Tales from the Birchfield farm

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RUCKUSES AT THE FARM

I.

Two of The Birchfield Farm’s Providers were engaged in as many activities at the same time, one “bedly” (if that invention may describe reclining, interlocked bodies in sensual motion) and one aesthetic (mutual admiration for photos of the one on the bottom). Their fun, short-lived, had long-range consequences. Here is most of what happened. And then some more.

*

On the screen of his cellphone, images flicked by at finger-stroke intervals. Intent, pale-skinned Clyfford noticed nothing going on behind him. At the press into him of a stealthy someone’s slicked finger, he jerked, pushed back, sighed at length, and kept his attention rooted on the latest photos from several recent sessions with Hiram.

Hiram David McLeod, far too young at thirteen to reside at a venue such as The Birchfield Farm, had been and still was on a mission. His camera, a Nikon, ever at the ready, captured employees in the halls, gym, pool, at meals, among crops, and posed for portraits. The plan, an exhibition of the too-young man’s prowess – to save his hide from expulsion for a serious transgression. To Clyfford’s sensitive pink eyes, each selection showed the lad’s progress.

I look marvelous.

Whoever’s hard cock replaced the previous digit’s probe, it did so with no more response than a softly uttered “oomph.”

“Those are marvelous,” Sam’s mellifluous voice echoed Clyfford’s thought.

“Sam? Wow, you surprised me. You feel really butch in there – like you mean it. That’s amazing!”

“Just doing what I’m supposed to.” His feminine inflections damped, Sam sounded almost manly. “Remember Mr. Ecks’ threat?” Sam made an X of his forefingers between Clyff and the small screen. “Ahmed’s been helping me.”

“Everybody knows. Mmm…. Nice! But, wait. You’re not supposed to see these yet. Go look at your own. Oh. Ah. Ahh…. Do that some more.”

“Show me the ones I missed and I will, you know, give you more of this.” Formerly swishy Sam dragged maliciously back and waited. Poised, like a gentleman, he waited for his request to be granted.

“Will you totally fuck me?”

Initial, amused probing, like Sam’s finger intrusion, sprang to quick action. Each photo brought sequences of penetration, amiable and full of fun. The best ones produced slack-jawed noises, rapid squeezes, mutual outpourings followed by quelling kisses on the nape, mutterings of endearment – and curious sounds.

Someone else had nosed in.

Neither turned. It didn’t matter. Except its residents, no one ever was allowed in their area of the Bunkhouse.

A whistle preceded, “The racket you two were making – honestly!”

They missed the first but heard the second, distinct click. Without disconnecting, they croaked aloud – almost in unison – the name that popped into mind, “Hiram!”

A recognizable, high-pitch giggle confirmed suspicions.

Sam reached back for a sheet. He pulled it up, away, and around his body. A twist apart and a bound from Clyfford’s bed, Sam lit after the fleeing boy, sheet aflutter. “I’ll kill you, you little shit!”

“Get him!” Clyfford yelled, grabbing a towel.

*

Three culprits stood guiltily. One in a sheet, another in a towel, the third in his clothes and holding his Nikon Coolpix digital camera.

Face flushed with laughter, Randy-James McLeod, simply dissolved at the slow-shuttered blurry sight of Sam’s shapely buttocks, obviously in action. The rest of the image appeared sharp-focused, if shadowy, its two faces illuminated by Clyfford’s bright cellphone glow. “It’s fantastic.”

Heads hung, snickers audible. This was not very serious.

Hiram said to the floor, “Yeah, Dad, I know.”

“Why were you in there?”

Spur-of-the-moment and straight out: “I thought they had a cat.”

“A cat in the Bunkhouse!” The notion, absurd, caught Randy-James off his guard.

Not daring to look up, Hiram explained, “I heard Clyff tell Sammie, ‘Your pussy’s thirsty. I’ll feed it some cream.’”

Thanks to Mike Manleigh’s acting classes, the boy was becoming adept at improv.

Randy-James smothered the fit. The more his mind raced, the tighter he tried to contain himself.

“They were real loud about it. I just wanted to see that pussy licking up the cream. It would make a good photo.” Hiram deemed the better part of wisdom then was to shut up. He rationalized: I’ll get another spanking.

Torn between hilarity and anger, Randy-James thought: Innocent tone – fakey as a thirteen-year-old can make it.

