Tales from the Birchfield farm

NB: This chapter was mightily enabled by contributions from friends James Rozo and MCVT.  Earlier chapters in this series and my other series & stories may be found here:.

Weather’s Consequences

The progressively inclement evening skies had people worried – one group in a small plane at several thousand feet, the other on a rural road in a tour bus returning to The Birchfield Farm from a grand excursion.

* * *

Massive clouds had eclipsed the moon to swallow the chartered turboprop, its crew of two, and lone passenger. The nervous young teen earlier had been invited into the cabin by the plane’s pilot and co-pilot who took pride in showing him some of what they did and tried to set his mind at ease about the two-hour trip.

As night came, stars were visible through the boy’s window. When they winked, he winked back, only not now. The plane was entering a storm. Nerves were alarming the boy. His sole comfort, a candy bar.

* * *

Not all those farmers who had gone to the Big Apple were on the bus as it set upon the predetermined homeward trek in drizzle. The ride continued in ever heavier rain which blurred passing pines and scrub brush as daylight’s colors faded into dark. Those who had headed to Germany were on no one’s mind. The violent weather initially focused only the attention of the man at the steering wheel. He could see rain in his headlights more readily than the roadway.

The driver hurried, hoping to get the Farm “before the bottom falls out.” Country roads – damn – they get slick.

Most riders sprawled on each other, happily tired. None had concern. That is, until it became increasingly obvious that flying twigs, small limbs smacked hard against windows. People sat up, tried to see out.

The storm worsened. Thunder shook the night ride. Gusty winds threatened to blow their bus off the road. Lightning crackled in the distance, near, and around. A sharp swerve missed a big limb which crashed to the road’s narrow shoulder. No bus rider any longer dozed. On the bumpy back seat, Maria “Mama” Cortelini’s hands were gripped securely by Randy-James McLeod and Blaire Rockwell, the three sitting upright.

* * *

Nerves bothered Avery Roy James, who clutched at his seat belt. The more frightened he became of the noisy thunder outside and zig-zag flashes of lightning which seemed closer, the less he could bear being where he was. He never had flown before nor been anywhere much beyond the grounds of the two residential group homes in which he had been most of his life. Frantic, he pulled free and lurched toward the pilots – just as a wicked down current sent the plane plunging.

The distracted pilots fought to control the aircraft unaware of their passenger’s plight. Young Avery grabbed wildly for support but a lurch to one side tripped him. He banged into a seat and landed forcefully on his back. The unyielding surface knocked the breath out of him as he banged his head and hurt his shoulder.

Crumpled on the floor, immobilized, all he could realize was that everything seemed to be shaking. There were horrible sounds. Chaos. Then nothing but blackness.

But he lived.

* * *

No immanent disaster of the mortal sort lay before the tour bus skidding in mud as it turned past a barely noticeable sign, Birchfield, on an old barbed wire fence. Jagged lightning bolts ripped through the black sky striking nearby, flashing manic fingers into the woods ahead, jolting the landscape haphazardly – whitening scraggly treetops and weedy fields, shocking ground life to instant death, and forking directly, explosively into The Shellman Hotel.

Cries of distress urged the driver past the parking lot toward the small-town-style town square. Brakes screeched. Eyes stared at a spectacle. None had seen its like.

Location for the Farm’s custom-made, flesh-trade trysts, the Shellman was under assault by Nature. Rising flames sizzled water instantly into steam and licked furiously as if thirsty for more. Timbers fell in screaming protest. The roof collapsed showering the night in sparks.

“No one think of getting off! Let’s keep our seats,” Randy-James yelled, then spoke into the deathly quiet bus. “Driver, pull over there by the gym. We’ll be safer!”

Trainer Sydney Cohen jostled seatmate Vasily Naplekov, “Look at the wind’s direction! It’s blowing away from the square. It will put itself out, if we wait.”

“We’ll wait,” Randy-James said over the downpour’s racket. “What else can we do? Syd’s right, if the air currents keep blowing that way, none of our other buildings will be at risk.”

Everyone had high confidence in Randy-James. They excelled in highly developed, adaptive skills. They could and would cope.

Ashes mixed with rain water might make an unspeakable mess but, as one waggish voice said, “Like Vaseline, it can be washed off.”

“But that’s where we live,” the hotel’s manager, Charles, protested on behalf of himself and lover-assistant Wade.

Assurances came from Randy-James and several others. There was plenty of room in their accommodations.

Both Bunkhouse and Farmhouse – spared – awaited the now-wearier, emotion-laden travelers.

Tomorrow held the promise to shed fresh light over all.

* * *

When abandoned by his unwed, homeless mother at a fire-and-police station, the tiny, silent newborn had become a ward of the State. His foundling’s birth certificate named him after three of the officers who had done what they could for the undernourished baby. Emergency bottles of warm milk and dry diapers helped to warm the infant.

Fostered through his first few years by a nice couple whom he readily called Mama Sue and Papa Dave, little Avery was shifted to the responsibility of other foster parents. Bewilderingly, they were aloof to him – through the second grade when he was placed into his first group home without being able to understand why.

Shifted, because of overcrowding, from that facility to his more recent, austere one, Avery was emerging late from childhood introverted, painfully shy, tense usually, totally without confidence. No one had ever done much to open the lid on his emotions.

In Avery’s case, participation in school activities had taxed him, group projects especially. Social skills invariably eluded him. If he had hopes or dreams, no one knew of them or took any interest. Considered “a loner” by teachers, regarded as “problematic and insular” by well-meant counselors (although not unintelligent, it was begrudged him), Avery had one positive thing going for him: his looks. They were his calling card toward the new future a few hours away.

