Pairs & More

For friends, influential author Bill Jonners and story-teller-poet Georgie Dhainaut.

When the labor of resisting sexual climax raises sweat on my brow, portents in my pelvis demand my surrender. My partner’s cries take over. I am his prisoner for a tormented minute and a bit longer, shackled to the grind of his demand. All that I hold within – what he expected and what he didn’t – becomes his. I am left bereft.

“Is that it?” he wanted to know. He was in such a dream world he didn’t realize…

“I’ve got homework to go over.”

“My butt’s not had enough.”

“Tough. You should’ve thought of that when you rushed us. You stripped my plumbing dry. Better discard all that and toss down some orange juice. Look at the clock.”

Dawned on him!

“Brad, you voided your bladder in me, didn’t you, again?”

Reality struck with a leaky pang. Wyatt covered his backside and dashed from the largely dry bed. At least, that’s what it sounded like.

Quickly, munching an apple, I looked for spelling errors in my essay, How I Spent My Summer. I spit out a seed, thinking the title should have been, How I Spent My Summer Screwing, but Miss Bowles doesn’t expect that kind of honesty. She wants sunny skies with fleecy clouds, beach ball games, sand between the toes, and at least one nasty encounter with a crab’s claw.

Bullshit. I gave her bilge about helping the crafts teacher at the old folks home, volunteering to shelve books at the library, and placing hymnals in the pews at church. Hmmm, not bad. Wasn’t overdone.

Wyatt found me tossing out the apple core and slipping both paper and textbooks books into my satchel.

“You’d better put on some clothes. Miss Bowles wouldn’t want to see your pecker.”

“Drink your juice and eat a muffin or something. I’ll shower. We can walk to school together.”

I heard Wyatt grumble, “Meh. We always do.”

*

On the way, friend Scott caught up with us. “Hey, brainiacs, I didn’t see you guys yesterday.”

“Could that be because we aren’t in the same classes at the same time?”

“Or, could it be you were in the principal’s office after that incident with the janitor?”

Scott’s cute. Something of a prankster, he’s always coming on to Mr. Bannister. Only yesterday, the old guy lured him into the broom closet upstairs – and they got caught.

“Yeah, first day of classes. Not a good start. I got off with a warning.”

“What was the warning?”

“Learn to suck faster if we’re going to have fun where we shouldn’t, or do it in the basement. Of course, I protested that Mr. Bannister’s dick is the best in the school for my mouth, so I don’t want to rush. I like to take my time with it, only I don’t like the basement.”

“We know. That’s where…”

Scott protested, “Don’t bring that up. Let’s switch subjects. What did you do this Summer?”

“I worked on my thesis, Pashtun Sexuality, Wyatt answered.

No reaction. Scott couldn’t parse that.

My turn, obviously. Cleared my throat. Began, “I serviced the geezer brigade at the old folks home.”

“Again?”

“Certainly. I let ’em cop a feel and one, old admiral somebody, have a suck.”

“Him? Why him? He’s doddering.”

“His mouth’s heaven. Without both plates, he’s toothless. Want me to set you up with him?”

Scott was emphatic. “I do not! I suck. I don’t get sucked.”

“My balls and cock at the same time in there, and he’s gumming and tonguing – drives me bananas. ’Swonderful.”

“Speaking of bananas,” I turned to Wyatt, “there was one in the fruit bowl. I wanted it. When I finished getting dressed, it was gone. Did you eat it?”

“No.”

“Where did it go?”

“I’m wearing it in my backside.” He rapped Scott on the arm, “The ass my brother didn’t satisfy this morning.”

“You two, good god! How you carry on. I have a banana for recess. A big one, you know, to practice with to get past my gag place. I want to be able to take on Principal Randolph. He’s got a whopper.”

Wyatt pretended to be uninterested. “Finish answering Scott’s question – about your Summer.”

“At the library? Back in the reference stacks, near the emergency door, Mr. Bookspan bent me over while I held on to the Encyclopedia Britannica, lowered my britches to half-mast, and began researching in depth. He never found it, he said, but he left a place marker – a wad of cum – and promised to delve further the next time I volunteer there.”

“Go on, tell him what you did at church.”

My brother remembers everything. I do, too, when he prompts me.

“We have new hymnals. When I showed up to parcel them among the pews, Pastor Falconer was pounding into the lead soprano of the boys’ choir who had just been spanked by our organist, Mr. Palmer, and was being held over his lap, squealing high notes. Naturally curious, I finished my work placing the hymnals and approached the trio.”

Scott stopped walking. “What happened then? Was there any sucking?”

“Not of the willing sort. Either Pastor Falconer or Mr. Palmer told me to shut the kid up. I took him by the hair, looked him hard in the face, and told him if he bit me I’d rip his ears off. He hung his tongue out and slurped me good.”

“How good?”

“When all of us finished, I kissed the boy’s nose, he got hugged by Mr. Palmer (who’d cum in his pants), and was taken in Pastor Falconer’s arms for a kiss that must have gone to his larynx.”

“And you did what?”

“Helped tug up the kid’s pants. Noticed something. His hole had closed up. Kid’s a trooper. Been that route before.”

We had reached the school door and were surprised to find Principal Randolph standing just inside. “I’ll collect your paper for Miss Bowles, who’s not here today,” he said to me. After I fished around in my satchel and handed it over, he told us to go to the counselor’s office.

Our Miss Marwood had been replaced for the academic year by a psychologist from the university, Professor Danielle Bentley. Word about her was that she employed draconian methods for solving problems.

Brrrr…

We filed in. Prof. Bentley’s assistant Sergio, whose athlete’s body wore clothes so tight as to be indecent anywhere but at our school, showed us where to sit. Whatever bulged the front of his trousers – an athletic cup? – impressed the heck out of me.

The professor’s appearance was sudden and striking. A black leather pants suit with a red carnation in the buttonhole of one of its lapels set off a face alive with intent. She spoke as if in charge. “Stand up. Hold one arm above your head. Turn slowly. All the way. You two – Brad and Wyatt – Sergio will show you where to sit. As for you, Scott, I dismiss you. Go – now.”

“I’m their friend.”

One hand rested on her left hip, the other mirrored on the right. When he didn’t take the hint, she took a short step toward him. Her eyes narrowed.

Scott left.

Behind the closed door, Prof. Bentley folded her arms. “From what I know of you two and your cognitive as well as sexual abilities, I believe you may suit a project which is soon to be undertaken – in the nearest future. To be sure, I will put several tests to you.”

Not waiting for a response, she directed them to remove her assistant’s clothing. Accordingly, as if trained for obedience, Sergio presented himself.

Intellectual challenge for physical action appealed to me. I looked up at the young man’s face, raised a hand to where his collar closed. Felt lower. Encountered nipple rings beneath the shirt. Guessed their meaning. Began to unbutton the shirt. Told Wyatt to go behind and help remove Sergio’s shirt.

“Everything,” she said coolly. “Give me his belt. Strip down his pants. They’re like dance tights, tailored to my order.”

The reason soon was obvious. Sergio’s male parts were contained in a kind of cage. “Wow, Wyatt, look at this.” We both – our jaws slacked. The fully-grown man’s balls were out front, bunched under his cock, everything surrounded by stainless steel.

“Custom made specifically for my darling.”

Not shy, I wanted to know, “Why?” My fingertips could not resist. My eyes flashed a silent question.

“Control, of course. And yes, feel it all you like. Jiggle it. Push against it. Pull down on it. Excites my Sergio to be trapped and provoked, doesn’t it, Sergio?”

“Yes, mistress. He’s making me want to get hard – and it’s hurting.”

“And?...”

“And, please mistress, may I cum? Please mistress.”

As he entreated, he bent at the waist, put his hands behind his neck, and exposed his bottom for what I saw was to come his way. Prof. Bentley held not his belt but a black-handled short strap. Eyeing me hard, she said, “Keep pulling his cage – use both hands.” What I didn’t see heading his way was what she withdrew from one of her outfit’s pockets, a bumpy dildo!

To startled Wyatt, she said, “Push this in his special place – not far. Just far enough it stays. I’ll show you his reward for behaving well yesterday and today.” 

Here’s what she did: She tapped the dildo with her strap’s handle, about an inch at a time until it fit – only its base remaining at the level of his hairless cheeks. She drew back and laid one on him. Sergio twitched. She whapped him again. Steadily…until he came.

