Aurora Crusade

Aurora Crusade is work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Certain venues have been change to enhance the story.

As this is a work of erotic fiction reader discretion is advised. Certain scenes may be disturbing to some readers.

Readers are also advised that as works of this genre are illegal in some states/jurisdictions care must be exercised when reading, possessing or downloading. If you are not of legal age to read, possess or download works of this genre (18/21) please move on.

Copyright 2006 by John Ellison

My thanks to all who write and comment. Please contact me at: paradegi@sympatico.ca

My thanks to my editor, Peter, who takes time from his busy schedule to help make what I write much better.

Aurora Crusade

Chapter Seven

The log "A" frame house stood on a long spit of land that jutted into Harrison Lake. There was a long wooden dock on pilings, with a boathouse at the end of it that gave easy access to the waters of the lake. Built of planed and stained logs, and glass-fronted, the house boasted terraces and decks on all sides and was representative of hundreds of like structures that dotted the interior of British Columbia. A wide swath of well-kept emerald lawn swept from the stone walks that surrounded the house to the tree line. Directly across the small inlet from the lawns and house, perhaps 100 yards of placid water, hidden by tufts of sea grass and low dunes of sand, the watchers sent by Michael Chan lay on their stomachs, watching, and waiting.

Tyree Wade Ravenel, the younger and slimmer of the two watchers, held his Zeiss binoculars to his eyes and scanned the house and grounds. Beside him, Landon Wilkes, heavier, more muscular than Ty, swatted away a horse fly.

"Bastards are worse than Special Warfare School in Norfolk!" Landon growled as he swung at the fly again. "Got the fucker!" he chortled triumphantly.

"Good for you," returned Ty, lowering his binoculars. "Just don't eat it!"

Landon's eyes clouded. Catching and eating flies was just one of the more childish exercises both he and Ty had been forced to endure by the instructors at the Norfolk Special Warfare School. But that was in the past and both men now served a different master. Pete Sheppard, Michael Chan's Chief of Security might be much more understanding and forgiving than Uncle Sam, he was no less exacting.

"Look, guys," Pete had begun, "I know that you're both new here, but I need you, and you're both experienced enough to be trusted with this mission."

Both statements were true. Both Ty and Landon had arrived in Vancouver only the night before. That morning they had undergone a cursory physical examination by some skanky doctor - neither man had seen him around lately but neither cared. After their examinations they had compared whispered notes with some of the other guys and while Landon admitted to being hornier that an alley cat in mating season, porking the slimy medico was not high on his agenda. Further whispering made him happy that he was a clean-cut, All American boy.

Ty shared Landon's opinion of the doctor, and of what he had done to some of the guys in the examination room. He swore that his pecker had shrivelled when the doc touched him to make him "cough"! He didn't have all that much to brag about but having some faggy quack hanging off the end of his dick was not a pleasant thought! Ty too was glad that his mother had insisted on following a fine old Southern tradition when it came to her boys - Ty had six older brothers and was the runt of the litter. Being a Southerner, thrifty, and determined to get his money's worth, Ty's father had paid $60.00 to the local doctor who charged this sum for "All pre- and post-natal care, including the circumcision if a male."

Pete's instructions had been every explicit. They were to follow the man from his home, high on Burnaby Mountain, to his weekend retreat at the lake. There they would observe. In time other men would join them. What these other men did was not their business.

Ty and Landon, accustomed to "need to know" operations, had not questioned Pete. They might be new to the cantonment, but they both knew that Pete's orders came from Michael Chan. They had not met Michael but they both knew enough about him not to question his orders.

The duty had been easy. The man, whose name was Lennox, was a successful businessman. Like many successful businessman he was a creature of habits, and never varied his routine. A tall, red brick wall surrounded his house, which was on a secluded cul-de-sac. Every weekday morning, promptly at 0700, the gates would open and Lennox, driving a black, sleek, Mercedes-Benz SL, would drive downtown to Hastings Street, where his office was located. Lennox was an art dealer, specializing in 18th and 17th century English paintings and furniture, silver and crystal. He saw clients by appointment only, and his appointments never extended beyond 1500. At 1600, so promptly that one could almost set one's watch by him, he left his office and drove back to Burnaby.

Once home, Lennox rarely left the house. On Wednesdays he hosted a dinner party, invariably for 12. Invariably the guests were men and one, sometimes two, young boys accompanied each man. Cousin Tommy Chan, who Ty and Landon assumed was Michael's enforcer, had had the house under observation for weeks. Cousin Tommy knew Lennox's schedule almost to the minute and neither Ty nor Landon was surprised when promptly at 1800 on Friday the gates to the house opened, and the nose of the black Mercedes appeared. Lennox spent every weekend at his summerhouse. This weekend was no exception.

Ty and Landon had followed the Mercedes at a safe distance. The traffic on Highway 7 was always heavy on a Friday evening, with townies deserting the heat of the city for their cottages scattered along the banks of the Fraser River or, inland, on the many small lakes that dotted the countryside.

Unlike the house in Burnaby, the cottage had no demarcation fences. It was a good mile inland from the highway, and serviced by a dirt road lined with thick brush and trees. The cottage was secluded and very private. The nearest neighbour was across the lake, or around a point of land, out of sight of the Lennox cottage.

After hiding their car Ty and Landon had carefully entered the woods. Landon, who had grown up in the forests around New Bedford, found a barely discernable deer trail, which took them to a small, open beach directly across from the cottage. Just inside the line of tall, Pacific pines, they settled down. And were mightily bored.

Friday night past slowly and had it not been for Landon bitching and snapping at the deer flies that pestered them, Ty would have fallen asleep. Except for the lights of the cottage he could see nothing of what was going on. The tall, ground-to-eaves windows that comprised the front of the log structure were hung with sheer drapes. Through his binoculars Ty could see shadows as they passed and re-passed behind the semi-sheer drapes. One was tall, and heavy, and was obviously Lennox. One was short and slim, too slim to be an adult. Ty rightly assumed that this was Lennox's "boy".

While Ty kept watch, Landon napped. When he awoke, cranky and complaining that he needed a piss, Landon slithered off into the woods, took care of business, and returned. Ty then had a longish nap for when he awoke the sun was high. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes he had asked, "Anything?"

Landon, not taking the Zeiss binoculars from his eyes, shook his head as he answered, "Not a peep."