About their charge, the two pilots noticed that when he had been brought to them, Avery had hardly known what to do when they offered hands to shake. He had looked at the tarmac. To the two men, he seemed at first uninterested, then the one who had children of his own realized the boy was shielding himself, unconsciously perhaps the result of some trauma. The other pilot studied the slight figure’s appearance.

No trace of acne marred prominent cheeks nor any furrow his broad, smooth brow. Neither upper lip nor jaw had met its first razor although that moment lay not far away. Smooth nose, baby soft skin, a mouth with lips like some undrawn archer’s bow. His frame, under its adequate clothes, had the beginnings of that gangly aspect that marked adolescence.

An unproportioned collage about to come together beautifully, perhaps handsomely.

With uncommon sagacity, the pilot chucked the boy under his chin and said, “Look at me and smile, please. We like you.”

Few were those who had felt the effect of the boy’s eyes, for Avery seldom looked anyone in the face.  Irises of mahogany shot through by slivers of emerald, topaz, sapphire, and citrine captured light with power to stun. The pilot, unnerved by instant sexual attraction, stood aside for his colleague and the boy precede him up the five short doorway steps. One hand to his crotch forestalled embarrassment.

* * *

Smoldering piles of blackened rubble, charred masonry, shattered glass, and twisted metal amid ashes and blackish sludge were the remains of The Shellman Hotel. “Nothing left but to envision and create an improved, more adaptable Shellman,” Randy-James imagined out loud.

Quick surveys of the ruined town square’s other structures concluded that only minor damage had been inflicted by storm and fire. Already ascertained was that little damage had been done to the Barn and dwellings. The worst, a few window panes to replace.

Somewhat mollified, the staff met for a simple breakfast of hot beverages, cereals, and fruit.

Nurse-practitioner Blaire called for attention, “Listen up, everybody. Randy-James has been speaking with Ecks and Wilderforce off and on all night. He’s sleeping now. We are to do nothing beyond cleaning up to the degree that we can.”

He looked at a list in his hand, “Syd and Mike will call on whomever among you, say Konstantin and Ahmed, they may want to assist with minor repairs. Clyff, you and Uldis with Félix and Wade will inspect all ceilings for leaks and problems they may have caused, say, to our costumes. Charles, Lon, and Ben, go through our tunnels and free any clogged drains. Sam, Javier, and Belamy, take ladders and look for whatever trash may be on any of our roofs. Any whose names I’ve accidentally skipped – oops, Cosmo and Ting, forgive me! – look to be useful. I’m going on the tractor to look at the condition of the fields. After that, find me in the Infirmary when you have anything to report. Otherwise, we’ll reconvene with Randy-James for lunch at half-past twelve.”

Mama waved for attention. “I’m gonna have garlic toast and-a beef stew with strawberries and-a ice cream for-a dessert.”

“Yay, Mama,” Clyff tried to rally a hand for their cook.

Blaire headed for the Barn, Ting and Cosmo in rapid pursuit. “Blaire, Blaire! Let us ride with you. We can hang on to the sides and hop off wherever you want us to look around for you, so you won’t have to leave the tractor running. Okay? Say yes, please!”

* * *

It was good to be outside, riding in the fresh, moist air and enjoying the sunshine. True, the ground was soggy in some low-lying places and the crops sodden but largely intact. The tractor team’s look-over took little time. Cosmo suggested, that they should “check the new field down by the river.” As if confirming for himself, he added, “Where some of the forest was cleared.”

With no reason not to, Blaire began the hill’s descent. Ting, who knew the role of boy scout well, made a show of shielding his eyes from morning brightness. He whistled, “Hey, what’s that over there? Look at the field! The clearing! The tree line! Something’s plowed all over the place.”

Wind-lashed underbrush, bushes, and muddy puddles meant nothing to the tractor which made tracks of its own. At the end of their arable land, Blaire slowed, stared, then braked. “Let’s get down, boys.”

The three of them headed on foot to find out what had caused the woodsy anomaly. It was rough going, more of a lark for Cosmo than for his friends, who pushed aside or snapped twigs and trampled a wet path he happily followed.

Ting recklessly sprang over piles of detritus, young man on a mission. He shouted, “Oh..my..god! There’s a plane crashed over here. Hurry! Ohmigod! Everything’s all messed up!

Blaire emerged in the unnatural clearing. A twin-engine plane had come down there. Where it slid and skidded crazily for more than a hundred feet, the ground was torn up. Props and landing gear had been sheared off. Parts lay strewn in the burrow gouged by the horrendous landing. A more troubling sight, the tree that lay across the cockpit.

Ting struggled with the side door. Blaire, who caught up, ran to the front and hoisted himself via a unstable, shredded tree branch high enough to peer through what remained of the crushed windows. He dared not touch the sharp remains.

“Jeeze, there are two pilots in here.” He scratched his head. Puzzlement became shock when he made out the bloody bodies strapped in their seats.  Nightmarish were the grisly, slumped, broken men, clotty gobs where heads used to be. A fly already was buzzing, looking for a place to land.

In the still after his announcement, while he studied the corpses through the nearest, much-diminished cockpit window, a faint sound, like crying, crept into their hearing. Thinking quickly, he called, “Ting, can you get that door open? I think there’s somebody inside – alive.”

“Help me. It’s loose but stuck.”

Cosmo beat Blaire to help Ting. Together, they wrested the door open enough for Cosmo to dart in. Blaire joined Ting to add his muscle by pulling the door’s edge.

Barely a second passed before Cosmo sounded frantic, “It’s a boy! He’s all messed up! Blaire, you better come in here.”

Inside, Cosmo patted the boy’s head whispering, “Help’s on the way. Don’t you worry. Our nurse is right here.”

Blaire felt the boy for broken bones. Finding none and surmising a traumatic state, he said, “Now, young man, if you can hear me, we’re going to get you out and fix you up. Put your arms around me so I can help you.”