With a step back, she withdrew her dildo, sniffed it, pursed her lips, slipped it back in its pocket, sat down, handed Wyatt a key, told him, “See that my slave cleans up,” and, as they went out in the hall, turned her head my way. “What do you smell of Sergio on your hands?”

I sniffed warily. “Not much smell to it.”

“Here’s a baby wipe. Need another?”

Two sufficed.

“You spunk into Wyatt don’t you? But he doesn’t into you, am I right?”

“We fuck each other alternately. He’s almost there. Probably will be in another week or so.”

“Is he aware he’s the more passive?”

“Wyatt’s my brother and my partner.”

“And?”

“We don’t talk about what we do when we wake up, we just do it. He’s a giving person – open, eager, completely responsive.”

“Pretty much equal, are you?”

“Our IQs are only three points apart.”

“Have your sexual quotients ever been measured?”

“Is that what you want to do with us?”

“It’s a must if I am to form an opinion as to your competence as an operant for an international project. It interests me that Wyatt erected during my demonstration with Sergio.”

That mix of subjects came out of nowhere and set my mind reeling with curiosity.

“Wyatt’s thesis about Afghani sex – does it excite him?”

“You must ask him to explain the erection he sustains for hours each day he works on refining it. I’ve noticed but not inquired.”

They were back, both looking pleased. She didn’t ask him about his research project.

Sergio, without a word, curled up on the floor behind Prof. Bentley, his cage and himself clean. Wyatt silently handed Bentley the cage’s key and said to me, his eyes bright, “I fucked him. His anus is amazing. It adjusted to my size – just like that! And, it was brilliant how he had moves inside that seemed to know exactly what my penis wanted.”

She observed us. Observed my erection. “Let me see you discover Sergio’s skill.” Sergio didn’t need an instruction. He simply rolled flat and opened his legs. Prof. Bentley said to Wyatt, “Your brother’s penis already is glossy at the prospect.”

“Yes, his secretions occur swiftly, copiously. He self-lubricates.”

In Sergio’s breach, my penis hardly needed to move. What the man did seemed like I imagined a mouth would but like fingers as well, masturbating me. I smacked him, “I’m fucking you, remember.” Instantly, he stopped and hiked up his behind to receive my thrusts. With subtlety, he inwardly embraced me to the degree perfect for my personal pleasure.

Better than my brother. He and I should learn these tricks.

“Appreciation is written on your face, I note. Let me see your finish.”

The dorsal view urged additionally. My cock coursing in and out of the best receptacle yet thrilled me to the boiling point. Sergio’s ass swallowed my brew with thirst for more. Writhing in an effort not to laugh, I let out a loud, “Yes!” – because I thought of Wyatt’s ass wanting more from me that morning when I gave him more than cum.

Three baby wipes swept away remnants of my ejaculate.

“Sergio, take Brad in your arms like a babe so that he can suckle your nipples.”

An act of aggression later, Sergio cradled me while I discovered how my lips, teeth, and tongue could toy with ringed nipples, twisting and tugging them, biting them to cries that told me he was going to cum – from the torture! And he did, right against my naked bottom – me with another hard-on of my own.

A dry tissue was placed in my hands. “Wipe Sergio’s tears, tears you caused – tears of joy.”

Stranger was the instruction she gave Wyatt as she handed him her dildo. “Use as much of Sergio’s emission as you can to lubricate this.”

He busied his fingers between the man’s legs not seeing that I was being held butt up over her leathered lap. When Wyatt stood, he guessed my bottom was to receive it. That proved true, only just how was novel.

Prof. Bentley said in my ear, “Reach back and insert it in yourself..all..the..way.”

I couldn’t.

She could, and did – as far as I could take it before claiming, “That hurts!”

“Now you can reach it. Your responsibility is to push it the rest of the way in. Wyatt, kneel down and hold your brother’s penis – his testicles if you have to – so that he cannot move.” Her voice turned edgy, “His calves will be thrashed with my flogger until he obeys.”

I wasn’t struck right away. No, she ordered slave Sergio to my feet, instructing him to hold them straight out, parallel to the floor. Then my beating began.

My blubbering tapered when, agonies later, the dildo had stretched the length of my rectum and was being held tightly there as she wanted.

“Wyatt, what is the condition of Brad’s penis? Is it erect, or shall I flog him more?”

“Erect, Mistress. It tried to cum but it couldn’t even after I released his testicles.”

He called her Mistress!

“Very well, we will let him stand now.”

To me, “Get up, you.”

 “Sergio, fetch my adjustable dildo belt from the second drawer. Put it on this boy. I have other uses for his hands.”

Beside myself at so much unfamiliarity being taken with my body, I was secured in more ways than one. The dildo now was my only article of clothing. My wrists and ankles were cuffed and, blindfolded, I was spread-eagled against her office wall. Why, I found out. My pubescent nipples were clipped painfully. Something tight forced my balls down in their sac and a lead weight attached (I heard it being explained to Wyatt).

I was declared, “Beautiful.” What I heard next astonished even more.

“It’s your turn, Wyatt. Shall we go through the same process or, now that you know what’s necessary, are you ready for a dildo of your own?”

Sergio coached him to say, “Yes, Mistress. I am ready.”

His dildo was described as two inches shorter than mine, to fit his less-grown-up size. There was trouble with whatever was meant to go around his cock and balls. Too big. Fell off. A piece of whipcord was cut from one of her devices – and tied several times to make what he had stand out.

He never said a word. Too insufficient for the professor’s clips, Wyatt’s nipples received suction cups. Cuffs fit his ankles and wrist. She affixed him next to me.

“I’m an equal opportunity tormentor,” she sounded ominous. “Your widened arms and stance present the parts I’ll train now. In time, as you learn to be teachable, you will be ready for dual action.”

“Me? What kind of action?” Wyatt’s mind raced for understanding.

I answered his question, “We’re to be operants in an international project – if we train well.”

Red-lacquered nails scratched at, even clawed into our balls to the point of pain.

“Nice. Neither lost his erection. Did you see, Sergio?”

He fidgeted. I didn’t see him be given a signal yet he lifted up and removed my weight.

She thumped, patted them from below, then began slapping sharply our balls from that position.

Sergio craned his neck to see our reactions. He tested our erections.

“Firm, mistress.”

The curious idea of qualifying for something international motivated our silence and kept us stimulated. I can’t explain it.

“Does getting spanked sexually excite you?”

“We’ve never been spanked at all.”

“Never?”

Wyatt volunteered, “Brad and I are too intelligent ever to do anything to provoke such a punishment.”

“Not even for sexual pleasure?”

I took over, “Until you entered our lives, we were doing just what came naturally – we fucked.”

“Take them down,” Prof. Bentley told her slave. “Spanking figures into any boy’s sexual quotient.”

Sergio wished to know whether to leave in situ our dildos.

“That’s a must – as it is when I spank, paddle, flog, or whip you.” That said, she and Sergio used our hair to pull us across their laps – me, over Sergio’s; Wyatt over hers.

Cupped palms took the measure of our backsides’ curves. The walloping began. Each strike – left, right, or in the center – agitated the dildos, made a sharp reports on contact with our glutei maximi, and hurt like the devil.

She stopped. “Good grief, you don’t know how to be spanked. The sensuality of a spanking lies in your muscles being not tense, but relaxed. That way lies stimulation that will thrill you. Now, relax – or we’ll see you regret it.”

*

More than six thousand miles away, in a desolate military encampment, several American enlisted men sat in counsel with their warrant officer. Deep concern had brought them together – that and fatigue.

“We know we were honored to be selected for this special assignment.”

Another, “But the instructions we were given did not prepare us for such demands as are being placed upon us.”

Warrant Officer (WO1) Bailey sighed in sympathy, “Men, I’m with you in the same situation. It’s ticklish. NATO says it’s incumbent on this group to fulfil the terms of the start-up agreement made internationally. Like us, there are small detachments here of Belgians, Brits, Canadians, and Dutch. Some super-connected psychologist is behind it. Hush-hush stuff. We are among its first-stage filters. Our job is to sort the talent.”

“Forgive my language, but that’s bullshit – because there’s no real organization to what’s going on…not yet, anyway”

“And no relief. Man, if this keeps up, more men must be detailed to our group.”

