “Yeah!” and swam to the ladder directly before the visitors. Shedding water, he pulled himself into view, heaving for air and shaking his head. Standing for a moment, he blinked several times and saw the trio.

At the spectacle of adolescent health’s vibrant embodiment in a pure white bathing suit, little Hank loosed his hands. A single step to the fore, he unguardedly exclaimed, “WOW!”

Stunned, Hiram continued to shed rivulets of water while the strange boy reached and clasped his left hand.

“I like him,” he said, turning back and closing his eyes.

Félix’ face locked on Hiram’s. “Be calm,” he mouthed. “Stay calm.” Kneeling, Félix spoke gently, “Hank, this is Hiram who lives with us. I’m sure he will be your friend. Won’t you, Hiram?” His eyes beamed Hiram the message to play along.

To corroborate, Hiram looked at Blaine, who nodded. Quick on the uptake and with the odd boy’s hand in his, Hiram knelt, too. Instinct of a sort no one had imagined, kicked in. “Your name is Hank, they said. Mine is Hiram. Can you say my name?”

Eyelids wide, Hank said “Hi-ram.” He squeezed the drippy hand.

“That’s good.” He looked up, “Now what are we going to do?”

Blaine took the lead, “Why, we’ll walk you to the Farm House, that’s what, won’t we Hank?”

Looking around, he said, “Somebody, anybody, please hand our swimmer here a towel.”

Clyff, who had stepped from the pool’s other side to the tiles, picked a dry one to present. He leaned over the new boy and said, “Take this one for Hiram.”

He felt the terrycloth, blinked, and saw its whiteness. Connected with it somehow. Slow to move, Hank’s head rose. He handed the towel up, cranking out, “Do-you-like-this?” Effortful, wary.

“I do. We must thank Clyff for being so friendly, okay? Let’s do it together. Say it with me, ‘Thank-you-Clyff.”

No reaction.

Hiram rose with the towel on his shoulders to begin drying himself. Frightened at his loss of contact, Hank grappled again for Félix’s sturdy arm but did not let his eyes miss the way the white article was drawn across, rubbed over, patted here, stroked there. Buff and approaching handsome, Hiram tossed the towel atop his new friend’s head.

“You get to carry this for me. Okay?”

Without protest, the obviously impaired boy held Hiram’s sopping towel like a trophy. They set out, anxious hand in sympathetic one. Blaine and Félix followed, closely attentive to both bodies.

“You know who is waiting for you two?”

Hiram kept pacing forward swiftly, which Hank matched, if not in step, close enough. “Tell me.”

He’s steamed, Blaine could tell. “Your Dad and Hassan. Remember him? He brought Hank to us while you were swimming.”

“I didn’t see any special car in the lot.”

Félix leaned near, “Hank, tell Hiram how Hassan brought you here.”

After a few seconds, Hiram stopped. “Well?” He tugged sympathetically the boy’s hand. “You should tell a friend.”

Félix and Blaine registered Hiram’s dead-right intuition.

“Heli-copper.”

“For real?”

“It’s-back-there.”

“He’s telling the truth. It’s in the field behind Town Square. That’s how I slipped away for my flight to London and got back here when I did. It’s there now, until Hassan leaves. And in case you’re wondering, the pilot and co-pilot are staying at the Shellman.”

“What the f…?”

“Keep walking. You’ll find out as soon as we get there. Didn’t your Dad tell you?”

Determined, Hiram began to run, dragging his friend. “C’mon, Hank, let’s race!”

Blaine almost tripped on the discarded towel as the boys fled.

“It’s there! The Farm House! That’s where I live! C’mon! Run!”

In the porch’s shade, they waited for the adults to catch up.

Hank hugged Hiram’s torso as they panted. “I-like-that. I-like-you.”

Sets of noises. Feet on the front porch steps. Studied control to Randy-James’ face, sheer glee to Hassan’s.

“Hello, mate!” Hassan’s slangy greeting and British accent prompted a smile and a positive hug from otherwise shy Hank. “And hello, Hiram. It’s nice to see you again,” a switch to commonplace American English as the Sino-Moroccan reached for a handshake.

In response, Hiram said flatly, “Hi.” To his Dad, “You didn’t tell me – a lot. Nobody did.” His voice rose, nearing anger.