A more pathetic face had never turned his way before. A mask of utter terror. Its eyes, flushed with seemingly unstoppable tears, looked at Blaire as if he were an apparition difficult to understand.

“C’mon sweetie, your arms. If you can move them, put them around my neck.”

Cosmo reached one, Blaire the other. The boy’s cling grew firmer with contact. Tried to burrow into Blaire’s chest. Cosmo steadied from behind. Ting jockeyed back and forth anxious to help.

“Ting! Back up. Get the door open as wide as you can. Precious cargo here.”

The doorway proved narrow. The boy had to be pried from Blaire. Cosmo forced one hand loose repeating rapidly, “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Ting took the other, his face set with care. With Blaine’s hands supporting the limp boy’s waist, they stepped to the ground.

In morning’s glare, the boy reached for Blaire, who moved in. Avery responded to Blaire’s outreach and accepted the transfer to his savior – in total silence and with all his remaining strength. He clung again – impulsive, desperate.

“Ting, take the tractor keys from my pocket, Blaire said. “I’ll lift him now. You go, get the tractor started. Cosmo, you run interference for me on our path back.”

They did.

* * *

The town square’s clean-up halted at the spectacle of Blaire carrying an unknown boy wrapped around him from the Barn to his Infirmary, Ting and Cosmo in close tow. Caused buzz. A dozen or more Farm personnel gathered nearby. Sometime – as much as fifteen minutes – after Randy-James’ hurried arrival, Cosmo emerged from the Infirmary and began to explain; moments later, Ting joined the gathering.

Cosmo tried to be concise and accurate with scant news. “Randy-James thinks the boy’s going to be physically okay, although he’s not communicating. The police have been contacted and will be here soon to investigate the crash scene we found. Ecks will be coming, too, and some federal people, authorities who deal with aviation disasters.”

Ting stepped forward, “The police speculated to Randy-James that the storm must’ve caused the crash, but we won’t know for sure anytime soon.”

“What about our situation here?” Mike asked.

“Oh,” Ting suddenly remembered, “Ecks – did Cosmo tell you? – Ecks is driving down to look firsthand at the hotel’s rubble and our Farm’s condition. We think he’ll analyze the situation, make some policy decisions, and serve as go-between with law enforcement. We’re to move ahead with what we’re doing until lunch.”  

* * *

Randy-James supported the boy while Blaire removed his crash-soiled clothes and tossed them in his waste basket – shoes, socks, jacket, pullover, pants, and undershorts.

“Big fellow, aren’t you?” he half-questioned, at the sight of puberty’s progress on the otherwise slight anatomy. “I see only some bruises and abrasions, but let’s get you cleaned up so that I can examine and treat your injuries.”

There was no response until, at the shower stall, the running water’s sight, perhaps sound as well, broke through the boy’s trauma. Tears began to flow again, his body to shake. With a moan, he crumpled, hands over his head.

“You’ve got far more things to deal with,” Blaire said as he crouched down to try to reassure the boy. “I’ll take over. Go. Don’t worry.”

With simple thanks, Randy-James left.

Quick perception told Blaire what to do. He stripped. Naked, he lifted Avery to his feet and, with arms around his middle, lifted him to step into the warm water such that the shower hit his own back. “There, there. This is nice and warm, isn’t it? We’ll both get clean together. That will be good. Let me hold you while I get some soap on you. Feels so smooth, doesn’t it, over your chest? You’re going to be much better, young man.”

Probably because the water was indirect and because he was drawing upon the man for support, Avery made no effort to reject the hand rubbing his stomach with a bar of soap. When it reached his genitals, his head flew back against Blaire as his pelvis arched forward.

“Hold the soap for me. Hear me? Hold it, and let me clean you. Okay?”

In a surprise move, Avery took the soap. Blaire’s hand worked very slowly from scrotum to penis, fondling gently. The boy’s bottom untensed and came in contact with the solidly erect, non-threatening penis of a non-threatening grown man for the first time. Distracted by how his front was feeling under tender ministrations, his backside made little of the new sensation.

“Listen. You’re doing great. Turn around now and face me. I won’t let you fall. Good, good. Now I’m going to turn us around so that I can clean your back. The warm water will feel as good as my hand. See? I was right. Let me have the soap back.”

Avery’s hand slid about in the boy’s effort to comply, glancing into Blaire’s sex. He almost dropped the soap, but Blaire’s own hand was there to take it from him. Both were hesitant. “It’s okay, my sweet, okay. Never you mind. I’ll wash your back now.”

From shoulder blades and underarms, down the sides, up and down the spine, Blaire soaped the boy’s back and ran his fingers into the warm spray. Touches, tentative though they were, to his butt cheeks seemed meaningless. Soapy fingers in the boy’s crease, especially the one to his drum-tight bulge, propelled a gasp and the crush of the boy’s hardening penis into the man’s balls.

“There now, let me clean you. You need to be clean here. Relax, please, let me go in just a…say, when did you go to the bathroom last? You can tell me. You feel real full back here. Like it’s been a long time. Is that so?”

Several nods were the answer.

Blaire turned off the shower and reached for a huge towel. “Let’s get dry, okay? I want to help you out with this problem – to make you better. Okay?

The accepting boy managed to stand. Blaire dried him and himself. The while, he said, “Feels good, doesn’t it? To be clean all over. You smell good, too.” He finished.

A slightly uneasy quietude. “There’s the toilet. Want to use it now? I’ll wait in the office.”

The boy, partially confused, nodded.

Several long moments passed. Blaine heard crying again and rose to see its cause.

Distress marked the boy’s face where he sat, unable obviously to move his bowels. From experience, Blaire sized up the situation. “I’m a nurse, remember? I can help you with that. Do you know what an enema is?”

A nod said yes and implied consent.

He’s had them before.