While Landon went off to reconnoitre, Ty continued to watch. He saw little movement until shortly before noon when Lennox opened the door to the cottage and walked out onto the deck. He was a tall man, beefy, and dressed in khaki shorts. Much to Ty's surprise, Lennox was not all that old, perhaps in his mid-thirties. Lennox spent a few moments surveying the lake, watching the sailboats that had started to appear just after breakfast time. Then he turned and called out to someone inside the cottage. Suddenly a little boy appeared and Ty almost dropped the binoculars.

"Holy fuck!" Ty breathed slowly as he watched the boy carefully carry a telephone to Lennox.

The boy was naked. He was short, very slim, and walked with the prepubescent gawkiness all boys of that age - 11 or so years old, Ty thought. The boy had reddish-blond hair and was pretty rather than handsome. Through the high-powered lens of the binoculars Ty could see the boy's pink face and deep blue eyes. Ty could also make out the look in those deep blue eyes: fear, touched with . . . loathing?

Except the neatly barbered hair on his head, the boy's body was as smooth as a baby's bottom. There was no hint of pubic hair on his crotch. His worm-like, uncircumcised penis hung limply over a tight scrotal sac. Ty breathed a long, drawn out, "Fuuuccck Meee!" as he watched the little boy hand the telephone to Lennox and retreat back into the house.

"I almost did, once," said Landon with a chuckle as he appeared from the trees. He crawled up beside Ty and gave his friend's ear a playful lick. "Are you as good as I hoped you would be?"

"Stop it!" Ty rolled on his side. "You're an asshole, you know that?" He gave Landon a black look and nodded with his chin. "Look."

Landon sighed and glanced over at the cottage. His eyes widened as he saw a naked boy walking back into the house. "Jesus!"

"Yeah, Jesus," replied Ty darkly. "That kid can't be more than nine or ten years old!"

Taking the glasses from Ty, Landon watched as Lennox talked on the telephone and gesticulated, emphasizing his unheard words. "Ya know, there are times when a man really needs a gun . . ." Landon's voice trailed off as he lowered the binoculars and stared at Ty. Neither man spoke but Landon's meaning was clear to Ty.

Sighing heavily, Ty rolled on his back and stared upward toward the cloudless sky. "Captain Sheppard said no weapons. Our job is to watch, and wait."

"For what?" Landon demanded.

"I don't know," replied Ty with a shrug. "I just don't know."

The two men continued their watch. For what seemed like hours Lennox talked on the telephone, repeatedly hanging up and dialling another number. From his hand movements Ty thought they were overseas calls. Eventually, Ty became frustrated at the inactivity and handed the binoculars over to Landon. "Here, you watch for a while," he said grumpily to Landon.

Landon took the glasses but did not raise them to his eyes. He could see Lennox well enough without them. He glanced down at Ty, who was once again on his back, seemingly lost in thought. Landon decided it was time to face a certain demon that had been plaguing both Ty and him since their time in SEAL school. Lennox was quiescent, and the boy was inside the house. It was time.

"We have to talk about it," Landon said quietly.

Ty's eyes closed and he sucked in his breath through clenched teeth. "Landon, it's over and done with. We got fucked by a Chief who was out to get us from the get go. Let it go."

Landon could not let it go. Chief Ross had made up his mind that Ty was queer, and that Landon was his butt buddy. That neither had so much as patted each other on the ass was not important. Ross was the Chief. He was also a bigot, a racist - there were no blacks in their class - and knew how to play the system. Ross had dropped a dime on them to NIS, the Naval Investigative Service, and Ty and Landon had been naïve enough to fall into the trap. They should never have gone on leave and gotten drunk. They should never have checked into that motel on Route 60. They should never have . . .

"It was my fault," Landon said presently. "I should have made sure that the room had twin beds."

Ty chuckled ruefully. "Landon, we both wanted to do it. We were drunk and horny . . ."

"I shouldn't have started it!" interrupted Landon sharply. "I'm the one who started it! I'm the one who wanted to go to that bar, I'm the one who rented the room, I'm the one who kissed you first, I'm the one who felt your dick and . . ."

Ty reached out and shook Landon's shoulder. "Stop it! It was two way street," he declared forcefully. "I'm not some hick from the hill country! I knew what you wanted and I knew that I wanted it as well!"

Rising slowly, Ty reached out to pluck a blade of grass. He toyed with the green shard of vegetation as he stared into the darkness of the trees. "Landon, I won't blame you for my failings."

"What failings?" demanded Landon. Then his eyes widened. "Um, Ty, are you saying that Ross was, um, right?" he asked in a whisper.

Ty looked evenly at his friend. "Yeah, he was," he answered without emotion.

"But . . . but . . ." spluttered Landon. "You never . . ."

"What was I supposed to do?" asked Ty calmly. "Knock you down and have my way with you?" He laughed at Landon's discomfort. "You're much too big to be raped, Landon."

Landon became angry. "You're my best friend! You could have told me! I would have, well, I wouldn't have walked away!"

"Perhaps," agreed Ty. His eyes never wavered as he looked at Landon. "But try to put yourself in my position. We were strangers until Norfolk. I didn't really know you, and you really didn't know me. Later, when we got close, I wanted to tell you." He dropped his eyes. "I didn't want to lose you. I knew that you weren't queer, but I liked you, a lot. You were my friend, Landon and . . ."

"Ya could'a told me!" growled Landon. "Maybe it would have helped me understand why you put up with Ross's shit!"

"I wanted to be a SEAL!" exclaimed Ty. "Ross was after me, not you! Why drag you down with me? I didn't want you tarred with my brush! You were my friend, Landon, and you weren't guilty of anything!"

"Well, it sure as hell didn't help when NIS crashed into the room!" Landon declared looking fiercely at Ty.

"We were set up," said Ty. "Ross reported me to NIS. They followed us. Once they saw us go into the motel room they figured I was going to take advantage of a drunken sailor." Ty shrugged expressively. "I wasn't as drunk as you thought I was."

"Okay," drawled Landon. "So, you wanted me?"

Ty smiled at Landon and winked. "You're some stud, man, and yes, I wanted you. I liked you, and I figured that the only way I'd get you into bed was to get you drunk, you being straight and all."

Landon looked stunned. "What? You mean that?"

"I mean every word. I wanted you," Ty said with emphasis. He tossed aside the ravaged blade of grass. "I wanted you to be my first."