“Son, I told you more than you heard. Right now,” he was low-key, “I need you to show Hank up to our rooms so you both can change clothes. His things are there. Don’t forget to shower. We’ll be up in a few minutes. Okay? Trust me.”

***

“You can change in there,” Hiram pointed past suitcases and travel bags to his Dad’s room. “I’ll see you soon as I’m ready.”

In his bathroom, he extricated himself from the form-fitting bathing suit, tossed it in the lavatory, flipped his genitals, let the shower water run warm, walked back to get out what he would wear – and stopped. There was an interloper.

Little Hank stood facing him, eyes wide and watery. Thinking the boy dumb, Hiram forgot his nudity and checked his temper. “What is it now?”

Hank had trouble getting his mouth to say, “Help-me.”

“You can’t undress yourself?”

“Help-me.”

It was pitiful. Automatic. What’s wrong with him? Think, man. Hiram sighed. “You mean with these? Easy. Just pull them off your shoulders. You do it. I’ll watch. Good. Now drop your pants. Not like that. Take off the suspenders. Open that button and unzip. Oh, I’ll do it.”

He did. The stupid blue pants fell. What greeted his eyes were dense-packed briefs printed with pink bunnies. He’s bigger than me. Shit! For distraction, Hiram helped the stationary boy with his arms and the pullover. “I can show you how to do this for yourself.” He’s strong but not developed. What is this all about? What is wrong with him?“One thing left – those, uh, rabbits. Turn around and push ’em down.”

Awkward as the situation was – himself naked and Hank stark, clothes around his ankles – what Hiram saw confounded him. Jesus Christ! All those marks. His back. His butt. Oh-my-god, even his upper legs. His heart beat faster. Confusion set in.

From behind, he suddenly crushed Hank to him, gradually becoming uneasily mindful his sex contacted the boy’s backside. “Dad!” he yelled. “Dad, come here! Now!”

Hank tore loose and twisted around, his face contorted in dread. “No. Please! No, please don’t punish me. I-am-good. Your-friend. Your-friend.” From semi-natural speech into his automatic mode, terrified Hank clung to Hiram in some kind of desperation. Their stomachs touched. Soft organs collided, mashed together. Nameless fear shook the new arrival. Hiram’s unembarrassed efforts to console him – rubs of his upper back, soft words, even a surprise kiss to his brow – had no effect.

Looked like budding romance – two young heads together, arms hugging. Clearly something else to Randy-James, who drew closer. Zeroing on the scene, he read his son’s expression, picked up on Hiram’s vibes. He slowed to a silent pace. Raised his eyebrows quizzically.

Hiram’s lips mouthed “Look-at-his-back.” He rocked Hank, patting a shoulder, murmuring, “There, there. There, there. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Nobody.” Then with mature meaning to each word, “I…won’t…let…them.”

A finger to his heart and fingers mimicking a quick stride, Randy-James motioned to the bed. Palms together along one cheek and another gesture toward the bed indicated that they lie down.

He vanished.

Hiram had never lain next to another guy his age, much less naked. The thought dithered with others before he decided to do it, to take Hank to bed. The tortured boy fell limply onto Hiram as he lay back. Too close for comfort, Hiram worried. Something might stir. Uncomfortably, he backed toward the wall to leave only Hank’s head on a shoulder, a hand on his stomach, and a leg over his. And waited.

“We’re going to be okay, okay?” he assured his quaking friend.

In short order, Blaine, in front of Randy-James, came into view to proffer a bottle of some lotion. Even Hiram could hardly hear the whisper, “Lie still with our friend. This will feel cool and it will help you and him to feel better.”

Hiram almost parentally bussed Hank’s hair, then relaxed, thinking Blaine’s a pro.

A single quiver was the reaction to his back’s being streamed with the lotion. Hank seemed to try to relax but could not until Hiram smeared his upper back and shoulders while someone else – with blunt fingers trained for delicacy – delicately distributed the rest to his ribcage, waist, bottom, and legs. It felt strange when the finger pursued what trickled into his crack and onto his balls. So good was it that he unintentionally shifted up, as if to invite more. Not a word. Not a sound. He dared not. Not with these nice people.

Reflex. Pure reflex. One day, he’ll be hot.

The sight of Blaine’s fingers moving down to rub between Hank’s butt cheeks worried Hiram. What he felt moving against his leg, alarmed him. His own moved, too. Oh no! What if his hand moves?