WO1 Bailey held up a hand. “At least the forms to fill out are shorter now. Let’s continue to do our best. I’ll liase with our neighbors and radio command headquarters. Meanwhile, maintain yourselves as best you can. We’ll meet tomorrow at 0800 hours directly after breakfast.”

Taking breaths to fortify their determination, they rose. “Wait a sec,” Bailey said. “Check with the medic for Vitamin B-12 shots. I’ll ask him for one, too. Should help.”

After homage to the flag at the sounding of Taps, everyone in the camp headed to the chow hall. Camaraderie was enjoyed along with the grub through apple cobbler for dessert. All collected specially prepared “pup bags” and headed for their tents.

The rush was on. Local boys clamored to be singled out (with or without a friend) by a soldier. A favorite, Private Burt Namath, despite having used the chow hall’s rear door, encountered three boys wearing traditional high-necked, low hanging, long sleeve, white tunics over baggy trousers. One’s head sported a cap, the other two had strips of dark cloth wound around – rough equivalents of turbans.

In waning light, their eyes’ bright sclerae and toothpaste-white smiles drew quick glances from Pvt. Namath. They teased, implored, jostled.

Decision time. He thought for the merest part of a second how shocked he and other troops had been when they arrived to set up their encampment and found out for themselves the extent of pubescent boys’ traditional desire for men.

True: Indoctrination for their mission had touched on the subject. True: Each man had passed examinations of their sexual readiness physically and psychologically. True: All understood that homosexuality, as known in the West, would play no role in the mission. In fact, only one soldier preferred relations with the opposite sex – himself.

Cavalierly, he sold himself on the idea that a hole is a hole. Some were. Among the many, a few weren’t. Internal quandary followed.

Earlier on, in Kandahar, where the first allied base was set up at the airport, servicemen did not know what to make of boys walking up close to them, taking hold of a belt loop or clinging to a rear pocket, looking up at them and nodding. Offended, some pushed away roughly or struck out at the malefactors. Public outcry in Pashto by bearded men and some women in burkas brought military police and a translator.

Thence, a history lesson.

Who better to deliver it than a psychologist? That turned out to be Lieutenant Danielle Bentley, NATO Very Special Forces.

She flashed a vulpine smile, “Men, for more centuries than written history exists in this part of the world, what we call Afghanistan existed as an area of tribes. Fiercely independent except when invaded by outsiders, tribal warlords presided over their lands. As symbols of their authority, they maintained small harems of adolescent boys.

“Sons from the age of puberty were offered by families anxious for the honor of providing comfort to their protecting warlords. In exchange, boys who proved worthy learned horsemanship, archery, and hand-to-hand combat with scimitar-like swords. More recently, rifle marksmanship.

“Sheer stamina and brute force in the custodial company of warlords were to be achieved through practice up to the marriageable age of eighteen. Training began with submission to anal sex. Such relations survived the advent of Islam and remain key to understanding Afghan maturation among males.

“The reason is simpler than Westerners suspect. Boys are possessions to be trained for use, first personally by warlords then, over four or five years, in service for the greater good of their tribe. Allegiance to warlords by young males runs deeper than that of blood relations.

“Women are for propagation and emotional love. Islam forbids same-sex love but not older-on-younger male physical relations. You must understand that simple point.

“Positions for custom-preserving sex are the two most basic. The boy faces away on all fours, like an animal, or lies face forward and flat so that his man covers him for total possession. Intercourse is never face-to-face.

“Kissing and oral sex are strictly taboo – because they might tip the scales toward same-sex, therefore sinful, emotional expression.

“One-hundred-thousand armed Soviet atheists spent almost eleven years here uselessly in conflict with tradition. Destruction was wreaked throughout the rugged terrain. Insult was added to injury by ruthless homophobic efforts to upset cherished habits. That stupidity led to the humiliating defeat and retreat of those mighty occupation forces

“Caucasian arrogance based on Judeo-Christianity’s authoritative assumptions will accomplish the same for us – if we ‘peace-keepers’ threaten further, if we attempt to force our unnatural boundaries into a sociological time capsule.

“Therefore, it is incumbent on you here, where female virginity is preserved at all costs until marriages are arranged, to channel the frustrations of your frustrating celibacy into willing boys.”

Lt. Bentley put away her notes and cleared her throat, “I see faces fraught with various reactions.” Her eyes lasered in on the most shocked or doubtful, “Do not shirk your responsibility.”

That was then, in Kandahar. Now, in the remote foothills of an untamed mountainous region in the South, Pvt. Burt Namath greeted three favorites – Aarov, Siamok, and Mati. They practically jumped up and down that each was hugged and given a candy bar from his pup bag. On the way to his tent, he shushed the excitement of each who pointed to himself and said, “Pup.”

Mati darted through the front flap. Pvt. Namath held it aside for Siamok and Aarov. It was against interruption. Hands went for a tent pole. Man and boys liked the illumination provided by a small penlight taped there. The boys liked to see each other being taken by their personal soldier. Lest jealousy arise, Burt took pains while they enjoyed their chocolate to strip and to work up his seven inches, pointing by turns, as he stroked it with slippery, long-lasting lube, at each.

A personal brand of thermogenics, the lurid display heated his boys’ anticipation. Off came their pants. A folded blanket was placed strategically to cushion young pelvises. Mati pulled his tunic to armpit level before taking position, his thirteen-year-old bottom facing up.

No further preparation. Burt sank to his knees, nudged the head of his wetted penis to Mati’s hot spot, entertained for an instant something Lt. Bentley had said to him privately (“Afghan boys are pourous.”), rode slowly in, looked down for any sign of tension, saw none, and started the gyrations of fucking. No more than three inches at first, Mati being so small. Four got his attention after a few minutes, then five. Burt held to that for almost as long before shifting another inch deeper with his drives. Previously, he had not pushed past six for fear of damaging the boy, who received them with stoicism.

Six inches pistoned back and forth with such regularity that Aarov and Siamok, seated close by, whispered in rhythm, “Pup--py-pup--py-pup--py-pup…”

Jolted by first-time chant, Burt’s orgasm caused him to plunge full-length into Mati. Out of control, his cock pounded into the boy as it flooded the narrow, now-stretched rectum so hard that, when the onslaught could be willed to stop, Mati blinked against the residual pain and exclaimed in Pashto, “He’s a warlord!”

He managed to roll away for Aarov, tunic raised, to situate himself on the blanket. At fourteen, Aarov, like Siamok, already knew the sensations of seven inches. He relished the prospect of Burt’s. Fucked for the first time when he was twelve and puberty had made him eligible, Aarov already was conditioned to solid fucks of his ample bottom.

Mounted by Pvt. Burt Namath, he craved a particular roughness. At the touch to his seasoned anus of the man’s dripping, still-firm erection, he said in English, “Warlord for me.”

Burt burst through to spike the boy as if driven in by a hammer. Not caught off-guard, Aarov said aloud, “Yes!”

Mati clapped a hand over Aarov’s mouth. “No,” he whispered.

Boys from the countryside were quick enough to learn the words “yes” and “no,” whether they obeyed them or not.

Mati and Siamok drew admiring breaths at the way their soldier attacked Aarov’s bottom with methodical fury. He smashed into the boy so furiously and so fast, he literally fucked him off the blanket’s folds onto the hard ground beneath the tent’s floor. Without pause, he kept the fuck’s pace. Exhilaration of mind called upon his adrenal glands to produce for his body the energizing force for an orgasm worthy of such a bottom’s demand.

Aarov spasmed back. Boy met man in combat. Together they crashed and collapsed quivering.

Fourteen-year-old Siamok took Mati’s hand, looked him in the eye with concern, and confided in their native tongue, “After that, he can’t treat me to the same, can he?”

Mati’s reply in Pashto was, “Not even the greatest warlord could fuck another boy like that without time to recover. Just wait. Or let him know that you can return tomorrow morning for your turn.”

Brandishing his cock soppingly fresh from Aarov, Burt was not too euphoric to hesitate, to turn slowly toward Siamok. Skinny arms from behind grabbed, held tight. A word in English was spread admiring care, “Won-der-ful-war-lord!”

“Siamok?” Burt’s voice rose in question. His eyes glinted. A smile broke.

The boy’s who-me? facial expression opened his mouth. He dove for the blanket. Redoubled it. Forgot to lift his tunic. Remembered. Pushed to his knees. Doffed the garment completely, handing it off to Mati. Fell to his face.