"You're first what?" asked Landon, confused.

"Guy, you dick!" exclaimed Ty.

"What? I would have been . . . your first? You mean you never . . .?"

"I never," confirmed Ty. "Oh, there were guys I wanted to do, but it never happened. I was too afraid, or they were too afraid." He shrugged. "I knew deep down that sooner or later I'd take up with a guy, lose my cherry, and I wanted it to be with you."

"'Cause you liked me?" asked Landon. No one had ever expressed wanting him before.

"Yes, thinking back, that was exactly why. I liked you. You liked me. We were best friends and well, for me it was time. You knew what Ross was saying about us but you stuck by me. I appreciated that. I knew how I felt about you, so when you suggested we go out and get drunk together I went along with you." He gave Landon an earnest look. "It's been on my conscience, Landon, doing what I did. It was wrong."

"Yeah, it was," admitted Landon. "But, maybe, if you'd asked me, I might have gone along with you."

It was Ty's turn to be surprised. "Landon, you're straight! Have you ever had a thought about another guy? Truth now."

Landon thought a moment. "Well, once, before I joined up, a buddy and me, we jacked off together. When he was hammering his schlong I wondered what it tasted like, you know, his dick. I also wondered what getting a blow job would be like."

"But that was as far as it went?" asked Ty.

"Yeah. He shot his load, I shot my load, and that was that."

"Landon, we went through boot together. We went through weapons training together and we went through SEAL training together. During all that time you never hit on a girl."

"I never had a chance!" exclaimed Landon. "We never got off base! Hell, I'd 'a fucked the crack of dawn if I could!"

Ty laughed softly and returned to watching Lennox. "Which is why I figured you'd go along with me," he said presently. "When you didn't pick up a girl that night I figured you'd end up in bed with me."

Landon scowled. "You were right," he said with a chuckle. "I looked at the girls in that bar and I looked at you and you sure looked better!" He saw the shocked look on Ty's face. "Well you did - you wanted the truth!"

"Fuck!" breathed Ty. He shook his head, laughing. "And to think we never even got our skivvies down!"

Before Landon could reply Ty held up his hand for silence. "Lennox just hung up the 'phone."

Ty watched as Lennox turned his head and yelled out something. "What did he say?" asked Landon.

"Sounded like 'Peter', or maybe 'Dieter'," replied Ty. He watched as the cabin door opened and the boy appeared, looking fearful and hesitant.

"That kid is some scared," offered Ty.

"Let me look," demanded Landon. He took the glasses and peered at the two figures on the deck. "Yeah, he doesn't like being here, I think." He paused and looked again. "He's carrying something, a jar, I think." Landon adjusted the magnification of the German made binoculars. "Yeah, it's a . . . Holy Fuck! It's a jar of Vaseline!"

"A what?" Ty croaked. He shaded his eyes and peered across the calm waters of the lake.

"Ah, shit," moaned Landon. "Look . . . look what that fucker is doing to the kid!"

Ty did not want to look, but he did. The little boy was straddling Lennox's chest. Lennox had his head buried in the boy's crotch. Neither Ty nor Landon needed a diagram for them to know that Lennox was fellating the little boy.

They lay there, transfixed and not quite believing what they were seeing, watching as Lennox, his hand rubbing and squeezing the boy's body, suckled at his immature appendage. It did not take the boy long to buck and squirm, which both men watching assumed was an orgasm. Lennox continued to suck, while the boy tried to pull away. This displeased Lennox, who suddenly pushed the lad away and punched him, knocking him to the deck.

Ty and Landon were too far away to hear what Lennox was yelling at the boy, but his gestures spoke volumes. Reluctantly the boy pulled himself up and, on his knees, buried his head in Lennox's lap. The arms of the rustic, wooden chair Lennox was sprawled in hid what the boy was doing, but both Ty and Landon knew what was happening.

Ty could see that the boy's body was shuddering, and thought, rightly, that he was crying. He saw Lennox suddenly push the boy away from what he was doing and slap him soundly on the face. The boy drew back, his hand rubbing his smarting cheek. Again it was the gestures that spoke. Crying, he crawled up onto Lennox's lap, raised his body and then lowered it. His face was a mask of pain and the flow of tears increased as Lenox began to thrust upward viciously.

"The bastard!" breathed Landon, unable to take his eyes away from the scene across the waters of the lake. "He's . . . he's . . ." Landon made to rise, his fists clenched. Ty's hand held him back.

"It's not our fight," murmured Ty, thinking, "Not yet."

Landon turned and glared at his friend. "That son of a bitch is raping that kid!" he hissed venomously.

Calmly, Ty lowered the binoculars and nodded with his chin. "It's over," he said simply.

Landon looked up. Lennox apparently had a hair trigger, or the boy had done something that had displeased the man. Lennox, his shrivelling dick hanging down, was standing over the little boy. Suddenly he reached down and grabbed the boy by the shoulders, slapped him again, and gestured toward the cottage. The boy, obviously in pain from the vicious penetration, and crying, clutching his stomach, walked slowly into the cottage. Lennox pulled up his shorts, settled back in his chair, and reached for the telephone.

The balance of Saturday afternoon passed slowly for Ty and Landon. Neither man spoke, both trying to digest what they had seen. Lennox eventually finished his calls and returned inside. Around 1700 Landon backed slowly away from their watching area. He went into town and returned with sandwiches and containers of hot coffee. Ty and he withdrew into the tree line where they squatted and ate. They had a direct line of sight from where they were sitting, but saw nothing. The cottage seemed empty, devoid of life of any kind.

Landon was seething. He could not understand how Ty could remain so damned calm! What they had witnessed was a rape! A rape of a child! An abomination so terrible that it was hard to comprehend. That such things happened they both knew. What made it all so difficult was actually seeing it happen.

Soon enough the afternoon shadows lengthened and turned to dusk. The lights came on in the cabin on the main floor, but neither man could see anything. The curtains that covered the windows were too thick. Landon settled back against a tree and dozed. Ty continued to watch. He could not sleep, dared not sleep for fear of missing something. His mind kept replaying the scene he had witnessed. His emotions were in turmoil and he struggled to keep them in check. He wanted to rise up and walk around the small bay, slam into the cabin and take a knife - he had been trained to kill a man in 17 different ways but a knife seemed appropriate in this case. How Ty would have loved to have reached down, a knife in his right hand, and with his left pull Lennox's wrinkled pecker its full length and then, in one motion, bring the knife down and . . .