He did not feel brave. Nerves rattled Hiram. After Sammie, another guy’s touch? Oh no.

Despite the troubled thought, his cock tumesced. He drew a sharp breath.

Thank god, Dad’s here, too!

Observant Randy-James, watching from the doorway, handed the Farm’s nurse-practitioner a bottle of alcohol and a cotton swab. Blaine produced a small syringe already loaded.

They came prepared.In his months at the Farm, Hiram had seen shots given. Had two himself.

Less than a minute passed. Sleep claimed Hank totally.

“Let’s let him rest.”

“Here, son, I’ll help you up.” His Dad extended a strong arm. Fully aroused, Hiram could do nothing except let himself be drawn from beneath Hank’s weight. Blaine’s eye caught the teen-hard erection.

“Takes after you, I see.”

“Getting there.”

Like I’m not here?

II.

Fully clothed, Hiram remained out of sorts. Randy James was angry. Fury clouded Blaire’s face. They were jammed in the Farm’s Infirmary office along with files of correspondence and reports, and with Hassan Yasamin.

Félix had been dismissed. Ecks ordered his trip to London merely to ascertain Henry (Hank) Van Sant’s general demeanor, potential for cooperation, other pluses and minuses.

No one had asked for a physical exam.

The boy’s latest psychiatrist vouched to Félix in London for his small patient’s recent progress and, confidentially, was candid that placement on The Birchfield Farmwas young Hank’s only chance to escape a “terrible, possibly tragic situation.” The parents were willing to pay to be rid of him as far away as possible. Hank was a blot on their drug-fueled, jet set lifestyle, an impediment to the image their fortune enabled them to maintain. Chance acquaintance with distinguished arts patron Duane Wilderforce and his basic liking of the fractious adolescent had led to the idea of housing him in America.

Hassan provided little more information – at first.

It was not a secret that Duane’s long-time Avocat à la Cour in Paris drafted the documents necessary to establish a trust for Hank’s lifetime support with Duane as manager, to cede all responsibility for Hank to Duane under the legal concept known as in loco parentis (in place of the parent), with the understanding that there never was to be any form of contact by their son with themselves. If his memory of them could be erased, they would have paid for that, too.

Possessor of a well-nurtured memory, the gracefully demonstrative Sino-Moroccan provided an example. Improved English facilitated vivid expression.

“Horrid child,” Hassan recalled that Cristina Van Sant declared during one meeting with Duane. “No institution we’ve tried had the patience to deal with him. Even private, live-in tutors gave up, his fits were so wild. Didn’t matter how much they spanked him or locked him in a closet. One told us he was, literally, a beast.” Her pique was evident. “He can’t learn anything, he’s so stupid.”

Herman Van Sant explained, “We authorized stronger discipline, but that only made him worse. We want our life free of him. You can see our point. Hank’s never shown the least gratitude.”

Hassan leaned back to view the reactions. Thirteen-year-old Hiram looked stricken. Hassan was impelled to act.

“Hiram, let me tell you something that will help you to know. Duane saved this kid’s life rather like the way he saved mine when I was sixteen. Only, there’s a funny, lucky twist. Duane paid for me. In a sense, he bought me. Now don’t get upset – really listen. Somebody else could have bought me in order to torture me to death. Don’t worry about that. It’s behind me. Who knows what would have become of Hank if Duane hadn’t stepped into his life and essentially tricked the Van Sants into paying him to take over? Duane’s completely responsible for Hank” – he slowed – “like the way your Dad is completely responsible for you. Randy-James rescued you. You have a fantastic life here. When you are grown, you will have a more fantastic life.”

“Isn’t anybody scared of Hank being exposed to all the sex that goes on around here?”

Hiram’s elders burst out, “We wish you could see your face right now in a mirror,” Blaine indicated himself and Randy-James. “How bad off are you for living in this environment? And, Mr. Smarty, you guys are about the same age, you know.”

Hiram smarted. Briefly. “I’m way different. I already knew a lot about sex.”

“Son, all of that messed you up badly. You were in a rough state, don’t you remember? Negative thoughts were devouring you. They shuttered your young mind. Why, only lately your prejudices are beginning to give way, to make room for more evened-out views. I’m so proud of you.”