“Boss, he busted us – I mean, busted in on us camera-first.”

Defensive tone. Sam’s managing that fairly well. “Busted in” – good substitute for his more usual and girlishly proper “burst.” X would be pleased.

“How would you know? You didn’t even look back.”

Clyff said, “We were closely studying the pictures Hiram sent me…of me.”

“Yeah, Dad, like really, really close,” his son risked adding.

“I’d better have a look. Where are they?”

Clyff admitted, “On my phone. Back in my room.”

“All right, you three. Let’s go. March.” With emphasis, “This moment.”

The mock cortege turned a few heads as it moved from Farmhouse to Bunkhouse.

A plan came to the Trainer’s mind, one potentially more telling than yet another spank of his precocious, if troublesome, son. During their forced march, his plan became a resolution.

*

Occupants Big Ben and Syd glimpsed the comical group aiming toward Clyff’s room and darted off like Keystone Kops. Ahmed almost ran into them as he hurried to an appointment with Mike. He excused himself with a mock salaam and hied away.

Clyfford’s door remained as he left it, wide open. On the disheveled bed lay the undisturbed object. His pale arm reached for it but was stopped by Randy-James’ hand.

“You two, exactly as you were, please. Hiram, take your camera and show me your position when you broke in on them.”

Wicked Sam let go the bed sheet. “Boss, I can’t show you exactly. I’m flaccid.”

“Me, too,” chimed in the albino, tossing aside his towel.

Hiram was agog.

“And whose fault is that?” Randy-James sounded positively inquisitorial.

“His,” they pointed.

Red-faced, Hiram lowered his Nikon. What the….?

“Son, you were responsible for preventing their pleasure.” Randy-James sounded very serious. “It’s now your responsibility to restore their excitement. Hand me your camera.” This will teach him.

Without altering his stare, Randy-James merely said to the boys on the bed, “Lube, please,” and held a hand back and signaled that he expected to receive the Nikon.

Hiram was aghast at the sight of the blue-and-white tube landing on his Dad’s palm. He can’t mean that I….

He did.

Randy James’ mimed instruction caused Hiram to gasp and swallow hard. He dared not disobey. Not the way his dad was acting. Opened tube in hand, he knelt. Two penises larger than his own waited – inches from his startled face. One, candy pink; one, tinted peach.

“C’mon, Hiram. You can do it,” Clyff encouraged. The prospect of Hiram’s touch had his cock on the verge of erecting. Possibly more.

Randy James said, “Close your eyes and think of what you do when you pleasure yourself. Pretend both are your own. And…don’t…say…a…word.”

Dad!

“You might even enjoy it.”

Strange concentration settled over the youngster. Something about the situation triggered a fantasy-world to which he had hardly had access. Dream-like, he squeezed a great glob of the clear stuff onto his cupped fingers and proceeded to smear it as if laving his hands. Further surprise came when, with now-warmed lube, he enfolded both sets of balls and gently coddled them.

Sam swooned at the caresses while Clyff shivered. Both hardened – the more when Hiram ventured North and stroked circumferences. Eyes squeezed shut, he tantalized shafts and palpated glans the way he personally knew felt wonderful.

A split-second shutter’s click pierced Hiram’s concentration.

Clyff gave in and flung himself erection-first to the mattress. He swiped his screen. Sam saw the first image flicker into view and followed, driving himself with masculine force back to where he was welcome.

Hiram’s eyes opened on soppy hands. He did not see who handed him Clyff’s discarded towel. When his dad told him to wipe himself, he knew. And something else: that a photo had been snapped.

“Dad, you didn’t!” Color drained from his young face.

“Your camera did. I couldn’t stop it. Evidence, you called this sort of thing,” he said wryly, “in a recent context. Bet you remember that, or your backside does. Now come hug me for sparing that ass today and for teaching you another valuable lesson.”

Their uneasy embrace provided another bit of evidence, young Hiram’s wood-stiff penis against his Dad’s hip. “Obviously, nothing about that turned you off.”

Hiram gritted his teeth. Now I better be honest or else he might or could make me do something worse. He started for his father’s response.

Before either could react, noises from top Sam and bottom Clyff ended their forward/backward tryst.

They were actually fucking and I was right here and didn’t get to see it.

“Hiram, give me that phone. I want to see the pictures that caused this ruckus.”