Ty shook his head. Stupid idiot! He cursed his imaginings and himself. Pete Sheppard had not sent him and Landon out to the wilderness to wreak vengeance. Focus, Ty told himself. There was a bigger picture, a picture he was not yet to see. But it was there and Ty suppressed any thought of exacting his own form of justice. Other men would do that, Ty was sure of it. He had seen it in Pete's eyes when he briefed them. Something horrible was going to happen to the Lennoxes of the world.

Thinking of Lennox, Ty wondered how many of his kind were out there. There had been two other men at the briefing, new men who had joined the Security Force and been at the medical examinations with him and Landon, both ex-Special Forces. Those men were also sent out as watchers, to a house on the outskirts of a town named Brackendale. Ty wondered if they had witnessed a similar scene as he had. He hoped they had not, because that would mean that there was another boy in bondage.

How many watching teams had been sent out? Ty didn't know, but he had a dark, sickening feeling that there were more watchers, more boys. Just how many boys there were Ty did not know. Not yet. But he would know, he decided. Somehow, some way, he would find out. Somewhere there were little boys being ravished and Ty would help find them.

The house on Buttery Street was dark, with only nightlights glowing dimly through the blackness. In his upstairs room the boy lay on his bed, waiting for the summons. It would come soon, he knew. The door to his room was ajar, and from down the corridor he could hear the sounds, the horrible sounds.

Jergen Leyen's hands were tight fists as he listened. "Poor Zander," Jergen thought. Das arme Zicklen! Das arme kleine Zicklein!

Jergen felt like crying, but that was forbidden. "Uncle Bob", as the man who owned Jergen and Zander wanted to be called, forbade it. Tears were not a part of Jergen's life anymore. Tears were something in the past. Besides, Jergen had long since lost his capacity to cry. What was the use in crying? Jergen knew that tears changed nothing.

The house was set far enough back from the roadway that no unnatural light shone into the room. Only when the moon had risen was there a paleness to soften the dark shadows. Rising from his bed, Jergen moved slowly to sit in the window seat. This room was very much as his life had been, filled with dark shadows that only became hazy remembrances in his dreams. Only in his dreams did Jergen recall vague, distorted memories. His sub-conscious did what his conscious could not.

Jergen had no real idea of who, or what he was. He did recall a large room, filled with little boys, boys like him. He knew that he had been born in East Germany, but where, and when, he had no idea. German was his first language, as it was Zander's. Zander spoke, when he spoke at all, in harsh, guttural tones. Jergen's voice and tones were softer, which was not surprising that from the age of nine or so - he really did not know how old he actually was - he had lived with foreigners, first the Austrian count, then the Frenchman, and now the Canadian "Uncle Bob".

Thinking that he heard the sound of a door opening, Jergen rose from the window seat and padded quietly to the slightly ajar door to his room. He listened, heard nothing, and turned. His deep blue eyes caught his reflection in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of the door.

Jergen studied the reflection before him. He saw a well-muscled boy, a boy tall for his age, with blond, close-cut hair and glowing, healthy skin. The boy's face was square-jawed, with high cheekbones that were always touched with a reddish blush of colour. The boy's nose was straight and well-proportioned. His torso tapered to a slim, firm waist.

Turning slightly, Jergen saw that the boy had a fine, curving, bubble butt, and strong, well-formed legs. Turning back, Jergen saw that the boy, who was wearing only a pair of tight, white briefs, had a decent sized bump pushing out the cotton fabric. Mimicking Jergen, the boy in the mirror raised his hand to gently rub his dark brown, slightly rubbery nipples, which were contained in darkish pink coloured aureoles.

The boy in the mirror was handsome, and had much to offer. Stepping back, Jergen shuddered slightly and shook his head. He was the boy, and what he had to offer was the sole reason he was in this bedroom.

Returning to his bed, Jergen lay down and his eyes roved freely. His room, he thought ruefully, but not really his room. The room was large, well-lit during the day by the sunlight, and handsomely furnished. And yet . . . the room was cold and sterile. It was not a boy's room. There was nothing to indicate that a teenage boy lived in it. There were no posters of sports gods adorning the walls, no pictures of half-naked women, no pictures torn from magazines or catalogues, pinned over the bed. The flat surfaces of the chest on chest, the dressing table, the night table, were bare of anything that would give notice that a boy lived here.

There were no colourful gimcrack trophies, no forgotten bit of this or that to litter the room. The room was exactly what it was: a professionally decorated chamber meant to impress. Every stick of furniture, every water colour on the walls, the paint scheme, the drapes that covered the open windows, everything had been designed to impress. Nothing could be changed. Nothing could be moved. The room look as if it had been prepared to adorn the cover of an upscale magazine, and held as much warmth and welcome. The room was exactly the way "Uncle Bob" had envisioned it, and exactly the way "Uncle Bob" wanted it to stay. That was the rule, and Jergen knew to his sorrow not to disobey one of "Uncle Bob's" rules.

Jergen was accustomed to rules. He had lived with rules of conduct, of behaviour, all of his life.

The rules had started in the orphanage where he had been raised until the age of eight, or was it nine? Jergen could not know. Nobody had told him where he had been born, and the date of birth on his travel documents could be as false as it might have been true. The same held true for his name. Was his real name "Jergen", or had it been something else? He did not know. The slatternly, heavily built woman who ran the orphanage probably knew, but she never did anything but scream at the boys, slap them soundly when they did something that displeased her, and grew fatter as the little boys grew thinner.

As an orphan, Jergen was an unwanted member of the socialist society in which he lived. He was a burden on the State, and would be until he was 16, when he would be forced into the streets and into the workplace. His only hope had been adoption. It happened from time to time. A boy who had slept in the same bed with Jergen (all the boys slept two or three to a bed as there was a shortage in the supposedly proletarian paradise) would suddenly disappear. The harridan would tell the boys that he had been "adopted", taken into the home of a fine family. Everybody would sigh with envy, and hope.

Life in the orphanage was hard. The boys were dressed in cast offs and rags for the most part. The food was plain, usually just potato soup and mouldy black bread, and every Friday, without fail the soup was accompanied by boiled fish. Jergen never knew the taste of meat until the pimpf took him away.