Hassan took over, addressing a crux to the new circumstances of which Hiram remained oblivious. He took Hiram’s hands in his and looked seriously into his eyes, “Think about this: If you are willing, you can be Hank’s guide to living here. You know – how do you say it in English? – you know the ropes! And…you are already showing concern for his safety. Plus, neither of you will ever be lonely. You can do things together.”

“Gentlemen, while this must continue, I’ll slip out to check on Hank. You know, to make sure he’s comfortable.” With a wave, Blaine left.

***

Face down and alone as they had left him, diminutive Hank had hardly moved. Still out like a light, by now he ought to have reached the state of mind receptive to suggestion. Blaine had intended that. From his pocket, he pulled a tube of mildly anesthetic lubricant. He dabbed it where the most good would be done by rubbing it gently about and in.

My god, he’s tight. Relaxed as he is, my finger can’t get in. I guess nothing’s ever entered it from outside. But if he can let things out….

Patience paid off. Ah, the reflex’s onset.

Not yet to his knuckle, Blaine began an almost melodious, decidedly repetitious litany. “You feel so good… This is special… You feel so good… You want more… to feel more… This makes you special… Like that, Hank… Just like that… Let me massage you-right-here… Yes, Hank. It’s so sweet… And special to you… You like being special… Feel the love… Further…Yes, a little more… You enjoy it turning…Yes, you do. It feels so good… I’ll turn some more…You deserve love, Hank. You do… You want this… You want more of it… You feel so good….”

Hiram’s bedside clock showed that more than twenty minutes had elapsed. Several more passed for Blaine’s full index finger to be withdrawn. The sleeping boy absorbed whispers such as: “You are happy now… Dream of how nice you feel… I will visit you again…Soon, Hank… Soon, if you are a good boy… Stay calm when you see Hiram again… Hiram is your friend…He will help you… Sweet dreams of love, sweet boy….”

With damp tissues, he cleaned the residue and wiped his finger. Before tiptoeing away, Blaine filled his warm palms with more of the lotion. With practiced subtlety, he reapplied the soothing liquid over every wale and welt, his mind on doing justice for this physically abused, emotionally starved, victim of circumstance beyond cruel. He caressed Hank’s hard perineum and lifted the boy’s balls to coat them.

Mmm, a handful already. More than Hiram’s got. Hank’s penis will be awesome.

A few more tissues. Time to go. He closed Hiram’s door.

On the way down the Farm House’s uncarpeted stairs, Blaine wished he knew how much intelligence had been vested in Hank’s mind by inheritance from his parents.

Better not dwell on that.

III.

A “RESERVED FOR 8” table awaited Blaine, Hiram, Hank, Félix, Hassan, his two pilots – introduced simply by first names, François and Saturnino – and Javier, who was placed next to the latter. They spoke Spanish. Under the table, hands rested on each other’s thighs.

Hank’s first meal on the Farm was with people who helped him feel safe. Hassan he knew best, and Félix, from London. The pilots were nice. They had shown him how they flew the Cessna Citation M2 jet across the Atlantic and the Robinson R44 helicopter from the airport to the farm. He remembered those aircraft models and nobody tried to force him to. Blaine, the nurse, he felt close to without understanding why. Hiram. Seeing him felt so good. Hiram had hugged him tight and even kissed him and promised to protect him. He was going to stay with Hiram and his smart Dad in the Farm House.

Nobody was mad with him. The guys here smiled and waved at him and said “Hi.” Most lived in the Bunkhouse. He knew that.

Plus, he liked the way he felt in Hiram’s orange Polo shirt and tan Chino pants, cuffs bunched about his ankles. Kind of sloppy. Fun! What he liked best: Hiram’s promise to dump the clothes he had been made to bring with him. “Dad and I will get you everything you need to be happy here.” For Hank, a rare feeling of pride. Incipient but there. It felt – good.

In a corner, CEO Alan Ecks sat together with Randy-James. Between bouts of deep conversation, they managed bites of Mama’s chili and hot dogs. From time to time, members of the team were summoned for minutes of hushed discussion, instructions, admonitions. The situations of all required delicate balancing acts around the two teens with Randy-James at the forefront as point man.

The simplest of meals ended with vanilla ice cream, chocolate sauce, chopped pecans, and an apple (for later). Mama was thanked for accommodating the strange day’s needs as best she could.

The day was fading. Charles and Wade dashed ahead of Hassan, the pilots, Javier and Ecks to their area of responsibility, The Hotel Shellman.