With great care, Blaire steered Avery to lie, left side down, on his examination table and to let his right leg be angled across the padded top. “Rest your head on this pillow. I’ll prepare a warm bath for your insides to get you all clean.”

Soon ready, the enema stand held its bag of warmed water and a glycerin agent. Blaire, in his nakedness responding to the sexual potential, lubed the rather protrusive pucker and his smallest enema wand’s sloped head. “Think of something you like – maybe candy or cake – and I’ll slip this in.” With a smart snap of his fingers in the boy’s face to deflect his attention, Blaire pushed through.

Avery’s naked body jerked and he began crying again, but did not move. Blaire, equally naked, clicked the valve to start the flow, leaned over to kiss Avery’s head, and told him quietly, “Just an annoyance, only that. It’s going to be wonderful after a while. I’m right here with you and I will stay with you. Feel my hand on your bottom? It’s holding my nozzle in place. The warmth will spread inside for a few minutes, then we’ll wait a few more, and you’ll feel much better when we get all the dirt out.”

By his soft talk, kisses to the boy’s cheek, and tummy rubs, Blaire succeeded in getting the liquid in. As the bag depleted, he closed the valve and encouraged the boy to “let the treatment work.”

At sounds of discomfort, “Just two or three more minutes. You can do it. For me, okay? Hold on, sweetie. Let it happen.”

Finally, “I’ll remove my little wand, okay? When I do, you clench real tight for me and I’ll carry you over to the toilet. And I’ll stay with you through this cleansing.”

Avery, eyes closed, made it through the next fifteen minutes as his bowels eliminated lump after lump, smaller bits, and all the liquid – attentive Blaire flushing often, complimenting every stage as an accomplishment of the boy’s.

“You sweated a lot doing that. Good, good. We’ll rinse off in the shower now, okay?”

Avery wobbled to uncertain feet and, with this man who cared for him, stepped into the stall. The water began, mixed by Blaire for the right warmth. Avery’s uncertainty about what would happen dissipated as Blaire’s soaped finger circled his rear muscle. Blaire praised his cooperation. “You’re getting so fresh now. Is this okay now – with me?”

By now, the nod was a familiar gesture. The boy still did not speak.

Dreamily, Avery’s hands reached Blaire’s cock, moving to match the motion on his rear.

Impressed by the lack of negative response, Blaire teased, pushed at, and entered only one knuckle deep. A twitch welcomed his finger. After that, Blaire could not have stopped. His cock sputtered, his finger moved in. The boy shuddered at the feeling, came, too, in a spastic frenzy.

Overwhelmed, they clung to each other, the shower diluting their effluvia for its flow down the drain. In this watershed moment, Blaire freed a hand to lift the boy’s chin and brought together their lips in Avery’s first mouth-to-mouth kiss with a loving man.

An incomparable moment, it had to be repeated. Blaire made no attempt to employ his tongue. “That was beautiful,” he said for the second time as he drew away. He turned off the water and reached a fresh towel to hand to the boy, who evidently was more at ease, for he smiled. Taking another towel for himself, they soon were again dry and clean.

Before anything else, Blaire took a tube of aloe-based skin cream and coated the fresh-washed little muscle with it. Nudged some in. The remainder he left on his towel.

“You must be hungry. I am.”

Two nods.

“I’ll get you some clothes, okay?”

A nod. His own being in the man’s waste basket bothered him not a bit.

Blaire called Randy-James, “Hi, from where you are, can you see Cosmo? Good. Tell him to bring us some clothes for the boy we rescued this morning. His will do – shoes, socks, undies, any kind of pants and a shirt. Thanks. Lots to tell.”

Within minutes, a breathless Cosmo, hands full,  whipped in, stopped in his tracks, exclaimed, “Hot damn! You are so pretty!” – and rushed to hug the now-perplexed, naked boy. “What a difference, Blaire. Here, I think, some of my clothes will fit. Try them on.”

No reaction.

Cosmo cranked his head in naked Blaire’s direction, his face a question.

Blaire bussed the boy’s temple and picked up Cosmo’s white t-shirt. “Arms in the air.”  It fit perfectly. He lifted the boy off the floor, saying, “Point your toes down. And Cosmo, be a dear. Slip up the jockey shorts.”

Puzzled but always willing to play along, Cosmo bent to the task. He arranged the boy’s attractive package into its pouch. Satisfied, he looked for approval and was rewarded with a small smile.

Other garments caused no problem.

Stretchy socks fit but Cosmo’s shoes proved too small. “His feet are about the same as Ting’s. Wait here.” And with a dash, Cosmo was out the door calling for Ting.

Cosmo and Ting showed up to find the two seated in Blaire’s office, Blaire’s arm loosely around the boy’s slender shoulders. Offering tennis shoes and a pair of leather loafers, Ting was cheerful, “Hi, which would you like to try?”

Blank-faced at the objects held before him, the boy merely stared.

“I think he would like the tennis shoes, Ting.” Blaire’s lips touched Avery’s ear before he whispered, “You will enjoy wearing Ting’s shoes and Cosmo’s clothes because they are the guys who..found..you.”

Thus cued, Ting, intrigued by the boy’s innocent display, fitted the shoes and made a show of applying their Velcro straps.

“There,” Blaire said, drawing the boy to his feet. “We’ll go to get something delicious to eat.”

Cosmo looked at the Farm’s trusted nurse. “We’ll be like twenty minutes early.”

“We will,” Blaire winked as he reached for his shirt and jogging pants.

Avery accepted his discoverers’ hands. As a group, they set out, detecting the smell of lunch.

Mama saw them coming. She opened her door wide, “My-oh-my, what-a good-a-looking guys!”

Blaire figured that she knew about the wreck – by then, who didn’t? – and could deal with the boy. He whispered, “Here, that lady is called Mama by all of us. She’s in charge of our food service. And she loves all of us. She’ll want to meet you.”