The rules in the orphanage were strictly enforced. The boys would wear pyjamas to bed, and neatly fold the garments onto their bare pillows when they arose in the morning. Naked, they would be herded into a cold, shallow tank filled with cold water, the better to suppress any burgeoning morning erections. The matrons, sharp-eyed harpies, never explained why little boy penises rose up stiff in the morning. All the women did was call the unfortunate boy a dirty little pig and slap him.

After bathing, the boys were marched into a long, dismal hall filled with bare, scarred wooden tables and benches. Breakfast was bread and gruel. There was never enough and all the boys left the tables hungry. Following breakfast they attended school, of a sort, where they were taught by an indifferent and usually drunk teacher their letters and numbers. This was the only formal education of any kind that Jergen would know for a long time.

When the boys were not in the schoolroom they were working. The State had no money to waste on society's unwanted children. They would have to earn their keep and in addition to sweeping and scrubbing the workhouse, for that is what the place was. The boys were employed in doing laundry, mounds of sheets and linen, underpants and shirts, cloth bits of this and that, all of which came from the homes and apartments of their betters, for the party elite had better things to do than the laundry!

Jergen usually went to bed at the appointed hour - 2100 on the dot, and no one had better leave his bed until 0600! - totally exhausted. He was usually asleep before his head hit the pillow, and seldom noticed the ancient crone who came into the dormitory to sit and watch the young boys.

At first Jergen had no idea why the old woman sat in the darkness. She was always there at night and soon enough became more or less just another drab fixture in the drab room. Later, when he was older, Jergen heard whispers that the older boys sometimes snuck into the dormitories of the younger boys and did "things" with them. What "things" Jergen had no idea. He therefore assumed that the crone was there to protect the smaller boys. In a way he was right.

Jergen's eyes were opened one day when he was called to the office of the Headmistress. Here he was stripped of his clothing and a blanket draped over his naked body. He was then led, protesting feebly at his nakedness, and wide-eyed with fear, into what the Headmistress called the "parlour". This was a room scantily furnished with sagging, tired upholstered chairs and sofas, and rickety tables. Here he was led to meet the "pimpf", the pimp. Jergen did not know it at the time, but he had reached the proper age, and would soon leave the orphanage.

The pimp, a tall, cadaverous man, crudely examined Jergen, feeling his arms, his legs, examining his teeth, making the boy bend over to look at his bung hole, as Jergen called it, and fondling Jergen's penis, drawing the thick foreskin back to reveal the hidden little purple pink acorn. Jergen, terrified, saw his little stick thicken and grow larger. No one had ever touched him there before! The pimp, smiling through crooked, broken, tobacco stained teeth, continued to manipulate Jergen's foreskin until the boy squealed and bucked. Jergen did not know what had happened. He was torn between the pleasure he had felt engulfing his body, and the horror of the wretched pimp fondling him. "Der Junge tut. Herr Stennes ist erfreut," the pimp nodded to the Headmistress, Frau Renfeld.

Jergen, still panting from the exertion of his very first orgasm, wondered who 'Herr Stennes' was and why he would be pleased.

"You will take him then?" Frau Renfeld asked.

"Yah, for the usual price," replied the pimp as he reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

The Headmistress had sniffed loudly and held out her hand. Then she had asked, "And what is the going price these days?"

Laughing, the pimp had passed a large wad of strange-looking notes into the woman's hands. "The same as always, $500.00 American." He shrugged. "I can go elsewhere."

"Nein!" shrieked the woman loudly. "That bitch in Bendlerstrasse will cheat you! She allows the older boys to break in the younger ones!" She puffed up like one of the pigeons that infested the square in front of the orphanage. "My boys are virgins!"

"Which is why you are paid in American dollars and she is paid in East German marks!" returned the pimp. Turning, the pimp cupped Jergen's chin and smiled evilly. "This one will bring a good price." Then, over his shoulder, the pimp added, "Herr Stennes will not forget!"

"Good." The Headmistress roughly snatched Jergen away from the pimp and told the boy to return to his dormitory.

As he closed the door to the parlour, Jergen heard the pimp speak again. "Still no twins?"

Pausing, Jergen listened.

"Twins!" exclaimed the woman loudly. "Always you want twins!"

"There is a demand for twin boys!" said the pimp. "Herr Stennes will be most generous for a set of twin boys."

Herr Stennes again, thought Jergen. He pressed his ear closer to the barely shut door.

"How generous?" asked the Headmistress.

"Oh, five thousand American," replied the pimp casually. "Ten thousand if they are identical twins."

The woman gasped. Ten thousand American dollars was a fortune beyond counting. Jergen could not see her shake her head. "The proletariat breed like fruit flies. The unwanted flies end up here and I have never found a set of twins on the doorstep!"

"When you do, let me know." The pimp straightened his jacket and then laughed crudely. "And now I will take the boy to his new life."

The Headmistress joined the pimp's laughter. "I hope he enjoys it!" Laughing harder, she waved the wad of bank notes in the air. "In the mean time, I will enjoy the old!"

For the first week after leaving the orphanage, although he did not know it, Jergen lived in a large house in Wannsee, a tree-filled enclave southwest of Berlin on Lake Havel. The house was set behind a high stone wall and hidden behind stands of ancient pine trees. The house was very quiet, and very private.

Jergen did not know what to expect. He was a frightened little boy who had known nothing but abuse and deprivation all of his life. He had been taught to obey, though, and made no fuss when the pimp took him from the car and into the house.

Much to his surprise, the house was well lit and very warm. The rooms were clean and free of the dirt and the filth that seemed to be a way of life back at the orphanage. Jergen was taken by the hand and led up a broad, winding staircase and into a room. And what a room! There was a large bed, with clean sheets and a warm looking quilt, and one end, near the headboard, was piled high with pillows in real linen slips edged with lace. Jergen could not believe his eyes! He also could not believe what his little button of a nose was smelling. He looked around and on the round table that dominated the centre of the room saw an array of covered silver dishes. Dishes that from the wonderful odours filling the room, could only contain . . . FOOD!

Resisting the urge to pull away from the pimp, Jergen waited while the man removed his overcoat and motioned toward the table. "You are hungry, yes?" the man asked as he nodded toward the covered dishes.

Of course Jergen was hungry! He was always hungry! He nodded his head vigorously and unconsciously licked his lips.