Thus Wade in his waiter’s uniform and Charles behind the front desk were on hand to greet Javier and sheepish Saturnino as they entered. “Up you go, second room on the right. Rest well, gentlemen.”

Hard on their heels came Hassan and François. “We know, third room on the right,” Hassan smiled. With, “Allez de l’avant. Je te rejoins dans un instant,” he nudged his mission’s primary pilot toward the elevator and waited for its door to close. Eyes gleaming, he turned to Charles and Wade, “He will occupy my attentions for a while. Good employer-employee relations, you know. I’ll visit you…later, if you like.” Both grinned. Their bodies suddenly warmed in recall of the curly-haired genii’s sexual magic.

Forever seemed to pass before “X” walked in, clearly exhausted. Their greeting was cut short by, “What do you two do while people are sleeping all night?” Unintimidated, Wade answered, “We are here, at your service, sir.”

IV.

Snowmen. Those Van Sants, they infantilized this half-grown boy. Thirteen, for god’s sake. Fucking white snowmen.Randy James observed Hiram helping Hank unpack his baby pink sleepwear. Who would have thought such pyjamas would even be made for a kid his size?

“Okay, Hank. You and Hiram are ready to go. There’s a nice cot, pillows, blankets, and everything for you in Hiram’s room.”

Hiram kept quiet and showed the way to his guest. “G’night, Dad.”

“Good night, son, Hank. Sleep tight and….”

“…and don’t let the bedbugs bite. Dad, we aren’t little boys!”

“I guess you aren’t little girls either.”

Hank halted, unsure about the joke. He managed a snicker at friend Hiram’s “Pffft.”

In the bedroom, the boys faced.

“You want to change in there? Or in here? I can change in there,” Hiram pointed.

Hank did not budge. Something was on his mind. Eyes squinted in concentration, he tried to pull up the Polo shirt. Elbows and hands tangled with knit material. Effortful. A struggle. On the verge of crying, he stopped, frustrated as a child.

“Easy now,” Hiram said. “Let’s start over. If you pull from here and reach behind your neck like this, it comes right off. See?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Watch me do mine.”

For the second time that day, Hiram’s bare torso – seen directly – stunned. That funny feeling again in Hank’s lower stomach.

Why is he staring at me like that? Hiram wondered.

Effortful control of impulses pro and con finally got Hank into his silly-looking pyjamas, onto the cot, and under a blanket. From his bed, Hiram bade his roommate a good-night and sighed a long sigh of relief.

“Thank-you-Hi-ram.”

That’s progress. He would not say thank-you to Clyff. I wonder…I’d better….

“Hank, are you okay with the dark? I need to turn out the light so we can sleep.”

‘The-dark…is-good…I-don’t…get-punished.”

His stomach in knots from that, Hiram failed to settle. There was only blackness – and the sound of both breathing. Minutes seemed endless. Slight rustlings from a few feet away became regular. Faster. Such sounds meant a universal activity of teenage boys. Hiram could not resist the temptation. He eased a hand to himself and stroked similarly. The experience of proximal pleasures in tandem left both with messes on their hands.

“Here, Hank. Clean up.”

Soft tissues did the job. Both then slept.

***

Breakfast passed fulfillingly after Hank needed help to know what he was “supposed-to-eat.”

Hiram’s “Anything you want as much as you want, and you can come back for more if you’re still hungry,” eased his dilemma. But unsure, Hank took from Mama’s buffet mostly what Hiram took. Lightly scrambled eggs, bacon bits, freshly buttered brown toast, and orange juice.

Oddly, Hiram noted, he turned down coffee in favor of chocolate milk. Childish. Guess he’s used to it.

Hank ate with gusto and listened to everyone talk about things he didn’t understand.

***

Some went to the crops and other projects. Those involved in studies headed to the computer lab. Randy James advised Hiram to steer his new roommate there, to a back row monitor.

“Let’s set up your own account. What would you like to name it, Hank?”

Instantly fraught, the boy closed his eyes. “I-don’t-know.”

“Look. Look, Hank, it’s this easy. Hank, look. I’m not going to do it unless you say I’m doing what you want.” Hiram opened the window, typed in Henry Van Sant and the nickname Hank, put an arm about reticent friend, and dragged him nearer. “You sit. See, there you are. Now you can type in any password you like.”

Not a move.