Other mouths opened at the sight of their soldier feeling between Siamok’s legs, caressing the crinkled seam of scrotum and perineum, finding the anus, pushing gently on it with the flat of a thumb, wiggling it, then transferring saliva there before angling for entry. The muscle surrendered not to a ram’s battering but to steady pressure of a specific cock, the cock it wanted.

Burt streamlined in and set himself into smooth-stroke motion. Beautiful to watch, the fuck seemed to flow with the shifting quality of breezes. Soon, his hips flew as if by unseen wings.

Siamok’s head lolled, the only part of his entranced body that moved. Billowy lightness was a new sensation, conjured by the confluent mingling of feelings ineffable as clouds. Unrivaled buoyance of spirit prevailed until the human element began to surface and something like gravity attracted the two bodies and drew them into that whirlwind known as uncontrollable orgasm.

*

0800 hours. With other men waiting outside, Pvt. Burt Namath was secluded with WO1 Pierce Bailey. “Listen, Burt, this isn’t official but I need to remind you that developing favoritism with the locals is proscribed. Word’s all over camp that those boys you had yesterday think you’re hot shit, like you fucked them as strong as or stronger than a warlord..”

“Pierce, it’s not me, it’s them. They have the most sensational butts in this bleak part of the world. Each brings out a different performance from my cock. My head’s dizzy thinking about them.”

“Can’t have you causing unrest among our detail. Other local boys are asking when they can get their turn with you. Not just the newbies. Some fifteen-, sixteen-, and seventeen-year-olds have told our men they’re saving themselves for you – turning down the very men who’ve been sharing them since we encamped here.”

“Damn, I’m sorry.”

“I’m going to have to transfer you, Burt. That’s why I’m telling you now, before meeting with the other men. Just keep calm and pay attention. Now let the others in.”

They filed. Some happy, some sullen, their spirits having flagged.

None had a clue what was coming. Namath leaned his head to one side.

“Men, nearly all military operations have positives and negatives. I’m going to review our mission. The U.S. and our NATO allies have been assigned here to sap the warlords’ hold over the people. We’ve tried to remove competition among families for safeguarding their shaky lives by donating sons. Trouble stems from hard feelings among parents whose sons aren’t chosen, not pretty enough or whatever.

“Our efforts to introduce some elements of democracy here through equal-opportunity for boy-butts have eroded the power of some tribal groups but also worn many of you out. I myself have experienced it.

“Desired is simple, cock-enabled allegiance of the next generation. Men, you’re meant to fuck these Afghan boys not make love to them. Namath here came close last night to crossing the line. For that reason and others, he is being transferred today to still more-distant duty.”

Several men visibly stiffened. Punishment?

“Adjutant Pettyjohn will work out a rotation chart for the local boys with each of you. Two per day without repeats until all have been served. Our interpreter will meet with the families to make sure everyone understands the limitations. And headquarters has agreed that the Dutch and British contingents nearby, presently underchallenged, can be called upon as we may need.”

The modest round of applause fell prey to a remark, “Keep the Brits out. They’re bum-warmers, you know, spankers.”

“Thank you, whoever said that. The Dutch should do nicely. Oh, and those of you who volunteer any day to provide a third fuck will be noted, as they add up, for an eventual NATO commendation.”

Burt was held back to be told, “Pack your duffle on the double and report to the helipad a.s.a.p.”

In an extremely frenzied state, he obeyed – and was whisked away.

*

Danielle Bentley’s satellite phone connection was crystal clear. “I hear you very well, Jalaluddin. Blessings upon you. May your life continue for many moons. …Has Malim Jan readied the twins? … Thank you. Glad to hear it. … Yes, I’ll wait. … Hello. So good to hear your voice, Malim Jan. … Are the haliq boys as lovely as you say? And identical twins? … Natural blondes? All the more remarkable. … Untouched and unmarked, I assume? … English lessons begun? … I understand. … Payment? Yes, as we agreed – with a possible bonus. … Very soon, an American soldier named Burt Namath will be delivered to you. This one is likely to succeed where the other one, Joe Reynolds, failed with the previous boys I wanted. Where are those two now? … In Russia? …With ‘Vlad the Impaler’? – too choice! … Please do our project your very best. Entrust Namath’s orientation to Tarak. … And blessings upon you, too.”

*

Uniquely placed men, whose names appeared above, brokered the American professor’s deal with a needfully nameless Pashtun warlord for twin boys of surpassing purity which, as articles of commerce, he had purchased for an unconscionable sum. The sale to Bentley tripled his investment. There would be other comely lads for him. Besides, he had not yet worn out his current favorite.

*

Sheltered from rare, passing rain, beneath a rocky overhang, Namath felt relief from the tension of uncertainty at what was happening.

From behind, a man’s voice startled, “Pvt. Namath?”

He whirled to see a slender, dark-skinned, traditionally-garbed Afghan whose face bristled with wild, curly hair.

“I’m Tarak. Come with me.”

Afforded no option, he shouldered his duffle bag and followed – into a tunnel – curiosity heightened. At the tunnel’s end and entering then-stormless daylight, they walked a dampened path that took them to a dwelling of mud, clay, timber and straw with carpets on its floor and cushions against the wall.

Tarak showed Burt the shower and told him to “cleanse” thoroughly. A finely-woven single-piece article similar to a caftan was provided – with obvious implication.

Emerging refreshed and freshly clothed, Burt was asked to sit. He chose an arrangement of cushions that did not look too uncomfortable.

Tarak, a fine-looking young man of perhaps twenty years, Burt believed, spoke toward the curtained entry to the room beyond, “Abdul, Hassan, come please. Meet the man who has been chosen for you. His name is Burt.”

The surprised soldier caught his breath and held it as he beheld a double vision. Identical, light-skinned, angel-faced boys with hair a color he had never in his life seen – between silver and gold – in ringlets men’s fingers would want to try on.

A flute seemed to play a melody, “Hello, Burt. I’m Abdul.”

Another joined in, “I’m Hassan. Is my English good?”

He wanted to say, “Divine,” but settled for, “Yes, very.” To attempt more would have tied his tongue. Helpless, he looked to Tarak.

“Boys, you may sit with us. I will explain to Burt why no one but he is qualified to join me in preparing you for the role you will play together when you are ready. Great honor and financial reward will accrue to you when we succeed.”

Eager to learn, they took cushions and sat.

“Our organization’s profile of you, Burt, reveals that you are bisexual by nature, mentally honest and realistic, a patriot, obedient of authority, fascinated by challenges – even those never anticipated – and possess amazing stamina during sex. Sex being the a-one priority with us, your ability to adjust to the heated needs of the moment alone qualify you more than any of your comrades-in-action. Until you were stationed with us, you had been intimate only with girls of your age and hardly ever another male. Even then, you did so with good grace, our investigators found. Until we marooned you here, you had never fucked a male younger than yourself, even in your high school years when you became aware of your – ahem! – durability. Then and since, you exhibit willingness to conform to local standards and to show concern for your partners. Last night’s tryst with our boys Mati, Siamok, and Aarov proved that.”

Hassan and Abdul, hearing names of Pashtun boys, sat motionless. Patience was expected, not comprehension of all being said.

“For reasons that you may intuit, you will grasp why I led your fellow soldiers to think you were a threat to the encampment’s order. No? All right, last night’s trio was your final exam.”

“Exam? For what? You haven’t told me what comes next.”

Tarak reached for one twin’s knee. “You are going to help me train these innocents to be this backwater, sexually-seething country’s youngest, most beguiling, fully adept sex slaves.”

Tarak spoke lowly, rapidly in Pashto. The twins turned to the Western man they saw as handsome, “Please, Burt.”

To stave off any protest, there came a stunning, wordy conclusion from Tarak: “People far above our pay-grade, if I may use a locution from your country, deem this beyond-top-secret project of intergovernmental and interagency cooperation to matter to the developing science of applied psychology. From your point-of-view, it should be impressive that your Pentagon has an office monitoring the role you are playing here. The U.S. National Institutes of Health and Human Services, Central Intelligence Agency, Federal Bureau of Investigation await of results of what we do now and subsequently.”

Seemed unbelievable. “Fucking children?”

There was no answer.