“Your-a corner’s ready for-a you,” she pointed to the dining room’s distant point. Blaire stood aside to let the trio pass, giving Mama a kiss on her rouged cheek. Mama stopped the boys. She looked at Avery and pulled him into one of her smotheringly-motherly, deep-boob hugs, “I’m-a so glad to have-a you here.”

She released him when she was ready, with a sigh of satisfaction. He looked into her eyes with his. The crystalline beauty of Avery’s irises ran through her with the force of a current. Her heart fluttered.

Cosmo laughed. Ting said, “Now you’ve felt it, too, Mama. He’s special.”

“Garlic toast! It’s not-a ready. Five minutes. I go.” She hustled into her kitchen through its swinging door. Its movement wafted the rich aroma of beef stew.

Avery sat and watched.

More pity’s called for. He’s still unable to do for himself.

* * *

Blaire blew on a spoon not too full before putting it to the boy’s lips. “Here you are.”

It wasn’t too hot. Did not burn. Tasted better than anything he could remember – but, then, he couldn’t remember anything before the storm brought down his plane, not even his name. He chewed and swallowed the soft blend of potato, carrot, celery, onion, and beef in its thick juice.

A few spoon-feedings later, he took the spoon from Blaire and poignantly began to eat on his own. Blaire obligingly tore his garlic toast into pieces. He seemed to like the combination. When Mama brought him a small carton of milk with a straw in it, he sipped without being shown how.

They were almost ready for dessert when the hall began to fill with the Farm staff of whom the boy was unaware. Some of them had seen him but, when carried to the Infirmary, he had seen none of them. As they passed along Mama’s line to fill their bowls to the brim and pick up drinks, he observed their easy familiarity. Faces and clothes were not entirely clean of the morning’s emergency work but every hand and forearm were scrubbed.

Ting noticed creeping anxiety. “These are our friends. They will be yours, too, while you are with us.”

“You bet,” Cosmo joined in. “They want to meet you before…”

Blaire cut him off, “Before we take a rest after dessert.” Before authorities take him back to his family, who must be crazy wondering if he’s all right.

Randy-James made a brusque entry. Mama dinged her bell to call Trainers and Providers to attention. She filled a bowl with stew for him and carried a glass of iced tea to the room’s central table.

“Hello everyone. We’ve had a rough night, a tough morning, and we’re about to have visitors.

They’ll come in cars, vans, and ambulances – I don’t know what or how many yet. Blaire, Ting, and Cosmo, you can count on being interviewed about your discovery.”

His raised eyebrows meant something to Blaire: Take caution about the boy.

“Ecks will be here shortly. He’s driving. He’ll assess the situation with the Shellman and look over all the other conditions which have resulted from last night’s storm. Guess we know about that, don’t we?”

Sounds of agreement.

“Who’ll see to a room in the Farmhouse for Ecks for the night?”

Sam, formerly known as “Sammie,” crossed his fingers in the “X” sign used when joking about the Farm’s serious, straight CEO, and volunteered.

Smart of him, since Ecks was critical about his role here in the past.

“One last request. Whoever can take the tractor over to the North entrance while I eat, please make sure it’s not blocked by some fallen tree or other obstacle. That’s the way for Ecks to come in. Frankly, I’m bushed and hungry.”

Hands went up. Uldis, Syd, Ben beat everyone else.

“Ben, if you please. After lunch, everybody take some time to rest. Later’s likely to be lively.”

The room murmured at the humor. People ate with relish. Mama personally rolled her cart with four bowls of strawberries over heaps of vanilla ice cream to the far corner.

“Mama, we love you,” Cosmo said.

“Second that, Ting grinned.

“We do, too,” Blaire spoke for himself and the non-verbal boy.

Ting conferred with Cosmo to decide they would help Sammie tidy up a bedroom for the Farm’s CEO. It might give them access to information about the organization’s future. They made sure that Blaire understood it was a means of giving him quiet time with a boy about the same age as Hank van Sant, in whose potential for blossoming Blaire played a key role.

* * *

In Blaire’s personal bedroom, he smiled at the boy, so amenable, so taciturn. “Here, when we rest, we remove our clothes like this.” His came off in a flurry. Naked, he began removing the boy’s. Easily done. Avery leaned into him, cheek to shoulder.

Wonder if he wants more contact, like we had in the shower?

Blaire took the boy by slender shoulders to turn him toward the bed.

“Now we’re ready to rest.” Blaire hand swept back the spread and flat sheet. “You first. Slide over, please. Make room for me.”

Looking at the ceiling passed time until Blaire asked, “If you want to cuddle, roll a little bit and let my arm go under your neck.”

Their natural, bodily warmth felt wonderfully cozy. Intimate. Lying still, both breathed slowly. The calm moments gave Blaire time to reflect about the coming authorities, time to plan how to prepare his beautiful charge for them.

That subject and others were muddling about when Blaire felt a dainty hand not on his soft cock but on his hand.

He dared make to move, curious.

Avery found the hand’s index finger and drew it to his aloe-lotioned bottom.

He wants this.

“I’ll comfort you, my darling, so that you can rest well.”

The finger’s extension met no resistance. In to its last knuckle, there followed a reflexive ripple, then a wriggle. A detectable sigh.

His fledgling chest secure in the man’s right arm and his bottom secured by the man’s long finger, the boy relaxed as never to the comfort of slow motions inside. They tranquilized him. He drifted into beautiful repose.

The boy safely asleep, Blaire’s finger was no longer necessary.

Sleep came readily.

* * *

All afternoon, the low-lying land crawled with police and government people. Special transportation units extracted the pilots’ cadavers from the fatal accident’s crash site while documenting the site from every angle. They pulled out at dusk. Two agents remained to query Cosmo and Ting extensively. They took statements from Messrs Ecks and MacLeod. Next, they wanted Blaire Rockwell.