Hiram took a chance and goosed Hank in the ribs. The way he jumped told Hiram that tickling must have been rare in Hank’s life. “Good! You’re awake. I thought you had gone back to sleep. Am I boring you?”

A blush. A burp. A flinch. A pause. “I-don’t-have-a-password.”

“Think of something you like.”

“You.”

“Me? You mean my name?”

“Please, Hi-ram.”

Fazed, Hiram pointed, “You have to type it in. Go ahead: H – I – R – A – M. Look, there it is. Now click that key, the one marked “Ent” for enter – and now we can start a lesson.”

Clyff stood away from his screen and walked back. “Hiram, if you want to speak with Blaine or your Dad, I can show our new friend a game we can play together. That would be fun, wouldn’t it, Hank?”

The hint sufficed for Hiram to allow their albino friend to slip onto his seat. “I’ll be right back. You’re lucky. Clyff’s real good with games.” Hank had never seen Clyff’s pink eyes that close. He stared, curious.

“Pretty, aren’t they? I think your eyes are pretty, too. Look here,” Clyff smiled as he pointed to the game he had opened on the monitor.

As he made for the door while Hank was distracted, Hiram stopped Sammie from heading back. “Too many people will make him nervous. Later, okay?”

Sammie mimed a kiss.

***

The idea which formed in Hiram’s mind took him quickly to the Farm House. Up the stairs and down, he headed back, Nikon in hand, dashing along. He was going to photograph Hank van Sant. And how.

***

Hank wasn’t there. Clyff explained, “We’d just started – you know, sharing the mouse – when Blaine showed up. Said he needed to treat Hank’s back. Said he’d bring him back to the game in about an hour. Said we should work on our studies until….”

Hiram’s disappointment showed, “Oh well, okay. I’m going to do something.”

Sammie joined them to hear Hiram’s plan.

Mike Manleigh, the power behind Hiram’s photographic progress (and certain foibles he would not mention) put his head around the door, “Hiram, I thought I saw you with your camera.”

“It’s here,” Hiram was quick to boost it into view.

Mike heard the plan and offered to help, having reservations about Hank’s less immediate role on the Farm. He knew what the youngsters did not.

***

Nurse Blaine’s cajolery assured the troubled boy that, “As soon as my treatment for your back is done, you’ll be playing your game, all right? You lead the way in there. That’s where my office is and our infirmary where all the right medicines are, okay? Nothing’s going to hurt. I’m going to help you feel better.”

“My-back-doesn’t-hurt. But it’s kinda stiff.”

“Yes, that’s real good, Hank. Parts are healing but not everything. And we want your tissues to be soft. Remember how good my lotion felt when I rubbed in on you last night?”

“Yes. When I was sleepy.”

“There we go. Want me to help you off with your clothes?”

“Hiram showed me.”

Blaine noticed the suddenness of natural speech inflection. Chalk one up for Hiram. He watched the brightly colored Polo shirt being removed – if not adroitly, then at least successfully.

“See? I can do it.”

He mussed the beaming boy’s hair. “You did great. Now, the rest, please.”

“Help-me-with-the-belt.” Frustration moved over Hank’s face. “Hiram fixed it, but….”

“You can do it. Pull the strap through that loop. Right. Tug it back so the prong can come out of that hole. See how it works? You have to help it with your other hand. Yes. Now slip the strap through. Good boy. The button and the zipper. Very good.”

The Chinos dropped. Hiram looked up from his task.

A black stretch bikini – surely Hiram’s – met Blaine’s eager view. Well-packed! A preview of coming attractions. He pointed, “Slip those down, too.”

Memories of not following directions and being beaten impacted the boy’s tendency to hesitate. The small piece of underwear joined the Chinos at his ankles.

“That wasn’t hard, was it?”

The question received a shake of Hank’s hair-mussed head. He waited.

“Let’s get you up on the exam table. Don’t mind those pants and things around your feet. I’ll help you. Lean forward over this part, put your arms out straight. Yes, that way. I’ll pick up your feet and we’ll slide you all the way. It’s fun. Just a bit further, so your nose fits up there – right! – and your privates drop down through that opening. Neat, huh? Nothing gets squashed.”

Hank didn’t know what to think. Nurse Blaine’s patter had grown confidential. Very soothing. The nice man’s hand moved along his left leg up to and over his butt, stopping there for a pat.