“Abdul, present yourself to Burt. Hassan, present yourself to me. We will honor you for the first of many times.”

Mesmeric was the effect of the identical beauties crossing paths after removing their pants and tunics then standing nudely proud.

“We will go now, taking their hands, into the other room where there are our mattresses”

Spellbound, Burt imitated Tarak’s way of walking his boy with mere fingertip connection. Not a thing sexual or threatening to it. Burt felt the delicacy of Abdul’s touch.

The mattress arrangement consisted of two adjacent Afghan toshaks three-inches thick and pillows in matching tribal designs. To the side of each, a small saucer with something mounded on it.

“Twins for twins,” Burt tried to make light.

“You will recline there,” Tarak indicated, “on your back, eyes closed. Relax and wait as you know how.” To Burt, he said, “Kneel with me now at your haliq’s feet and do as I do.”

Perfectly circumcised, boyish cocks were supported by ballsacs bunched upward by closed, creamy-smooth legs. Burt stared, wondering what…

A hooked finger before a side glance showed the American that he was to follow suit. Tarak braced himself and leaned directly over Hassan’s genitals – and gathered them into his mouth.

Hassan emitted a virgin boy’s cry of happy surprise and felt for his brother’s hand. Abdul frowned but did not open his eyes. The poignance got to Burt, who despite misgivings, drew together his mouth parts over Abdul’s genitals. His ears picked up a similar sound from his assigned boy.

Music to his ears. What his mouth held seemed not repugnant. It was… He moved his tongue to separate cock from balls, licked it about, sucked at the package, tongued over and around the small egg-shapes, and was aware when the roof of his mouth felt an erection begin. Curiously, that tickled. He remembered the first time he had experienced a blow-job, how it made him swell hard, how the girl had gagged.

A jab from Tarak meant something. He focused on his face-down guide’s pushing Hassan’s heels to make the boy’s knees bend and part until they framed the man’s head. He saw why: Tarak was using saliva to lubricate his longest finger to worm into little Hassan’s fetching bottom.

Finger situated and moving slowly, Tarak began what looked like a gnawing action with his mouth. Hassan’s lithe frame trembled and shook.

Burt recognized the signal and hastened to treat twin Abdul to the insertion of his own finger, marketedly longer than Tarak’s, and he tried to emulate the other action. At Hassan’s gasps of virginal orgasm, he accidentally bit Abdul’s bundle, triggering hysterical vibrations and hiccupping calls to stop. But he couldn’t. Something as eventful in his first-timer’s mouth should be allowed to burst forth in this boy’s first wet-dream-come-true. Every joy of oral glands and associated tissues he could offer he lavished upon his agonized angel’s cum-to-Jesus moment.

Gaspers, the lot of them, sought oxygen. Burt’s mind, stymied by what he had just done, closed down during the brief renewal but cracked open at a touch to his crotch. More tentative than a woman’s, delicately seeking, it was Abdul’s hand on, then under his caftan.

“Ayee! So big! Let me see, please.”

Abdul’s quiet tone cajoled, his request too civil to refuse. Burt cast off his garment.

“This is your sperm?” Abdul tested its warmth. Tasted it. With a hand to Burt’s shaft, he announced softly, “I will try.” He opened his mouth.

Riveted to see Abdul’s precious face incline toward his cockhead, Burt saw a hand arc for a pinch of his brother.

Hassan launched himself at Tarak, who was lost in satisfaction. The soldier was beginning to know Pashtun passion as these twins were learning to practice it, Abdul leading this time.

Tears were on the brink of forming, though. Mouths so limited in dimension got nowhere near their men’s pubes. What for Tarak and Burt were only mouths-full loomed as three impossible targets. Moreover, descending only a little way choked the boys.

“I am unable,” Hassan gave up in shame. “I cannot,” Abdul confessed, voice breaking. Mortification was threatening their poise.

“You can,” Tarak surprised Burt. “You will.  When you are trained. For us now, you will suck as much as you can. Round your lips and bob your heads. Control the movements with your tongues. Suck now, boys, to earn our respect, we who have already honored you.”

Truth of appearances: They resembled newborns suckling. While “semenal” nourishment did not come in the minutes they tried for it, dedication to their effort impressed. No tooth scraped. Tongues innately knew what to do and found ways to cause thrills.

But heads bobbed insufficiently for Burt.

“Abdul, move over me, your head facing down. Lean your chin out and take my cock directly in. Now bob on it. Not good enough. My hands will guide you. Understand? You can go further. Yes. See?  Your nod pleases me.”

Tarak repositioned Hassan. “Like that, on me with your mouth.” His fingers sought Hassan’s perinenum, directly over his face. Tarak employed a fingernail to trace the seam’s crimped line. Sensitive flesh quivered. Sucking intensified. Tarak’s fingers stroked balls, slid along to tease where the one had been. Hassan lapped and bobbed.

Temperature in the room rose, radiating from two sexually-awakened men. Burt’s boy, Abdul was trying vainly to out-do his twin. His perineal massage involved fingers kneading its mound but definitely aiming to penetrate him again. His head swam with desire to please. On the verge of pressing too far onto Burt, he was snapped from his reverie by a barked order, military-style.

“Boys, as you were! On your backs, eyes closed. Hands beneath your necks. Relax and wait as you did.” To Tarak, “We will take them as we did before, on our fingers, with our mouths. Let’s require their obedience.” A strange look came over the American’s eyes, “But let us exchange them.”

The Afghan’s twenty-year-old mind whirled at Burt’s goal – oral dominance! This was progress. The sort the project wanted. No favoritism shown. The twins were objects to be used for men’s purposes.

As they were made to understand, Hassan and Abdul shuffled amiably across mats and fell on their backs, fingers locked behind thin necks. Lids lowered. Smiling. Each wetted the finger presented to his mouth so that it would slide in to wake again the uncanny feeling of before. Without instruction, they lifted their legs to make room to be penetrated and their sex taken by powerful mouths gobbling for pleasure.

Tiny nipples hardened. Small voices made inarticulate sounds. Fingers felt full-circle inside. Tongues gave cursory sweeps, traced each roundness, tantalized and provoked, laved and tickled, coerced erections, found and concentrated on acorn-size glans’ hypersensitivity, and received young bodies’ thrashing, celebratory climaxes into willing throats.

Consumed in single swallows, the twins’ juices were thinner than before but had been surrendered more noisily.

“We’ve taxed them,” Burt observed.

Tarak responded, “And relaxed them.”

“While they’re like this,” Burt looked at his finger’s burial site, “and not worried, we can widen them.”

“It is the Afghan way. You catch on fast. Dip your fingers in that dish of fresh sheep butter, the one you haven’t noticed. Twice as fatty as Western butter. You will see how excellent it is for boys.”

Burt needed no instruction. “Buttery soft” took on new meaning as he lubed exhausted Hassan with one, then two fingers. Although stretched by one, weak boy sphincters had no defense to resist being plied by two. The butter enabled.

Tarak’s jaw rose by way of signal. He turned Abdul on his side, put an arm under his neck, and moved his upper leg away to open the boy’s bottom for more penetration. With his beard against Adbul’s cheek and a tightened hug, he soon stroked his fingers back and forth, turning them right and left, and positioned close together the tips of three.

Without his friend’s practiced moves, Burt wrangled similar closeness and thrilled to have such possession. His urgency with a third finger produced Hassan’s painful “Oh!” – which netted the soldier’s voice charging, “This is the Afghan way.”

Another day – morning really, after sleeping with grown men – of finger play and sore-holed twins were declared open for men’s serious training. Training to the depth initially of about five inches, abetted by amazingly lubricious sheep butter, required care.

“Feed him in very slowly, Burt,” Tarak cautioned, “the way I am.”

Torsos to their mats, pelvises raised by the room’s pillows underneath, and peach-pretty, well-pitted boy-butts where they needed to be, Hassan, under Tarak, and Adbul under Burt, experienced being pierced and plumbed for the first time by their masters. Two, three, and four inches of cautious dicking had sore asses responding so well that five did not hurt unbearably.

Five was the limit of such rectums. Tarak knew what to do. Poignantly, he remembered his own virginity’s being taken fiercely by a warlord of great size. Its horrible pain became something different when his attacker’s softened cock started a second fuck…and made the turn into Tarak’s inner sphincter. In a sense, it coaxed the further channel onto itself like a curved sausage into a fibrous casing. Hardened, the cock fucked deeply, more fluidly – with lessening pain until, within days, there was no pain at all.