Randy-James reported that the Farm’s nurse-practitioner was “with the severely-traumatized survivor,” but that he would fetch him. “Might take a few minutes.”

One investigator made satellite phone calls out of Ecks’ earshot; the other engaged him.

“Mr. Ecks, this is an exceptional situation. I’m going to break precedent and tell you things I wouldn’t ordinarily share with, say, a farm’s owner.”

“Go ahead.” Ecks felt no need to explain actual ownership.

“The flight seems to be totally unknown. We’ve no trace of it. No flight plan. No manifest at any airport, I’m told. The plane’s misnumbered, otherwise misidentified – its corporate name is phony. It may have been one stolen several months ago in New Jersey. Lots of work ahead on that for us. Wherever the pilots were headed, who they were, who employed them, and why they were transporting this boy alone suggests a mysterious, even surreptitious operation – possibly one involving some form of trafficking.”

“What? Involving the boy we have here?” Ecks was incredulous.

 “It’s only a possibility – one of many. A lot of money must be involved in what must have been an expensive operation.” He took a moment. “So many unanswered questions! We are most interested in what we can learn from the boy who was discovered in the wreckage, you see,” he breathed steadily, “…because we found only a small overnight bag containing three items of clothing and an envelope with a certified copy of his birth certificate. I’ll show you. His name is Avery Roy James,” he indicated. “There’s nothing else.”

A man of few words, Ecks said merely, “That’s perplexing.”

“Damn right it is.”

The agent’s teammate completed his calls. It was time to raise the matter of the unknown property owner and others involved – most likely criminal – wanting their possession, Avery, back.  Randy-James, however, ushered in Blaire, introduced him as the Farm’s nurse-practitioner and, after alerting him that the men wanted to speak with the boy, prompted his colleague to speak.

Blaire – despite his travails of the earlier day, steady as a rock and wary – recounted the details of the morning’s tractor ride and the discovery of the crashed plane, of his astonishment at there being no broken bones in the boy. “Only superficial wounds, which I’ve treated, and deep bruising of his back. He is in some state of shock – because he is unable to speak. He hears, though, I know. With support, he sat upright during lunch, ate slowly but well. He’s safely resting now, asleep in our Infirmary. Several behavioral signs tell me that I have his trust.”

To allay any question about that slip of his tongue, Blaire went ahead, “My plan is to monitor him closely when he wakes. Tomorrow and the days to come, he will need near-total bedrest. He’s going to be very sore. When he recovers his speech, we’ll see whether it will be suitable to question him then.”

He sat back, rubbing his left index finger, a fond look on his face.

Concern registering on his face, Blaire glanced at Ecks, “I cannot allow anyone to peck at or pepper him with questions while he gets better.”

“Agreed,” Ecks said in return, intending to be overheard. “Oh, and gentlemen, if you’ll be so kind to contact and arrange with the appropriate agency to extricate that plane from our property. We have a plan for that land. It doesn’t include any large wreckage not belonging to us. Will be most helpful." He launched a rare, if wry smile.

Hackles rose but were kept under wraps. After posing other questions, the agents rose, regarded each other, stepped aside for a brief powwow, came to an agreement. The one who had barely spoken, said, “We have now to liase with the FBI and other agencies. Our contact information is on this card. Shall we agree to stay in touch as we proceed?

“And this boy, Avery? You’re not thinking of removing him in his condition, are you?” Blaire interrupted. “He’s my patient.”

“Frankly, until we know more about him from our end, he’s better off here.” Clearing his throat, the agent shifted back and forth finding the right language. “If this mystery boy is not unnecessarily burdensome to you, we would appreciate your looking after him until we can get back to you. Here are Avery’s few belongings.”

Ecks extended his hand. Blaine’s was quicker. He took the bag.

“If he proves to be too problematic for you, we can have him picked up on a few hours’ notice.”

Ecks expressed himself with authority, “We are not discommoded. Our ‘family’ will take great interest in his welfare and recovery. We have two other residents his age who, at the moment, are in Berlin with a showing of their photographic projects. They are expected to return sometime this weekend. One is Randy-James’ son, the other a ward of ours. They are bright and will be happy to help, perhaps participate with Avery’s rehabilitation. Right, Randy-James?”

“No doubt. The majority of us must be occupied with recovery of our crops and meetings with architects coming from Chicago to see about rebuilding our visitor housing. You’ve seen it. Totaled. Hiram and Hank will jump at the chance to make friends with someone their age. And Blaine here’s on hand and already bonded, it seems, to the boy. Frankly, Avery stands a better chance at normalcy with us than anywhere else.”

“When he’s ready,” Ecks was straightforward, “we’ll put him to work same as the rest of us, Hiram and Hank included. Working with lively kids in his peer group can only do him good.”

Will these nuisance-people ever leave?

“Our agency’s grateful. Gentleman, thank you for your willingness to cooperate. It’s really getting late and we’ve a long drive ahead.” He was about to say,” Until next time,” when a knock repeated itself on the room’s door.

“Mama!” Randy-James sounded amazed.

“Hi, everybody. I made-a some sandwiches and things for-a our travelers since-a they can’t join us for-a supper.” Coy, she went on, “There’s-a coffee in a thermos and cups, some sugar and creamers, and-a paper napkins.” She proffered a hamper saying, “No need to return.”

God, she’s good.

With thanks, hands were shaken. Big Ben Arrowsmith, showed up as if on cue to escort the agents to their cruiser. As the three walked briskly, Ben’s physical presence – aura, really – and polished civility impressed them. Why such a person was employed on a farm, even an organic, experimental one, escaped them. He could be in movies or television.