This time, the lotion had been pre-warmed. The backs of his upper arms received it first, his neck, his legs before being applied to his upper back ever so gently. Relaxation settled him thoroughly. Hank hardly heard the quietly spoken litany of repetitive phrases start. Lotion to the small of his back, to his flanks, over his legs again, then back to shoulders and arms, all across his back – the careful process underway felt so good, Hank forgot his bottom had not been touched.

Then something not warm was rubbed in one spot. He thought nothing of that. The other skin-temperature lotion was being spread over his bottom – everywhere except the small spot. The needle’s prick was hardly felt because of the anesthetic cream’s effect and Blaine’s voice close to Hank’s nearest ear, “You’re so cooperative. Just like last night. Last night, remember, made you feel really good, didn’t it?”

Hank’s scarcely noticeable nod was what Nurse Blaine needed. The injection’s suffusing his system. While keeping a sharp eye for any sign that Hank might not be slipping into the desired hypnotic state, Blaine reached down to lubricate the attachment for Hank’s flaccid penis. Activated at lowest setting, it slowly started an initially undetectable sucking action.

Suggestions of goodness, of happy contentment, recommendations and instructions recommenced. New phrases were included - special mention of his roommate Hiram – his best friend - and for their nighttime ahead. “The dark is nice. It will make you brave.” Blaine’s longest finger stroked freely inside after having met less resistance than before. “You will be able to help Hiram. He’s afraid to be touched where you feel so good right now.”

Blaine reached to adjust the device to its next pulse-rate.

“Tonight, Hank. Tonight, when you try to play with yourself, you will not get excited the way you need to be. Your hand won’t work that way tonight. You will need your friend to help you with his hand. You’ve needed a lot of help, sweet Hank, since you arrived here. You still need the help you’re getting from me now. What you are feeling, my boy, is me helping you again.”

An extra squirt of lube onto the area. Blaine’s coaxing finger moved slickly throughout.

Unconsciously, Hank’s toes curled.

“Can I tell you a secret? Listen, Hiram wants to be brave like you are, but he needs your help. If you persuade him to help you with his hand, then your hand can help him with his need. When his hand touches you down here, you will grow big. You both will help each to come at the same time. That will be the best thing that’s happened to you in your life, Hank. I know you hear me. Just relax a little more and, when you feel like it, come.”

The device’s setting was raised. Blaine plied his subject’s rectum and aimed nudgingly into Hank’s prostate. Hank’s heart pumped faster – Blaine’s finger felt it through the boy’s rectum. Vibrations started somewhere and rippled through Hank’s compact body.

With unstoppable force, sleeping Hank was rendered completely rigid. Seconds after, he slumped, his every muscle released.

“Easy now, sweet fellow. You’ve done great for now. Breathe. Be very still. Take a few minutes.” Blaine used the lull to switch off the pump, the mouth-part simply falling away to the floor. His finger was extracted. The clock on the wall showed that the promised hour had gone. He must reactivate Hank.

A hypodermic reversed the boy’s state. While observing Hank coming around, Blaine’s mind raced.

Effective conditioning! Already. How easy he is to make ready. Hiram will certainly be in for a surprise. Or maybe not. He was turned on by the scene in the Bunkhouse with Sammie and Clyff…. A few more times and our little Hank will become something quite special – on the road to what we need.

More healing lotion being rubbed over him by his kind nurse, Hank raised his head. He coughed. Felt chilly. Sneezed – and was awake.

“You were dozing, but I treated you all over. Feel good, don’t you, Hank?”

The nod and the telephone were simultaneous. “Mike?... Yes, we’ve just finished… Oh? Good idea….I’ll start him your way and you and Hiram” – at Hiram’s name, Blaine signaled for Hank to pull up his pants – “meet him. He’ll enjoy going out with you… We just need a minute. Go ahead. Start out.”

Up went the zipper. The button was secured. Hank fumbled with the buckle, almost managing it.

“Watch now, my man. Put the strap through there and then….”

“My man” failed in Hank’s returning consciousness. It tucked itself into a spot on a deeper level.

“Oh yeah. The prong goes into the hole and the strap through the loop,” Hank said – aware that he was in control of himself and of his speech. Brow knit, he reached for Hiram’s orange shirt.