Thus, Tarak let himself soften, threaded further inside Hassan, acquired the needed inch, hardened, and shaped a tunnel to suit his six inches. Congruently and eventually – in part from frustration – Abdul’s interior became suited to Burt’s first six. When accomplished and the area accustomed, Burt’s seventh inch could scour Abdul’s core and did.

 Awesome were matched, pliable butts being cruised into and from in ever-increasing movements – shallow-to-deep, canoe-slow-to-jet-ski fast – by men whose libidinal pressure built, fueled by the panic of approaching climax yet wanting to postpone being conflagrated by it while craving its release. Both burst volcanically, ejecting loins’ lava-flow bounty with rampant violence’s victorious semblance of glory.

Aftershocks of their orgasms coursed through all four. Burt managed to eke out, “That was the greatest fuck of my life.”

The two men left the twins’ posteriors streaked with reminders of their passion.

Some hours passed after bathing. There was conversation which involved opinions being shared on various topics without involvement of the twins. Granted their patience, it was remarkable that Abdul at one point palmed Burt’s lengthening cock. With light strokes to its soft underside, it grew beyond to extend across the boy’s impetuous other, placed to receive and fondle.

Hassan disbelieved at first his brother’s daring, then palmed Tarak’s organ in similar fashion.

The obvious could not be denied. They reached for the butter, literally symbolizing their wish to be of additional, fervent service there, then, for their own warlords.

*

Tarak’s assurances to Malim Jan that Pvt. Namath and the twins were conditioned for what lay ahead had to be tested. For that, Malim Jan personally witnessed Namath’s unashamed efficacy at screwing, with all-out strength, both. “You will be needed, Tarak. Let me see you also take them fully.” Inspired by Namath’s demonstration and proud to be recognized by so grand a figure in Afghan life, Tarak plunged into action. His moves impressed Malim Jan.

With very proper language, Malim Jan relayed the success to Jalaluddin. In turn, Jalaluddin, by satellite phone, informed Danielle Bentley that final payment was due. When received, he conveyed with appropriate Afghan subtlety, Tarak, Hassan, and Abdul would be ready for transport to authorities she would designate at the American Embassy in Kabul.

Coolly, she said, “No, deliver them to Major Hilton Cramer at our base at the Kandahar airport. Use the little known gate on the Southeast side. You will be expected there. Tomorrow. By which time your bank account will show its payment from us. When we ascertain the thoroughness of the alleged preparation, a bonus will be made by further wire transfer.” In Pashto, she ended with, “Blessings upon you.”

*

An unusual occurrence at the air base was a call made through Maj. Cramer to Pvt. Namath from NATO Very Special Forces officer Danielle Bentley. Her rank went unspoken.

“Hello? This is Pvt. Namath.”

Typical of her, she skipped pleasantries. “When in our cross-hairs for confirmation, you were intimate with three haliqs – Aarov, Siamok, and Mati.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Was she about to ask something?

“Your departure for the States will be on hold while we find them. I have determined that they shall be added to the group heading my way. I assume this news pleases you?”

His groin welcomed the news even as he said, “Yes, ma’am – they are the best.”

“We are jump-promoting you to corporal at this stage with the appropriate pay-grade increase. Expected is that you build upon your past experience, think creatively about the sway, the control you have over boys assigned to you, and use coming flight-time to exercise every reasonable form of dominance upon your charges. In-flight food, beverages, medical stimuli, and other equipment have been provided. Pilot, co-pilot, and navigator are knowledgeable and should be invited to enjoy intimacies as their duties permit. Two points more: Tarak now will follow your directives except when he is introducing you to new procedures; you please me by your lack of questions, by your obedience to the requirements of our project.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. But I do have a question about the flight.”

“Go ahead, ask.”

“Are we provided with sheep butter? Nothing’s better for the work ahead.”

She deadpanned, “More than you possibly can use.”

“Ma’am, may I hang up now, please? I’m urgently in need…of my boys.” In a rush of words that made Bentley laugh, he spurted, “My cock’s as hard as glass and about to break!”

*

Then called simply The Farm, the remote, heavily wooded property had run-down barbed wire fences, open, if hardly-sowed, fields, a stream and pond, and several modest-looking buildings. Barely noticeable from country roads on either side, the placid place hid considerable activity best unknown beyond those for whom it was intended. At one far end of the property, the land sloped down into a crevasse where a truly secret structure housed certain staff and occasional transients. Beyond its dense plantings and kinds of camouflage lay a valley with a river running lazily in its basin.

Excitement marked the arrival by an Airbus H160 helicopter of a woman and her assistant, two men, and seven boys. From The Farm’s landing field, they were driven by a cheerful man named Randy-James in a small, decrepit-looking bus downhill via a winding dirt road to a rock-encrusted, apparently windowless, looming concrete building.

The tight-lipped, middle-aged woman and her toned assistant, who had visited The Farm before construction was completed of its secret structure, keenly wished to get to their destination. The two, racially dissimilar men, in their early twenties, made a striking appearance – handsome faces, slender and muscular bodies Their heads turned in every direction to gawk at the impenetrable forest surrounding the curious structure coming into view. The seven boys of early adolescence bounded with enthusiasm attendant on an adventure. The group’s two Americans had no reason to be impressed by the scenery. The Afghan five, however, had excitement on the brain. No place they had ever seen resembled this Middle-American paradise.

Severe as the exterior seemed, the building’s interior was luxurious. Eyes young and older hardly had time to glance at its wonders. A voluminous welcoming committee was at hand. It consisted of three teens: Hiram, Avery, and Hank (their name tags declared) – a bevy of young men whose tags bore the word PROVIDER: Cosmo, Ting, Konstantin, Lon, Félix, Ahmed, Sammy, and Clyff – and a roster of men with tags labeling them TRAINER: Javier, Blaine, Sydney, Mike, Belamy, Uldis, Vasily, and Ben.

CEO Alan Ecks took Prof. Bentley and her Sergio under his wing into the ice-breaker reception. They met the Farm’s cook, “Mama,” Maria Corleoni. She called their attention to a special yogurt-based punch she created for her Afghan boys, each of whom was gathered for a hug into her billowy bosom.

“I have-a sweets and-a goodies for your-a tummies.” Her squeezes included a feel of their butts. They liked the woman’s recognition.

Randy-James’ talented photographer-son Hiram was all over the place, snapping images from every imaginable angle.

His partner, Hank, and the Farm’s youngest resident, shy Avery, went for the Americans, Brad and Wyatt. Joined by Konstantin and Ting, the group tried to balance glass punch cups in one hand while their other selected nibbles from Mama’s buffet arrangement and they talked about sex.

The Russian and the Chinese wanted to hear how much discipline Prof. Bentley had taught them to accept.

“We can come during spankings,” Wyatt answered Konstantin.

Ting hugged his friend, “Konstantin’s everybody’s favorite here for that sort of thing, but I’m okay with it to a degree.”

Wyatt asked, regarding the fragile-looking boy, “And you, Avery?”

Avery hid his face. Clung to Ting.

Ting accepted the cling. “Avery doesn’t speak, but he is much loved here by everyone. There’s a reason why we” – he glanced at Konstantin – “thought you guys would want to meet him. Since you’ve been in Bentley’s custody, you’ve been fucked a lot, right? And you haven’t done any fucking, also right?”

“Yes,” they dueted. Drank down the rest of their punch.

“Avery’s always ready. Loves being fucked more than anyone, ever in the history of the world, I guess. He trusts us because we love him. Only, he’s worn out every one of us. When you want to fuck, Avery’s ass is the most sensational place. Isn’t it, sweet thing?”

By twisting a little, Avery’s buttocks stuck out. His bright blush went unseen. Almost spilled his yogurt punch.

Nobody said anything. Hank patted what protruded, “He’s modeled for Hiram and enjoys making the rounds with me.” In full sales-mode, Hank’s last remark made them laugh, “He’s ‘butt-elishous,’ so Mike says.”

Brad, who had listened intently, spoke up, “You know who’d appreciate your friend Avery, the American guy, Burt – Burt Namath over there. His cock’s been on an exclusively-Afghan boy diet. We’ll introduce you both.”