Well-intentioned, son followed father’s directive. His reach to Clyff’s hand placed his clothbound erection in line for Sam’s grasp and the words, “Thank you, Hiram.”

Randy-James’ attention to Clyff’s beautifully photographed body prevented his seeing or hearing the exchange.

“I’m not gay,” Hiram said, vacantly staring at but not pulling away from the remarkable hands-on treatment. Not immediately. Sam’s provocations brought him to the edge. Desperate for relief, Hiram found himself jerked back.

“Dad! No! Please….” What he wanted to say was cut short by Randy James’s pushing him into the hallway.

II.

A few days of good behavior later, Hiram’s antennae picked up hints that something big was about to break over all their heads. CEO Alan Ecks had arrived. Closed-door meetings took place in his Dad’s office, in the Infirmary, in Mama’s private quarters, and during a long walk through the piney woods and down the slope toward Birnham State Park with its icy lake. Brows intent, people came and went. Food was prepared and delivered, snacks between.

Schedules at The Birchfield Farmhad to run as if on automatic. Big Ben stood in for the more usual administration officials to welcome and to oversee a Client’s visit that involved the man’s desire to suck penises while in a swimming pool. Initial in-house title, “Operation Dinner Out,” gave way to “Operation Big Feast” as requirements increased. Two titles also proposed, “Operation Chow Down” and “Operation Suck Off,” were voted down raucously – for lack of dignity.

Nothing of this was known to Hiram. However, his life suddenly became one of relative isolation. Personal time for him was not on anyone’s agenda. He was on his own. “You’ve got to be…for a while,” Dad had instructed. “It’s not personal the way you were when you withdrew yourself from the company of others. Just business.”

Zinger! Got me. Damn.

Hiram was not yet a finagler. Try as he might, everybody remained tight-lipped. Lon had the temerity to tease him, “It’s for us to know and you to find out.”

Sporadically, buddies scurried between buildings. Among crops growing, Hiram did what he could to weed and water. Occasionally, a tight-lipped Syd or Wade showed up to help. Hiram tended to his schoolwork dutifully, if dully. At meals, his curiosity was shunned in favor of meaningless, well-meant small talk. Some nights his apologetic Dad spent in The Hotel Shellman, closeted with the problems of whatever-it-was.

He’s avoiding me. I might as well hibernate.

Mama’s kitchen provided Hiram with a degree of nurturing warmth despite how busy she was. It served as his refuge. Recipes and procedures for their successful preparation were directed to him: Lamb stew, roast chicken, steamed trout – his learning, fast tracked. Compensation came as praises and congratulatory handshakes. People loved his dishes. Not a whiff of news reached his ears about the goings-on.

“Operation Big Feast” did not concern Mama’s kitchen or its operation. Hiram’s work was harder than ever. Mama loved him for it and he loved her. “Not-a so bad, my-a chicklet,” she made him laugh. Hugs smothered her sous-chef’s guffaws in cleavage which was good for that. They shared ice cream when no one was around. She kept his mind on recipes and talk of needing new pots and pans.

The guarded Client, a rather well-known television personality, recently retired, wanted to re-live his personal journey into oral sex by performing the act in a telescoped sequence similar to what he remembered – proceeding from smallest cock to largest. His experience, confined always to pools, began in late childhood. A closely-held secret, his fondness of cocks – their shapes, heads, types of skin, receptivity, output – led him to risk exposure during his schoolboy and college years. Pride at what he could do to produce nearly instant results or to prolong pleasure with a particular penis guided him to accept challenges from friends and friends’ friends or tricks in private pools. Trusts, never betrayed, helped.

*

The idea behind his costly commission: Mr. Flinger wanted to tread water at the deep end of a pool, holding on to the gutter until his mouth claimed what it desired. Then, hands free, he would bob on it with the water’s rhythm or thrash his legs for greater action. Longer cocks at first gagged him. He liked that. Turned him on. He liked the difficulty of snatching a breath and gobbling the cock without use of his hands. That, too, turned him on. Really big dicks threatened breath control’s limits and occasionally brought Mr. Flinger to paroxysmal orgasm.