"Well, eat," said the pimp with a slight smile.

Suspicious, but ravenous, Jergen approached the table. He lifted one of the silver covers and saw a plate laden with wurst. The only time the boys in the orphanage ever saw the delicious sausage was at Christmas, and then only one link each. No exceptions.

While his stomach growled, Jergen hesitated. Arrayed on the table were silver spoons, forks and knives. In the orphanage everything was eaten with a slightly battered metal spoon. Jergen looked at the cutlery, and then at the pimp.

The pimp chuckled. The boy was a peasant. He did not know how to eat properly and the pimp doubted that the youngster was literate. All was not lost, however. Herr Stennes boasted that he provided only the best merchandise to his clients. Jergen was a diamond in the rough, although he did not know it. He would be polished and buffed to perfection and then . . .

The pimp dismissed thoughts of what would become of Jergen and spoke. "Heinrich will teach you," he said enigmatically. He left the room and shortly returned with a tall, gangly young man with flaming red hair. The redhead was introduced as Heinrich. He would be Jergen's teacher, mentor, and minder during the boy's stay in the Wannsee villa.

For the next two months Heinrich instructed Jergen in the ways of proper little boys. Heinrich was really quite nice, even if he was no prize in the looks department. Like Jergen, Heinrich had no idea where he had been born. He had come from an orphanage in Holstein. He thought he had Norse blood, because he was tall, very tall at just over six feet three inches. Where his unruly red hair had come from was anybody's guess. He thought he was nineteen, but wasn't sure about that either. He had slightly bucked teeth, and a thin, gawky body, and his chin was spotted with the remnants of acne. Heinrich told Jergen that he had been with Herr Brost, the pimp, for ten years.

Heinrich was Jergen's nurse and nanny. After the first night, after showing Jergen how to cut the wurst with a knife and fork, Heinrich had stripped Jergen bare, grumbling about the state of the boy's clothing and lack of underpants. Jergen had explained that none of the boys in the orphanage wore pants. It cut down on the laundry, Jergen explained.

With a look of disgust, Heinrich informed Jergen that henceforth he would always wear underpants! No exceptions! Then Heinrich had taken Jergen into the bathroom that adjoined the room, a bathroom so large and filled with a porcelain tub, a toilet with a reservoir (in the orphanage the pissoir was a foul, filth encrusted hole in the crumbling tiled floor), and sinks that were actually clean.

Baths, Heinrich said, would be taken once in the morning, upon arising, and once at night, before retiring. No exceptions! He filled the tub with hot water and dumped in a bottle of bath salts, which filled the room with the smell of lilacs. Jergen sank into the bath and all but died from the pleasure of it. He was brought briskly back to earth by Heinrich. Jergen was to keep himself as clean as possible. Every inch of his little body was to be scrubbed and cleansed of the dirt that all little boys seemed to attract. No exceptions!

Much to Jergen's surprise, Heinrich had then set to work with a sponge and washcloth. He paid special attention to Jergen's backside, gently cleaning the cleft of his buttocks and his rosebud. Heinrich then reached down and took Jergen's soft little penis in his hand.

"You must always clean your wenig stock, your little stick," Heinrich said seriously. "Your new master will want a clean stick, always, and Herr Brost will look!"

Confused, Jergen had looked down at his penis. It was clean, he protested loudly. And who was his new "master"?

Heinrich had said too much, and his face showed it. "You will find out in good time," he said. "And you are not clean. Your poppi needs cleaning. I will show you."

Reaching down, Heinrich slowly pushed Jergen's foreskin back, revealing the plump little head of his penis. Jergen's eyes grew wide and he felt his "poppi" growing. "Bitte, you are not going to do anything to me?" he whispered.

Heinrich looked startled and hid a laugh. Herr Brost never changed! "Little boys always have dirty poppis," Heinrich replied without emotion. "They cannot help it." He ignored the questioning look on Jergen's face, just as he had ignored Jergen's question. "Every time you have a bath, or shower, you must clean your poppi." He gently pumped Jergen's penis twice, ran the washcloth over the head and around the rim of the purple glans and smiled. "Your poppi is your best friend, Jergen. He will bring you much pleasure." And others, Heinrich had thought, but he did not say.

"Der pimpf, I mean, Herr Brost, he played with it," Jergen confided. "It felt very good!"

"It usually does," opined Heinrich dryly. "Now close your mouth and your eyes. I must clean your hair. Did the crones in the orphanage ever wash your hair?"

"Nein. They never washed any part of us," replied Jergen truthfully.

Examining the filth under Jergen's fingernails, Heinrich wrinkled his nose. "I can well believe it!" he said with a snarl. "Your nails are a disgrace!"

"I am sorry," whimpered Jergen. It was not his fault that he was a dirty little boy.

Heinrich have Jergen a kind look. "You must not be sorry. I understand. I will teach you what you need to learn." He suddenly leaned forward and kissed the top of Jergen's head. "I will not hurt you, little man. I promise."

After his bath, Jergen was taken back to the bedroom. Here Heinrich opened a huge wardrobe and pulled out a snow white, obviously new nightshirt. He eyed Jergen a moment and from the top drawer of the bank of drawers that formed the bottom of the wardrobe he took out a set of BVD's, a one piece undergarment that combined vest and pants, which were baggy. Like the nightshirt, the BVD's were new, and made of crisp, white cotton.

Jergen noticed that there were far more clothes in the wardrobe than he could possibly wear, and every garment seemed to be larger than anything he could wear. Heinrich saw where Jergen was looking and explained, "I will be sharing with you. You do not mind?"

Thinking of what he had left behind, and of Pauli, the boy he had shared his bed with, Jergen shook his head. Pauli smelled and sometimes wet the bed. Anything would be an improvement.

"Good. Now, into bed with you," Heinrich instructed after dressing Jergen.

Jergen fell asleep almost immediately. He did not hear Heinrich come to bed. When he awoke the sun was just sending its warming rays through the windows of the room. Jergen found that sometime during the night he had snuggled up against Heinrich's warm body and thrown his arm across the young man's chest. Jergen snuffled and sniffed as he came awake. Gott, Heinrich smelled good, he thought as he rolled away and stretched. Jergen would have like to have snuggled against Heinrich some more but . . .