“As long as he doesn’t want my ass,” Hank snickered.

A ding-ding on her bowl with a spoon, Mama sang out, “Last-a call for-a punch. Everybody needs to-a get to bed.”

The seven new boys were taken by Trainers Javier, Blaine, Sydney, Mike, Belamy, Uldis, and Vasily. “Big Ben” Arrowsmith, the Farm’s smoldering muscular juggernaut, took Avery, who wasn’t shy about leaving with him. Hiram and Hank went to their bed. Burt Namath was kept awake for more than an hour by Mama’s ardor and his desire for a woman, any woman. Alan Ecks sought Sammy’s mouth for a repeat of their oral sex. Randy-James invited Tarak to spend with him, both his seed and the night.

Best sleep was granted the Providers whose services were not required.

At breakfast, CEO Ecks asked Aarov, Siamok, Mati, Abdul, Hassan, Tarak, Wyatt, and Brad to stand for “a round of applause.” Grins broke across every face.

“You Providers will walk the new boys and Mr. Namath through The Farm buildings and their tunnels. Take pains to speak simply and slowly to the Pashtuns whose English will profit. Their questions can be translated by Tarak, possessor of excellent English.”

Turning more ominous (as was his style previously), he announced that Prof. Danielle Bentley would be Psychologist-in-Residence “for the foreseeable future” while completing “a research project of international importance.” Charles and Ward, responsible for “our re-constructed Hotel Shellman,” would see to housing “Prof. Bentley and her able assistant, Sergio, as well as our investors and a few special clients when we are ready for them. Her work with each of you is to be total in its cooperation.”

Randy-James rose to conclude the announcements, “This facility and those up The Farm’s hill will be utilized in every way conceivable. My new schedule, worked out in collaboration with Nurse Rockwell, will be available late this afternoon. I now call on our costumer. Mike the floor, as they say, is yours.”

Mike Manleigh surveyed the room. “Each new resident, excepting Sergio and Prof. Bentley, will need to be measured and fitted. Please drop by my rooms at the theater with whomever you will be showing around. You can assist. The intimacy’s important. Nurse Rockwell will be with me for a look-see and vitals check. If we can start with the twins, their special needs will not interrupt anyone else’s turn with us. And, Drama Club members, we will hear auditions for parts in Javier’s new playlet, The Assman Cometh, Wednesday morning.”

At the table where Big Ben and Avery sat with Cosmo and Ting, a small commotion was occurring. Of the few who took notice from the table across the aisle, albino Clyff waved at Mike and pointed in that direction.

Mike’s gaze took in a peculiar sight. Undemonstrative Avery, breathing heavily, lay against Ben who held a paper napkin in a hand trembling with emotion. Cosmo had tears on his dimpled cheeks. Ting found enough voice to say, “Mike, Randy-James, everybody – you’ve got to see this.”

Fleet of foot, Mike was there before a crowd gathered. He removed the napkin.

“Avery did that with this,” Ting said, brushing fingertips to his own eyes and holding a ballpoint pen.

Crude but ascertainable was a heart with three letters fitted inside: B E N.

“What’s so special about that?” Wyatt wondered.

Brad wondered, too.

Lon, who sat across from the brothers, whispered, “Avery’s severely traumatized from before he ended up here after an airplane crash. He can’t speak. This is a breakthrough moment.”

People started chanting, “Ave-ry, Ave-ry, Ave-ry.”

“I still don’t understand,” supposed brainiac Wyatt said.

Lon spoke up to him and Brad, “Ben obviously did more than fuck Avery all night for Avery to be like that. He must have made sensational love to him.” Conspiratorially, he added, “Love’s strictly forbidden in a place like this where we’re all glorified whores.”

*

It’s me, Brad. I’m back. Much to relate about our life in this dream-world.

The Pashtun pups weren’t happy until Mr. Ecks ordered toshaks, their kind of mattresses, for all our Pashtuns, along with those tribal-style pillows they like plus getting some extras – in case. Despite the lack of sheep butter here in the Midwest, they got used to The Farm’s substitute, Übersilk.

Sublimity for boybutts – theirs, mine, my brother’s and all the Providers. Aarov, Siamok, and Mati – nicknamed the Three Pups – only wanted Cpl. Namath to keep their asses glowing inside. But, once they had been encouraged to feel what guys like Uncle Vas and Uncle Syd had in their pants, they were quick to lay claims on those cannons.

Warlord equipage.

Übersilk smoothed the way so wonderfully that the Three Pups, in tandem on their mattresses, get plowed before breakfast, after lunch, and before bedtime by both uncles. You should hear the crooning sounds they make.

Prof. Bentley shows up for those vocalizations once or twice weekly with her pretty twins, Hassan and Abdul. Harnessed with Mike-made leather straps, they bear signs of being switched on their legs and often-plugged bottoms. Makes them watch the tough fucking. Cute, their growing cocks always erect. Theirs, by the way, are our most musical voices – no matter what they say, it’s melodious (even when they’re crying from her discipline).

Slave Sergio now appears bound in intricate ways and is hardly ever permitted to cum except when tormented in some humiliating fashion. Last week, he was made to suck every Trainer’s cock whether hard or not – and the lot went along with it. Her study’s the reason.

For that, she’s interviewed every person here, some under hypnosis by Blaine. Mr. Ecks has given her access to view many hours of our secret videos, formerly seen only by guys such as Randy-James and Blaine. A joke ran, “She’s analyzed us anal-ized boys!”

While none of us knows what form her study will finally take – a book, most likely – there’s no doubt what’s in my brother’s thesis paper, Pashtun Sexuality. In its first form, the content relied on published sources. His live contact with Pashtuns, including Tarak, has resulted in truly vivid descriptions. He’s on-line now in an academic discussion group interested in what they call “sexualities.”

Tarak, who tops me for fun (and practice), spends most nights with Blaine. I get a replay of what Randy-James (so in-demand) and Blaine most recently gave him. As Western as Tarak tries to be, both guys’ insistence on taking him on his back, legs held parted while tongue-kissing him initially made his flesh crawl. Screwing me that way, while against his grain, makes his glans swell and flare – a phenomenon I can feel taking place just before he ratchets into climax.

He never spanks me. When Uldis does, I think back to the choir boy I once saw being spanked and fucked and to Bentley’s earlier teaching Wyatt and me the sensuality of being spanked. His cupped hand strikes, the other controls my balls. Who wouldn’t get hard, especially when meeting the demands of a stunningly handsome man whose sky blue eyes will soon stare at close quarters as he drives his sex in? Uldis’s ivory cock is curved – up, like a tusk – and is thicker than Tarak’s, It’s length, close to eight inches, stirs my prostate to a boil.

Mike’s terrific, too. When my times come, he closes the distance between us, pulls me to my toes, and presses his mouth to mine. Gently at first, then harder. His hands slip around my waist. Fingers dig into my back, and then he opens his mouth.

My throat makes an almost feline sound. My fingers slide into the damp hair at the base of his neck. As we kiss, his flexed muscles mold to flatten my body against the nearest wall. I pant against his mouth.

With a tremble-inducing, theatrical, husky tone, he says, “I really want you, Brad.”

I swallow hard.

“I’m not acting out a script. I’m concocting a new one with you.”

The rhythm of his heartbeat sends me into sexual heat and emotional confusion. His conqueror’s cock has filled out in a profoundly erotic way. My smaller body, feeling the throb, slides down.

“On the bed. Clothes off.”

A wave of pleasure runs through my body as I strip, lying on my back. My awkward efforts make him breathe harder while strips off his clothes. He tumbles over me for kisses with a tongue of fire.

Wetter than mine, his naked cock aligns with my legs, adding flashes of heat there. His hands roam my body, exploring and squeezing. I’m about to cum but am stopped by his hand on my balls.

“Open your legs. Wider. Grab your ankles.”

Two of his broad fingers receive spit and slip inside me. I wince at the sudden, rough pain yet feel his is the right to hurt me if he wants. I’m his. A thrust and a twist – and the fingers retreat to be replaced by a broader bluntness. His cock commands what spit there is to admit it.

He pushes.

I scream.

Automatically, my legs wrap his body. The burn of entry is awful although, as he rips me apart, seems marvelous.