Giggly Sam was prepped by Lon and Félix who removed the sprouting hair of his girlishly undeveloped body’s underarms, pubis, scrotum, perineum, anus, and legs. (“You’ll look the group’s youngest.”) Cosmo got trimmed appropriately by Mike as part of a newly designed makeup scheme. (“Perfect, if I say so myself.”) Ting and Lon were Ahmed’s projects, overseen by Syd. (“God, I’d suck you both.”). Uldis tackled Ahmed just to be sure he needed no touching up. (“That’ll be completely satisfying.”) In turn, Ahmed returned the favor. (“Uldis, you made my hair even curlier.”) Mike fitted Clyff with blue contact lenses. (“Breathtaking but not as beautiful as your natural pink – which might distract our Client from this,” he smiled, rolling Clyff’s plumped pink cock.) Wade and Konstantin passed Charles’ prejudiced muster and were further certified by Vas as “just right.”

The Farm’s Trainers, naked in a circle, checked themselves critically. Among them, consensus was reached about the event’s succession of males’ parts needed to fulfill Mr. Flinger’s requirements. With that determined and the pool freshly chlorinated, no detail had been overlooked – they thought.

Alas.

No one told Hiram the pool was off-limits that fated day. Bored, somewhat out of sorts, he thought of practicing laps in the pool. Blaine’s coaching and his Dad’s encouragement had begun to show results. Exercising with Ting, who was a good swimmer, Hiram grew to like the water and the coordination it took to travel in it smoothly. The way he looked so trim in his tight-fitted swimsuit pleased his eye.

I’m getting muscles.

A light touch of his upper lip made him yearn for more than peach fuzz to razor off.

From the Farmhouse where he and his Dad shared their suite, along the wooded path, past the artificial spring everybody fussed over, and toward the Town Square where Poole’s Gymnasium stood, Hiram saw no one at all.

This place looks deserted.

A car he didn’t recognize was in the parking lot not far from The Hotel Shellman and City Hall. Unfazed, Hiram strode directly into the gym’s front room where all its fitness equipment was arrayed. In the locker room, he removed his Nikes, athletic socks, and outer clothes, checking himself in one of the mirrors and adjusting his bathing suit’s lines for slightly better symmetry before heading into the pool area.

Oddly wild, splashy sounds caught his ear, so he peeked around the corner to see what….

Holy shit!

Hiram’s stomach conflicted with his private package. The former was less secure – way more susceptible, actually – than the latter in its pouch’s secure enclosure. Alas, at the sight of almost everyone he knew opening wrap-around towels by turns for some guy to suck on them, semi-comical teen despair trapped him between queasiness and desire. Touching himself through spandex made matters worse.

Hiram backed away into an unlighted space behind the lockers. Behind him, soft voices intended for no one else called his attention. He turned, tiptoed toward the source. Uncles Syd and Charles – with laptop and directional microphone – crouched inside another, distant doorway. Undetectable steps more let him see that the laptop was a monitor for four obviously hidden video cameras. The queerest event the boy had ever glimpsed was in process of being captured.

There must be cameras everywhere. Do they film everything? Collecting evidence? Why? What’s private around here, anything?

Questions in his mind prompted peculiar feelings. The film crew behind the Barn – nobody explained that to him. He had stumbled onto it and been spanked. Now this. To be kept to himself for sure.

Deep in a funk, Hiram retreated to his room to strip away the now bothersome bathing suit. He rinsed it, thoughts in turmoil. He showered, trying to cope. Even turned on the cold tap to wilt his persistent erection. At least that worked.

A rough towel reddened his skin. He plunked across his bed nude and idled restlessly staring around. Nothing stilled him. Up, he drew on clothes, walked through the living room and, on a lark, where no invitation had taken him, into his Dad’s bedroom. Hiram’s eyes poked around as if some answer to his tense puzzlement might appear. Guilt at being a snoop already made him sweat. Some object barely noticed the only time he had ever seen the room – a white, button-studded remote of some sort – lay beside a common TV remote like the one in the living room.

Not to be resisted at a time like this by any thirteen-year-old dealing with jumbled emotions.

Black buttons numbered in sunny yellow from one through nine to zero and two others, red and blue. Both bright. A punch to red. Nothing. Another to blue. Same. Red followed by a one. A muffled sound, but from where? Glow from an unclosed panel beside the room’s out-in-the-open TV. Cautiously, it was slid to reveal a concealed monitor which had sprung to life with a crew-cut, gray-haired oldish man, shirtless and in fair shape making out with a fully clothed college-age guy!

They’re going at it. This is hot.