Throwing aside the sheet and quilt, Jergen scampered into the bathroom. He stood in front of the toilet, lifted his nightshirt and fished his stiffy from within the cotton confines of his BVD's. He began to pee and the pressure that had driven him from his bed began to ease. Closing his eyes, Jergen enjoyed the first pee of the day. He was so engrossed in what he was doing that he was unaware of Heinrich's presence until he heard the teenager grunt, "Move a bit, I have to piss like a race horse!"

Jergen opened his eyes and saw Heinrich standing beside him, pointing his morning stiffy down toward toilet bowl. The first thing Jergen noticed was that Heinrich was not wearing BVD's. His skinny loins were covered by tight pants, very high in the waist and . . . purple! Not only were Heinrich's underpants purple but the leg bands and pouch were bordered in yellow! Jergen, who had never seen underpants any colour other than white, was intrigued. He was more intrigued, however, my Heinrich's penis, which was, like Heinrich, long and slim.

While Heinrich grunted and pursed his lips, willing noisily for his penis to wilt enough for him to pee, Jergen studied the man's organ. At first Jergen thought that Heinrich had drawn back his foreskin to pee - some of the older boys in the orphanage did that - but there was something else. Jergen's eyes grew wide when he realized what it was.

Bending lower, Jergen studied Heinrich's penis. "Sie haben keine haut! Wo ist thre haut?" he blurted.

Finally able to pee, Heinrich finished and, hefting his penis, presented it to Jergen for a closer look. "I don't have any skin," he said. He ran his thumb around a thin, tan ring perhaps halfway down the slim shaft. "Ich bin beschneiden worden." He raised his soft penis slightly to show Jergen the head, which was slightly smaller than the shaft and curving to a rounded point where his pee slit was. " I have been circumcised," Heinrich repeated.

Jergen screwed up his face, not understanding. "Beschneiden? Was wird beschneiden?" he asked. He had never seen a penis that did not have skin covering the head.

Heinrich was not at all surprised at Jergen's curiosity. "Pull your skin back," he said. Jergen did so. "See, when you pull the skin back - and you must always do that if you pee because if you do not your poppi smells - it looks like mine."

As directed, Jergen retracted his foreskin. His poppi now resembled Heinrich's. "But Heinrich, I cannot do that all the time," he complained. Then he had a thought. "Will my skin go away when I get bigger?"

"It is time for your bath," Heinrich reminded Jergen. "Undress while I start your bath."

Pulling the nightshirt over his head, Jergen asked, "Heinrich, why must I wear these underpants? I want some like yours." He dropped the garment to the floor and began to unbutton his BVD's. "They are very nice."

Heinrich smiled. "They were a gift, from a dear friend," he said without elaboration. "They come from Amerika!"

"Amerika!" Jergen breathed. Amerika was the Grail! The land of milk and honey, and streets paved in gold. "I would like to go to Amerika!"

Still smiling, Heinrich tested the water of the bath, tossed in some aromatic salts, and said, "I have never been to Amerika. My friend is a soldier in the American Zone. He bought them at the . . ." He was going to say "PX", but doubted that the boy would understand that. ". . . At a shop on their base. I will ask him to buy you some if you like."

Jergen eyed Heinrich's briefs hungrily. "Oh, yes, Heinrich. You are very lucky to have a friend who buys things for you." He climbed into the bath.

"Yes, I am," replied Heinrich as he began to sponge Jergen's body. He did not dare tell the boy the truth, for fear that Jergen could, as all children did, unwittingly blurt out to Herr Brost that Heinrich had a friend who bought him very nice underpants.

Heinrich had been on the game, as he called it, for ten years, supplementing his income by visits to the sex clubs that abounded in West Berlin. It was a dangerous game to be sure, but very lucrative. In one of the clubs on the Ku' Damm, frequented by American soldiers, Heinrich had met a shy, introverted young man. The young man was so shy and inexperienced that Heinrich almost did not charge his usual 100 marks fee. After that first time every time Heinrich returned to the club "his American" was there and they became more or less lovers. The American was smitten and unknown to Herr Brost had been trying to think of a way to bring Heinrich with him when he returned home to the States. Heinrich was willing - anything was better than living with Brost!

As he washed Jergen's immature body, Heinrich thought of his American lover. "When I was a little baby my poppi looked just like yours. Then it became sick."

Jergen giggled. "That is silly, Heinrich!" he declared. "How can your poppi become sick?"

"Well, do you know what an infection is?" asked Heinrich.

"Ja. It is when you cut yourself and you do not clean the cut and germs get it and cause horrible, smelly stuff to come out," replied Jergen all in one breath.

"Well, yes, I suppose you could describe it that way," said Heinrich. "When I was a baby I had an infection and a doctor cut away my skin."

"Did it hurt?" asked Jergen, wide-eyed and wincing at the thought of a doctor doing that to his poppi.

"I was a baby," countered Heinrich. "I suppose it must have hurt but I don't remember."

"Oh." Jergen reached down and fondled himself. "I have never seen one like yours." He raised his eyes and looked at Heinrich. "Will I see more?"

Heinrich squeezed the sponge he was washing Jergen with and thought, "More than you will like." He looked at Jergen's inquisitive face. "Perhaps, maybe never."

"Why?"

It was much too soon to demonstrate in anyway what lay ahead for the little boy. Still, there were some lessons he would learn soon enough.

"Well, if you stay in Germany you might never see one like mine. It is not done to real Germans unless it is absolutely necessary. Only Jews do it."

"What is a "Jew"?" asked Jergen.

Heinrich did not truly understand the concept of Judaism and he doubted that Jergen would either, so he temporized by saying, "Just a religion." He also thought that given the recent decimation of European Jewry there was little chance of Jergen meeting a Jew.

What Jergen did not know was that Heinrich was just beginning Jergen's "training". The little boy was completely ignorant of many things, sex being not the least of things. Heinrich's job was to train Jergen, to teach him how to please his coming masters.

Motioning, Heinrich said, "Stand up now." As Jergen rose Heinrich lifted him from the tub and reached for a large bath towel. He began to dry the boy's body gently, his hands moving the soft towel closer and closer to Jergen's soft little "poppi". All the while Heinrich kept up a calming chatter.

"Of course, Jergen, in some countries the boys are not Jews, but . . ." He raised his hand and made a scissoring gesture with his first two fingers. Jergen giggled. "In Amerika it's very common for a boy to be . . ."