Randy-James, Ecks, and Blaine all guessed what was in the agents’ minds and thought alike: If they only knew.

* * *

Ecks’ departure ended three days of conferences with Trainers and Providers, phone calls with primary owners Duane Wilderforce and Hassan Yasamin, and messages about the postponement of tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of planned-for-soon sexual scenarios at The Birchfield Farm.

Mike Manleigh, Trainer behind many of The Birchfield Farm’s practicalities involving Providers, conveyed his elation to everyone. “There’s extraordinary news. Since we cannot entertain while waiting for rebuilding, funds are in place for us to make custom videos for our clients. Each will be unique to a specific individual. So, comb your memories for your best clients’ predilections and give me script ideas no matter how basic. We’ll team up to write them.”

“You mean they aren’t going to dictate what they want?” Sam asked.

“No. These videos will be our calling cards to entice them to line up for the re-opening of our new facility, The Shellman Inn. You know, to whet their appetites, kindle libidinal fires.”

Several snickers at that.

“I’ll continue. Plans are being drawn up in Chicago, thanks to ‘X.’ Engineers and contractors will be here, housed in trailers they bring in, for about five months. They’ll remove the fire’s remains and rebuild as necessary the old foundation and construct the new edifice working around the clock.”

Charles and Wade looked at each other, wondering out loud, “What about the tunnel?”

“All the tunnels,” Mike, replied, “are our responsibility. They require thorough cleaning and disinfecting. Only the ducts connected to the old Shellman need replacing – and the contractors’ people will do that. In the meantime, Randy-James will circulate a revised sleep-arrangements schedule tomorrow, to be put into effect immediately. Everyone’s salable skills thus will remain at par,” he smirked. “Tonight’s a free-for-all.”

“What means free-for-all? An-y-thing for an-y-one?” – questions Konstantin always asked when free time was granted.

“You know the answer: As long as he or they consent.”

Avery, as usual next to Blaire, wondered dimly what a free-for-all was. He smiled anyway.

* * *

Three nights had witnessed his bruised back turn various shades of sunset colors, now mostly purple. He spent them on his sides and stomach. When Blaire needed relief, he moved Avery to the bedroom of Hiram and Hank in Randy-James’ apartment. Ting and Cosmo took turns at night duty.

Nightmares awakened him often, at first soothed by Blaire’s well-known finger. A small plug’s introduction initially succeeded as substitute, pacifying the boy and letting the overtaxed man sleep with fewer interruptions.

Ting’s longest finger felt different to boy; two thrilled him to spastic orgasm. When his smaller fingers proved inadequate, Cosmo, never without ideas, lubed himself and fucked Avery, taking care not to touch his back. Ting, the stronger thanks to time spent exercising in the gym, took up fucking Avery fully prone, legs widely spread, holding himself at arms’ length and thrusting only where the need was.

Randy-James, his schedule full of duties, trusted Blaire, Cosmo, and Ting with looking after Avery.

The results were two: the longer silent Avery was fucked before sleep, the longer he slept in an oblivion of ecstasy; fucks from his friendly rescuers made him crave a fuck from Blaire. Fearing too great an attachment might result, Blaire inserted a new toy into Avery before walking him for meals in the dining room – a small-diameter, radio-operated, vibrator-plug.

The plug’s first activation had caused merriment. Avery stood straight up suddenly from his chair, eyes bugged, and made the first sound others could notice since his arrival.

A sharp intake of breath, it carried to all ears.

“Ha!” Sam clapped his hands, “Aren’t you lucky – to get your personal vibrator this soon!”

“Hurray,” shouted Clyff, standing up just as suddenly. The whole room joined in.

When Avery sat down, Blaine increased the signal from his pocket.

Another startled expression – and Avery bit his lower lip, striking an affectionate fist to Blaine’s leg before leaning into him. Decisive action on his initiative – a high point.

Mirth ebbed as the plug’s current was reduced and turned off.

By Saturday’s morning meal, Avery was on high alert. Walked over by Randy-James, who controlled Blaire’s remote and used the plug to tickle the boy’s bottom along the path, Avery sat still to hear the news.

A veritable furor, Mike Manleigh reported, had broken out in Berlin over the hastily-mounted, fantastically sensational showing of Hiram and Hank’s photographs at the German capital’s most renowned gay museum. He told how the New York gallery owner, whom they all had met, Mieczyslaw Brownstone, had spearheaded the radical pop-up.

“The opening was even more brilliant that the one we saw. Sales and orders for prints exceeded expectations.” He wound up, “Hiram and Hank will return to us tomorrow, we hope by suppertime.”

The announcement brought an ovation and cheers and a blush of pride to Randy-James.

Mama burst out, “Big-a party! We’a have big-a party!”

Noticing that Avery looked confused, he said, “These are our boys who are your age. You’ve heard about them. They will be good buddies for you, Avery, while you are here. You will like them, I guarantee.”

Close to Avery’s ear, he spoke intimately, “Both know well and understand the importance of well-exercised bottoms.” As he said the words, he flicked the vibrator’s switch to a low setting and watched the boy’s face as it held back tears.

He’s practically radiant.

* * *

Her party in the offing, Mama commandeered like a general. She loved celebrating her boys’ achievements – Konstantin’s initial performance as an abject serf at the merciless hands of his overlord, Cosmo’s praised double role as brother-sister twins in trouble with their Daddy for shoddy schoolwork, Ting’s incredible success meeting every expectation of a crude, lusty drug cartel operator from Mexico.

They and others had been treated to a raised-platform table covered by a white cloth and adorned with a small vase of flowers – where all could see them. With no sweat, Félix and Syd made that setup. Clyff and Sam clambered up and down step ladders to stick multi-colored crepe paper streamers in swags from the ceiling. To Lon, Mike, and Uldis went responsibility for filling balloons with helium and tying them tightly with ribbons to hang within reach. Mike, in his theater shop, produced a banner: HEROS HIRAM AND HANK.