Their passion struck Hiram as so real, recent experiences to the contrary that, without disgust, he felt drawn in. Articles of the younger one’s clothing came off between ardent, open-mouth kisses. Body parts one by one, came into view to be appreciated verbally and by touches, pinches, caresses. As far as Hiram could tell, neither participant stinted on the other’s sex. Deep-throating with such enthusiasm startled Hiram less than what had gone on at the pool an hour before. Fingering each other’s butts did cause his mouth to part for a dollop of mouth juice to dribble.

They’re going to fuck. I want to see that. I missed Clyff and Sam doing it. Oh….

Hiram dropped the remote for that hand, his right, to reach inside his shorts. He felt his scrotum contract at what he witnessed. Well-practiced self-touches managed somehow to slacken his jaw further. An air kiss in his lover’s direction signaled the start of an astonishing sight, the younger guy lifting his legs just the way Hiram’s Mom used to, he remembered. Only, boy parts over an expected bottom hole were not what Hiram saw.

It’s a pussy!

A hairless woman’s pussy. It drew his attention before the bald spot of the otherwise bristly-haired man. Hiram really disliked the idea of any actually old person having sex with somebody young. The older guy tongued the pussy all over, his tongue diddling what looked like a tiny penis. The two sighed and kissed as a view from over the boy’s head focused on the man’s large cock sliding straight inside. All the way, to a high-pitched intake of air off-camera.

Hiram swallowed and wiped his mouth thinking how much they were into it. Inches in hand, vicarious thrills coming over him, he leaned close, jerked urgently, and came.

The couple as well.

Winded and messy, he dashed to the bathroom for a tissue. Used one. Took a wet sponge for the little puddles he had made on Dad’s floor, heard voices, looked up, and became glued to the odd couple sitting side by side facing the camera.

They’re giving an interview.

“Was this your first time with a tranny?”

“I’ve done scenes with gay boys several times for different studios. Quite a few with women. But, yes,” he glanced at his smiling cohort, “this was my first time with a tranny.”

“How was it?”

“The best of two worlds – combined.”

Did the situation make you particularly horny?

“Well yeah. I was fucking a juicy cunt and looking into the face of this sweetheart boy.”

The pair’s open-mouthed embrace faded to the off-camera voice’s, “Thank you.”

Fraught, Hiram stabbed the remote’s red button. No result. The blue one worked. It turned off the secret screen. Carefully, he reclosed the panel and replaced the remote where it had been.

What’s a tranny?

He wanted ask someone. Definitely not his Dad.

*

Ahmed proudly finished the Farm kitchen’s glassware about the time Wade did sorting its flatware. They and Ting, who stacked the dishwasher’s output, conversed nervously about the day’s special meeting. Mama had gone there with the staff Trainers. The tasks of slicing tomatoes for a platter and lettuce, radishes, celery, and mushrooms for the big, clear-plastic salad bowl were under knives wielded by Cosmo, his tongue between puckery lips, and Clyff, whose mind seemed elsewhere. A slip of his knife almost cost a thumb. Got him a reprimand from Cosmo.

Well away from Hiram – who had been acting strangely again and who was busy (using Mama’s mandolin) with two heads of cabbage, fresh from the patch, for creamy coleslaw – worked the team of Lon and Sam. Their checklist for sandwiches included rye and whole wheat bread, mayonnaise and two mustards – Dijon and ballpark – mercifully pre-sliced American and Swiss cheeses, baked ham, roast beef, and olive loaf. The sub for Konstantin, who was said to be needed by Nurse Blaire in the infirmary, Félix, arrived in time to deal with bulging bags of chips, canned soft drinks, pitchers of iced tea, and stacks of paper napkins.

At Félix’ appearance, buzzing among the worker bees stopped. Konstantin was not missed. Not in several days had anyone seen the handsomest of black men, the Farm’s most recent arrival. Despite being fully clothed, Félix carried his sculptural body like some mythical hero. In bed, the few who had been privileged to sample his skills had barely managed words to describe their hours together.

“Sa fè lontan?” Ahmed called in Creole.

Stopped in his tracks, Félix beamed and went to high-five the one Provider with whom sex had been spectacular. “I went on an errand for, you know, our Monsieur “X.” He shifted, intent on his assignment.

Cosmo put down his knife, “Where?”

“London.”

“Can you tell us why?” Lon wanted to know. So did the whole room which had begun to grow restive.

“No, sorry. I just made my report at City Hall.”