Blaine rescued the moment. “Don’t bother with that. Take it along and this,” he said, handing over a bottle of sun screen. Hiram and Mike are going to take some pictures of you outdoors and you don’t want to get sunburned.”

He showed Hank to the door and used a recently washed finger in front of the boy’s face to show him where Hiram and mike were waving.

Hank did not walk; he ran, calling Hiram’s name.

***

The North side of the Barn, a part behind some bushes, a place Hiram had never seen, was marked by peeling paint. Bare wood showed through in spots. Some of the surrounding bushes were dead and the grass nonexistent. Only dry, dusty dirt like that of the Farm’s driveway.

“Perfect,” Mike pronounced.

***

On the way, Hank learned that his pictures were going to be part of a big show of Hiram’s photos of everybody on the Farm. “You’ll be in a special exhibit.” Some pictures were going to be kept private, “just for us,” Mike said. “Very special. They will help us help you, won’t they Hiram?”

Hiram played along. The sun screen was his to apply to Hank’s back, neck, and arms; Mike took his brow, nose, ears, chest and “tummy” as he called it – tickling Hank there just a little. Nothing was said about removing Hank’s pants nor donning his borrowed shirt. A small makeup kit and some light dusting here and there with tinted powder allowed Hank to hear the word “perfect” for the second time.

He liked that.

Poses shot from below captured the innocent face in several expressions, including a wink and the widest smile he could be coaxed to make. Background headshots needed only the sky for backdrop. When Hank noticed a dandelion in bright-yellow bloom, Mike picked it, slipped it over an ear and its stem into Hank’s mussy hair, then called for more shorts with expressions like an imp or a prankster.

His hair combed by Mike, there were torso shots, the best of which had Hank’s head back and arms out-thrown as if jubilant. To hear the word “perfect” so many times and always about him, the damaged boy felt a new kind of adrenalin rush.

He was perfectly amenable to being naked. The sight of Hiram kneeling before him to apply sunscreen all down his front while Mike did it behind made Hank nervous in a way both scary and wonderful. His thrill came when Mike’s voice told Hiram to “coat his penis and balls thoroughly – they’re really white.”

Be professional, Hiram thought as he bent to the task. Like Mike is, like he taught us in class – when we were photographing anatomy. Just deal with it.

The erection Hank sprang startled both his appliers, neither having seen it before nor dreamed it to be so out-of-scale with his body size. Not a word was spoken.

Wiping his hands more nervously than when he had seen what he had seen of years-older Sammie and Clyff in the Bunkhouse, Hiram swallowed, and swallowed again. Oh, I hope I won’t get hard.

The potentially embarrassing stimulation did not arise. Not immediately. Mike gave directions for poses that never would have occurred to Hiram: Hank facing away, head-back, arms-out – another view of joy yet showing his vividly lined back; Hank lying on a patch of green grass, legs wide apart, erection pointing directly up – shot at grass level, Hiram’s camera focused first on the scrotum – click – then on the penis – click – finally on Hank’s face, cock slightly to one side, looking forward straight into the lens and smiling – click.

Many views of Hank’s back – all of it with him facing the stressed paint of the Barn wall, each shoulder separately and positioned for the signs of his whippings to catch light and cast small shadows, his buttocks, too; blank-faced three-quarter poses of him twisting as though a punishment was to come.

Hank’s erection under his manipulations came back to Hiram as he tried not to think of how Hank had suffered. The stirring in his pants caught Mike’s all-seeing eyes. It wilted.

“That’s a wrap. Perfect,” was Mike’s pronouncement. A barely felt kiss to each head, he beamed. The boys grinned. “Those erections you guys sprouted have gone away. Tonight, you can bring them back for each other’s fun.”

Two faces blushed bright. The idea ticked a reflex deep in Hank’s awakening mind.

***

Reclothed and returned intact to the computer lab, Hank resumed the game Sammie had started to teach him. Fun! Mike had gone off with Hiram “to check all the photos.” Promises were made to “meet for supper.” Hank displayed confidence in having Clyff on one side for help, Sammie on the other for friendly opposition as they got through the early stages of the speedy game with the noise of a kindergarten. Two older Trainers, Sydney and Vasily, abandoned their screens to escape the racket. Early kitchen duty appealed.

***

That night, after everyone had viewed and discussed Luca Guadagnino's romantic drama Call Me by Your Name, an anxious Hiram and an unsettled Hank walked hand in hand into Hiram’s room.

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