I feel him hesitate, but then moves against me, thrusting his hips and twisting them the way his fingers did, only amplified. I cry out in agonized fear and joy, arching onto him as he pushes deepest. Pleasure at my licentious response lights his face. He fucks me hard. Eyes closed in concentration, Mike says my name and freezes in rictus, his cum pouring into me without any motion on his part.

He slumps against me, muttering my name over and over. When he begins to move off me, I hold him tight. “No, stay where you are. I possess you now. You’re mine now to squeeze,” I say, proudly assertive for the first time.

His cock, ensconced completely, soaks in what it has drenched me with. I caress his face with one hand. With the other, I draw him to me for another kiss.

His tongue penetrates and excites us both. My pelvis tugs at what it holds, eliciting greater firmness and a gasp of awakened pleasure from him. I moan. His eyes flicker – and starts moving again. No demands are summoned.

This type of fuck lasts a long, long time.

*

Life on The Farm suits everyone, Providers and Trainers. We tailor ourselves and one another non-competitively to provide clients with unmatchable services of every sensual and sexual sort.

Our goals include:

- satisfying their sexual needs however specialized

- helping them center their humanity through heightened bodily communication skills

- countering the crippling inertia of accumulated societal mistakes so systematized by religion

- reckoning away the contradictions of humanity’s treacherously ignorant laws

- inspiring trust in one’s instincts to celebrate orgasm as festivity

Brad accounts with personal excellence his best of our documented encounters. Mike, crucial to that one, is one of our most adept Trainers. For example, with Aarov, whom he was detailed to introduce to oral sex, he began one day to take away his clothes while staring at him with intensity of feelings until the boy’s eyes glazed. Aarov’s erection’s pink tip  responded with teen pre-cum to his fingery teases.

“You need a cock up your ass, don’t you, Aarov?”

Afraid to admit he wanted Cpl. Namath’s, he blinked to cover hesitancy before answering, “Yes.”

While the mini-interrogation was underway, Siamok walked in without knocking. “Oh,” he said. Hope made him blurt, “Me, too, please.”

“I’ll make a bargain with you,” Mike pretended annoyance. “Whichever of you is first to…” – they looked hard into his face – “… to be able to take throat-fucking well will be rewarded with your old friend Cpl. Namath for a whole night at The Hotel Shellman.”

Both had suspected the day for oral instruction would come but certainly hated the idea. They paled. Aarov pursed his lips to protest.

“Don’t tell me it’s-not-the-Pashtun-way. You are boys of The Farm now. Versatility is a necessity or you won’t be worth our investment in you. Go over to Nurse Blaine’s office in the Infirmary (I emphasized with a finger the direction). Ask him to show you the video of Ting with the fat Mexican jefe. He’ll explain.”

They adjusted their clothes.

Blaine had it cued up on his screen when they showed themselves at his door. “Hello, my lovelies. Take a seat. He ruffled their insurrectionary hair the way Namath did. “You’ve noticed how Ting is recognized by everyone here, how happy he is – well, he tackled Sr. Mendez’s whopping chorizo like a hero. Watch.”

The video played out: Ting bent over the sleeping Mexican and gradually swallowed his sex. His lips could be seen pulling away from the man’s mass of public hair, taking some breaths at their reaching the widespread corona, and slipping back. Visible was a snake-like motion in Ting’s throat, its elongated muscles undulating, following the contours of Mendez’ penis and enveloping it. Ripples of seeming desperation and a gagging sound – “Mike taught him how to manage that,” Blaine told them – then Ting brought the man’s orgasm flagrantly into his throat by fondling Mendez’ balls and sliding a finger in his ass.

The video stopped.

During the two boys’time spent watching in terrified awe and listening to Blaine talk about how all Farm boys need to develop throat skills, Mike costumed Sydney and applied enough makeup that, in dim light, he could play the role of Pashtun warlord.

Blaine took a call from Charles at the hotel. “Send them over, hands tied behind their waists. I’ll show them to the cellar room – it’s more or less fixed up as the interior of a tent.”

From ceiling speakers, Pashtun indigenous music helped summon conducive atmosphere. The warlord, looking ferocious, sat, legs crossed, on a toshak. Near him, knelt another man, robed, his face hidden under a cowl.

Charles’ last words to bound Aarov and Siamok were, “Go in and, as you learn, do not speak.” He had felt each now-naked bottom for the lubricant he and Wade had injected. Their shirts had not been removed. Thus thoroughly intimidated by their helplessness, they stood – and were beckoned by the kneeling figure, made to stand before the warlord, pressed to their knees, and plugged.

Brought from the warlord’s midpoint and exposed to the boys’ view stood a massive (honey-coated) cock – unrecognizable in the theatrical circumstance – to which Aarov’s head was directed from behind. Faced with no alternative, he opened his lips. Thought about Ting and Blaine’s instructions. Let his jaw drop more and felt for the first time in his life the suck-shaped, spongy cap of a man’s cock on his tongue and against the roof of his mouth.

Fingers in his hair pulled him back. It was sweet! Those of another hand pushed Siamok’s head forward for the same sort of taste-test, only the merest pressure more moved the cap to Siamok’s soft palate and made sure it stayed there until the boy did not fear its being there. Not then. It was sweet.

Aarov’s soft palate registered the cap. In his nervousness, his tongue moved along the honeyed underside – and widened the back of his mouth. The warlord noticed, smiled, and patted his cheek with approval. Aarov dared not breathe for seconds. When he had to, it had become the situation for Siamok to face.

The hooded figure’s voice said, “Steady now. Take a few breaths, then swallow – and keep swallowing. You will not be pushed further. Appreciate how amazing the feeling is that you can do it.”

Although trembling, Aarov thought he might be able to consider it amazing.  He needed more time to shift his tongue but, when he did and his throat opened, he edged more than he should, almost gagged, didn’t, then did accept being held by the hair there – to receive a smile and a pat.

The honey made their mouths water.

A brush in the hands of the hooded man added more from a bowl. “We have as much as it takes.”

“Now forward,” he aimed Siamok. “If you want to learn this lesson without harm, hold your breath and swallow fast when you think you can’t.” Where the warlord’s tip tickled Siamok’s uvula, reflexes set off alarm bells. Eyes blurring with tears, the boy practiced swallowing before extending his tongue to let the frightful thing into his upper throat.

Warlord-strong arms held him to a count. One. Two. Three. Four. Released, he was exchanged for Aarov, who survived also with tear-streaked cheeks. Exchanged as well, his plug with one that vibrated in pulses.

More words, spoken with weight to them: “A cock of this magnitude neither distorts not deforms. It enlarges. Small cocks poke and stab, bruising tissue and muscle. They make stomachs turn and throats suffer.”

Honey was brushed into Siamok’s mouth. “Apply this with your mouth and upper throat, swallowing from the moment you make full contact.”

Aarov swore to himself that he could swallow as well as Siamok was doing – and not make so many gargling sounds. He couldn’t but was told he’d be given a second chance.

“You must succeed.”

The advent of the means to succeed was Aarov’s totally naked placement, wrists freed, on his back with his head hanging back almost to the floor from the height of three stacked toshaks.

“Breathe in slowly. Breathe out slowly, Aarov. Again. Hold it. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Breathe slowly out. And in. Several times now. Think where you tongue will be when you can sustain a count of six. Extend it for my count to six and relax your whole body.”

His breaths in and from a wide open throat encouraged the two training him.

Radio-controlled, his plug vibrated evenly, continuously.

Without panic, Aarov’s throat, wider than he knew, accepted the cock deeper than ever – for a count of five. Expecting six, he swallowed using only the back of his tongue, contractions closing with spellbinding effect around the great, retreating cock.

Its second entry, deeper still, brought Syd’s mouth over the boy’s hardened sex, which responded with jerks when sucked while a count of six was heard. Within seconds, Syd’s gathering man-juices were propelled along with his personal length into the phenomenal tract of Aarov’s throat.

Singled as he was for esophageal insemination, Aarov had no awareness that Siamok had been removed to another room and was undergoing somewhat similar, graduated occupancy of his throat by none other than Big Ben – and was having a terrible time. No amount of patient instruction sufficed to convince the cooperative boy’s pharynx that collaboration could happen.

After that evening’s supper, fully uniformed Cpl. Burt Namath, seven-inch erection visible in his trousers, walked proud Aarov (who ate his spinach) to The Hotel Shellman.

Night’s calm lets The Farm go gently to rest.

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