Pressed happily into service in her steamy kitchen, Belamy and Javier made pizza dough, Ahmed chopped ingredients for salad, Mama worked on dessert, her special tiramisu – which everybody adored. Personally, she could hardly wait to have her sous-chef Hiram back. The boy had shown real aptitude for cooking, his novel brownies having worked wonders on “X.” His sense of the right moment at which to stop the cooking of pasta so that it was perfectly al dente, the speed and accuracy of his knife-wielding with any vegetable, his knack for planning sequences for the preparation of dishes – nobody equaled him. And could he seed tomatoes!

Mama hummed Faniculi Fanicula, a sign that she was happy.

* * *

Antsy, Avery stood still for Randy-James to remove his clothes and check his back. Its discolorations, a panorama that looked dire, were worse to see than his flesh to be touched. To have this important man attending to him so solicitously aroused the boy – who could not refrain from trembling as Randy-James unplugged him.

“Avery, please lie down here on my bed, on your back, and nod if that’s comfortable for you.”

The nod said yes.

“Lift your legs for me as high as you can. Let me see your precious, needy spot.”

Avery did, daring to hope.

“Because I have a busy afternoon ahead and we have a big party to attend tonight, you will benefit from a long afternoon nap.”

Looking past his knees, Avery watched the important man strip. Larger in every way than Blaire’s cock, Randy-James’ stood proudly tall. Seeing it slicked with lube, his boyish ass quivered, his breaths shortened.

“I’m going to caress, massage, and make love to you, Avery, to put you at ease for the whole afternoon. If you wake before I return, just stay here. Watch the television. See the clock? I’ll return at five o’clock – see there, where I’m pointing? Good. Do you agree?

Avery nodded, legs further apart in silent welcome.

This man – his! – breached him in a single moment of severe anguish. All of him surrounded and seized upon the invader, spasming in the glory of instant pain, thrilling to adolescent orgasm’s agonies. His core, driven into widely and deeply, yielded its defiance, thrumming as it surrendered with a pulse its own. Hurt and joy, possession’s aspects, merged in response.

Avery’s front – face, neck, chest, stomach – reddened as if by fire; his back bore the brunt of suddenly being crushed against the bed. That misery served the instinct to abandon efforts to resist. His body seemed to scream the desire to submit.

Randy-James, looking down after his forceful entry, saw the boy’s eyes roll up under their lids, heard his gasps for air to relieve the distress, admired the flush of excited color cover his heaving torso, took stock of the changes of awareness taking over young Avery, and waited for the sign of capitulation which had to come.

Profoundly skewered, the boy turned to jelly.

He’s ready.

There was motion. Avery-jelly was being stirred. Lids fluttered, eyes formerly seeing stars now saw the ceiling. Inside, the boy was aware of a shift. It dragged at him, pushed back, dragged further, paused, established its depth, withdrew more distantly, sounded into him, inned and outed – until he could look at and realize who was propelling his feelings toward utter wantonness.

Randy-James!

The two, grown man and mere boy, stared into each other’s eyes unblinkingly as their parts’ connection commenced to provide revelry. Randy-James, no longer susceptible to the intense glitter of jeweled irises, plumbed Avery’s open channel, pulling back by increments to increase the effect of plunging from edge to end. Systematic measurements. He enjoyed the boy’s writhings, which eased as he settled into a constant pattern of regular strokes.

The ploy lulled. Avery had become his vessel to be filled as he saw fit. Randy-James swallowed, and started to flex his pelvis unpredictably, in erratic rhythms. His concern: to alert the boy to the barrage ahead and its unavoidable climax.

Avery grew afraid of cumming so soon. His ass might be abandoned. He might be cast aside. Yet, there was no escape from the vibrations gathering to rocket through his hardened penis.

Randy-James saw to that, his cock angled to drive the boy to jet his thin sperm fitfully, desperately. He held still until Avery’s mouth was open to suck in air, then leaned forward to take the mouth by his in a kiss so passionate that it prevented breathing and nearly drove himself to orgasm, rooted as he was in irregularly clasping contractions.

Not now, boy. Not yet. You are to have a lot more before your longing for a man has been fulfilled.

A ripple of upper arms and shoulders, a test of lower back muscles, a few strong inhalations, a surge of determination – and Randy-James regarded the boy’s swoons with sympathy. But did not succumb to it. No, he began to coast back and forth.The passage’s lubrication enabled smooth, soothing maneuvers.

Freed from any thought he might be abandoned anytime soon, Avery relaxed, ready for his next sexually produced suffering – whatever form it took. Anticipation heated his blood. The wondrous cock, moving again, had more to offer, more for him! His appetite needed the firm meat. Raw meat. Had his limited mind been capable of the idea, he would have thought he might cannibalize it with his ass.

His man’s strokes became rams, slams into his well-secured, yearning body. The rougher the fuck, the greater its pleasure. Avery’s nipples hurt from neglect. They stood out as they had not before, noticed by Randy-James who decided to torment them with his tongue. He nipped them with his teeth, action that sent the boy’s head flailing side to side. Implacable, Randy-James staked the boy to the bed with pelvic hammer-blows, then ratcheted his speed to that of a riveter – casting aside precaution, giving in to need, want, and lust, and spending himself rapturously, he shattered them both.

Totally unconscious, Avery was turned on his side to sleep. Light covers were pulled up.

Randy-James glanced at the clock, remembered his tasks, managed a hasty, cold shower, dressed, and left, closing the bedroom door against any disturbance.

Satisfaction in his work had never equaled what he felt now.

He twisted a line from Shakespeare: All’s well that begins well. That thought was about Avery and the celebration ahead – storm free.