“You did?” Cosmo was incredulous.

Wade, confident his lover Charles would confide in him later, nevertheless asked, “At least, can you tell us what they’re talking about over there?”

“No, mon ami.”

“Can you tell us,” Sam dared his butchest voice, “any-damn-thing?”

“No, mon cher.”

Cosmo brandished a knife, but it was Hiram who found his throat and blurted petulantly, “Goddammit, if you know – what Sam said – ‘any-damn-thing,’ then tell us at least something. All of us.” He waved his industrial-size metal spoon around his head flinging coleslaw shreds in several directions and, as though it were a Hogwarts wand, pointed it at the recalcitrant secret-keeper.

“Shazam!”

That broke the tension.

The jostling stilled, Félix cupped palms to the sides of his broad, white-toothed smile to say very slowly, syllable by syllable, “I think…we are…get-ting…a new…res-i-dent.”

In total silence – free fingers to everyone’s lips – the buffet was laid out.

III.

Considerations occupied the Providers’ minds. A few burped satisfaction while they walked in small groups, some to sit on the Town Square. Others sat by the still waters of the electrically-operated brooklet. A few made their way home to the Bunkhouse. Ecks and his cohorts remained with Mama to clean everything and to set up for the morning’s breakfast.

The sky was clear. Stars and the moon shown crisply in the night’s velvet darkness.

Apart, an uneasy Sam (prepared for the worst) followed Hiram to the Barn’s door where no one could see them. Sam regretted copping a feel of Hiram’s erection at the end of the kid’s punishment for sneaking a photo of him and Clyff in flagrante delicto. He did not want a fight, so had prepared his apology.

Cornered against the tractor, his fear mounted. Hiram stood close. Hesitant, however.

Using his friendliest young fellow’s tone, Hiram asked, “Sammie, what’s a tranny?”

Where they stood was so inky, Hiram could not see Sammie’s double-take but he could feel his breath.

A second elapsed before, “You mean because I dress up like a girl and wear a girl’s wig? I’m not the only one. Ting’s done that, and Cosmo.”

“Answer me. I know about transvestites. Dad told me. A tranny’s something else, isn’t it?”

“Back off a little, Hiram. You’re making me nervous. Thanks.”

Hiram waited, thinking, He’s scared. Of me.

“You must mean a transsexual.”

The tractor’s running board was convenient. Hiram let Sammie place him there while the blunt explanation of the surgeries was spelled out.

There was a pause until Hiram could describe the video he had seen. After Sammie’s please-please-please plea, Hiram thought he might find a way to smuggle Sammie into the Farm House to see the video. The rub of Hiram’s cock was forgotten. They agreed to tell no one.

*

Next morning, Hiram was awakened by his Dad. “Son,” he nudged the boy’s shoulder, “I need to talk to you. Can you get up, please, and join me in the living room? Hot tea’s made and some power bars are on hand. We’ll join the others for breakfast after a while. Just put on your robe. I’m not dressed either.”

To cast off his bleariness, Hiram rolled around, stretched his joints, got to his feet, scratched his head, armpits and crotch – noting that he wasn’t hard. That’s good. I came so much last night.

No evidence survived. He had seen to that. His mirror told him he was presentably conscious, if still sleepy.

The clock showed six-thirty!

Randy-James took pains to introduce his wary son, whose head bobbed drowsily, to some of what would be expected of him in the Farm’s coming situation. At that time of day, the message blurred, yet Hiram pretended to understand. They sipped soothing chamomile tea. Two power bars went into Hiram’s stomach. He gulped another cup. Belched. Excused himself. Nodded as he listened further.

“I think I get it, Dad.”

*

The announcement’s detailed presentation at breakfast was transfixing. Occasional coffee cups rattled against saucers. A single sneeze netted whispered Gesundheits. Ecks spoke most, Randy-James and Blaine noticeably less. Overall, the news was awesome, bothersome, thrilling, nerve-wracking, encouraging, restrictive, challenging – opinions varied. One announcement, which started ominously, ended in cheers.

“During our period of transition while construction of the secret resort is underway in the woods between here and Birnham State Park, we must be vigilant about our duties. Our operation has to be guarded more closely than ever. We must be on high alert at all times. The Farm must keep its production up – food crops and services provided.” Ecks called for more coffee and asked for some of “those great cookies I had here last time.”

Mama spoke up, “Our-a Hiram, he’s-a been distracted. Next time, okay?” She sought the embarrassed child, whose size Big Ben dwarfed at the table with Syd and Félix. “You-a promise, non è vero?”

Ben gave Hiram’s backside a tiny urge. Up the boy sprang, bold as could be. “Mr. X, I can bake a boxful for you to take to your family. Two hours, I promise.” And off he shot to the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

“Go, Hiram,” Blaine said loudly. Several repeated the cheer from Hiram’s birthday party.

CEO Ecks looked at his watch. “That’s not bad. The helicopter comes about then with Hassan and Hank.”

His announcement resumed where the matter of coffee and cookies had interrupted. “During the two years of construction, various crews will be in our South acreage, not up here. Temporary housing for them will be brought in just after the road accesses are graded. Some of you will have missions during all this, like the one from which Félix returned yesterday. Those who don’t will receive bonuses for holding down the fort. When all’s said and done, Duane Wilderforce, our major investor whom you all remember (he glanced up for an aside, “Konstantin the most”), Duane will arrange the party of your lifetimes for everyone – grab your seats – in Marseille. There’ll be tours of the area and boat trips, all the swimming you want in the Mediterranean, food you’ll love (Mama nodded) and wine.”

He sat to general acclamation. Randy-James added a few remarks. So did Blaine. But few paid attention the way they did when Mike announced, “We’ll do a lot of filming on location, stills and video, with opportunities for all of you to shine behind and in front of the cameras.”

About to sit, he jumped back to his feet, “And did I forget to mention that Duane’s inviting winners from the Prowler European Porn Awards to join you there for some special showings – should I say displays? – of everyone’s prowess?

A surpassing explosion of enthusiasm nearly brought down the ceiling.

Someone’s hand on Ecks’ shoulder – Syd’s it turned out – stopped him during the audience’s scattering. “I notice you didn’t mention Hassan and little Hank or the helicopter while Hiram was in the room. Or that you aren’t leaving before tomorrow.”

He’s questioning me?

“Randy-James, I think, or Blaire will tell him what he needs to know. The decision’s theirs. It already may have happened. Anyway, I had to get him out of the room.” He watched Syd turn loose his shirtsleeve. “Anything more?”

“Actually, yes. Sam’s been making progress the way you wanted.”

Ecks waited.

“He fucked Clyff twice before witnesses.”

*

Sweat ran down Hiram’s brow. He watched the baking sheet of macadamia-chocolate-chip cookies reach the desired state of brownness. Almost losing his grip on it when the oven door tried to close on its own, he slid it to the nearest countertop, tossed the kitchen pot gloves, and allowed his nose to savor….

“Some-a-thing’s-a smelling really good in here!” Mama said, mussing the top of her protégé’s damp head. “Is that all you made?”

“Didn’t have time for more or, Mama, enough ingredients. These had to be smaller than before to make two dozen. Somebody must’ve been in my chips and nuts.”

“Anybody messing with-a your nuts, you must-a tell Mama. She’ll-a kill ’em.” Before he could more than sputter, she poured glasses of cold milk. “Cool down while those-a do, too. I’ll find a box.”

“Mama?”

She turned.

“You didn’t see,” he confided. “I made twenty-six. There’s one for you and one for me. Let’s eat them,” he smiled.

First, Mama went for a cookie box, then brought out cold milk, winking at the boy.

*

Ecks received his two-dozen cookies before envious eyes on the steps of City Hall. He granted Hiram a genuine smile and words of thanks, gratuitously tacking on, “I hear you’re going to be a very good boy in the weeks ahead.”

“Hiram,” Javier called in the nick of time, “we’re heading for a swim with Ting here. Join us? We’re going to try the butterfly stroke.” He indicated Sammie and Clyff.

“Yes!” Hiram exulted. “Lemme get my suit.”

“Just what we needed,” Randy James whispered to Blaine, and Blaine agreed.

“Practically providential.”

Seven chapters precede this. They can be found here: https://www.gaydemon.com/stories/authors/cooper/ - along with my other series set in a small, rural town, Alexia, where wondrous concern is shown for teenage lads, and my stand-alone, most-clicked-upon “Douglas in Residence.”

My most highly erotic work is this novel, available in print and electronic form: https://www.amazon.com/Young-Edwin-Eros-Art-Cooper/dp/0692056823.