"Beschneiden!" crowed Jergen, pleased that he had absorbed this knowledge.

"Yah." Heinrich continued to rub the towel over Jergen's soft, silken skin. He was now almost ready and gently rubbed the boy's penis and testicles, achieving the desired result.

Panting slightly, his eyes wide, Jergen gulped, "Heinrich, my poppi feels funny."

Withdrawing the towel, Heinrich observed the stiff little member. He dropped the towel and began to tweak the wrinkled ferrule of skin at the end of Jergen's hard penis. "Do you like it?" he asked in a soft whisper.

Unable to speak, Jergen nodded his head.

"Good," said Heinrich as he reached his arm around Jergen's thin waist and pulled him closer. Using two fingers he began to pleasure Jergen, who squealed and squirmed as the feelings that he had felt in the dusty parlour back in the orphanage overwhelmed him.

Jergen's true education had begun.

Staring into the darkness of his room in the Buttery Street house, Jergen felt a tear slowly roll down his cheek. He had not thought of Heinrich for a very long time. Jergen wondered what had become of the young man who had been kind to him, even as he instructed the young boy in the art of pleasing men.

From the beginning Heinrich had never lied to Jergen. He explained to the boy that his new role in life would be to please a man in every way. When Jergen expressed his terror and cried piteously Heinrich had cuddled him and then, to Jergen's shock, had taken his little poppi into his mouth and sucked gently. Jergen had almost passed out from that experience!

Eventually Jergen learned what was required of him. Using Heinrich's body as his "training aid", Jergen learned how to masturbate an adult male, how to fondle his testicles and tease his rosebud. He also learned that as he matured he would develop. His penis would grow longer and hair would grow in his armpits and around his genitals. In a few years, three, perhaps four, Heinrich told the naïve boy, he would produce sperm, although Heinrich did not tell the boy that this would be bad for business. Pubescent boys were a glut on the market. They could be had on any street corner in every city in the world. Little boys, who did not "squirt", as Heinrich put it to Jergen, were much prized. This was when Jergen realized that he was a commodity, to be bought and sold, and that his value would diminish as he grew older.

In between lessons on how to clean himself, how to dress, how to eat properly at table, and elocution lessons to help him lose his "Berliner" accent, Heinrich instructed Jergen in the art of oral sex. These lessons were very confusing to Jergen in that while Heinrich made no objection or comments about pleasuring Jergen, he would not let the boy touch him, even when Jergen asked to do so.

Heinrich gently explained that while he liked men, he was not, as he put it, "Jungeliebhaber", a boy lover. He had his American boyfriend, and he had to service the pimpf from time to time, which he was required to do, but Jergen was a little boy, and Heinrich had his standards and principles!

Not so Herr Brost.

The man was an enigma. He came and went at the oddest of times, sometimes for days. At first Jergen was terrified when Brost appeared. Sometimes the man was in a foul mood; sometimes he was smiling with pleasure. Heinrich explained that if Brost was in one of his tempers it usually meant that one of his deals had gone sour, or the STASI, the Secret Police, were being greedy again and raising the price of the papers Brost needed to take his boys out of East Germany. One never knew.

Once Heinrich had reported to Brost that Jergen was now "experienced in oral sex", Brost would sometimes come home, go into Jergen's room, and lower his trousers and boxer under shorts. He would order Jergen to "practice" on him. When Jergen had at first refused he received a clout on the side of his head that left him seeing stars for hours afterward. Jergen learned very quickly to pleasure the man, dropping to his knees and performing oral sex on Brost's ugly penis, a thick, vein-covered tube of flesh that smelled of stale urine and things Jergen did not like to think about. Brost terrified Jergen with his roughness and the boy lived in fear whenever Heinrich announced that the man would be returning soon. Having Jergen fellate him was the only sex act Brost allowed, and it only happened when the pimp was in what Heinrich called "his good mood". Anal sex was something reserved for Heinrich, and always happened when Brost returned in as foul a temper as an altered Alsatian.

Jergen's terror lessened when he understood what usually happened when Herr Brost came home in a foul temper. He would slam about the villa and then call for Heinrich. The first time this happened Jergen had crept from his room and snuck down the corridor to listen at the door to Herr Brost's room. The door was thick and the sounds muffled, but Jergen could make out grunts, groans, sighs and snorts, interspersed with loud shouts of "Gott!" As Jergen listened, wide-eyed and unconsciously squeezing the lump that had suddenly popped out the front of his short trousers, the groans and yells grew in volume until a blood-curdling shriek of "Gott wird Gedankt!" rent the air.

At almost the same moment Jergen's body shook and trembled and his eyes rolled back in his head. When his orgasm, which he had learned to call it, drained from his body, Jergen scampered back to his room and waited for Heinrich to appear.

Heinrich, looking a little battered and the worse for wear, eventually returned. He was very quiet until Jergen asked, "Did he stick his poppi up your bum?"

Heinrich looked sharply at the boy. "What do you know about that?" he demanded harshly. "Has someone . . .?" His voice trailed away, afraid that Jergen might answer in the affirmative. Jergen was supposedly a certified virgin. His selling price, and Heinrich's share of the profits, depended on it.

"No," replied Jergen firmly. "But in the orphanage, sometimes, the older boys would take one of the littler boys into the janitor's closet and stick their poppis up his bum." As with many young boys, Jergen's attention span was limited. "Are you going to buy me some new underpants, Heinrich? You promised to ask your American friend."

"Ya, ya, ya!" said Heinrich impatiently. "Has anyone stuck his . . . poppi up your bum?"

"I told you, no!" returned Jergen with a pout. "It was not allowed for the boys in my dormitory. Frau Renfeld said that we were special. It was verboten to touch us!" Then Jergen grinned slyly. "Well, did he?"

"Did who what?" snapped Heinrich as he rummaged in the dresser for some clean underwear

"Did Der pimpf stick his poppi up your bum?" asked Jergen patiently.

"Yes."

"Will he do that to me?" asked Jergen, a frightened look on his face. "I would not want him to do that to me!"

"He won't," replied Heinrich, thinking that there was much too much money dependent on Jergen's unviolated bum. He began to move toward the bathroom. Jergen's voice broke his step.

"Heinrich, who is God?"

In the Socialist Republic religion was frowned upon, and it was Party gospel that "God", as a Supreme Being, did not exist. There was a god, but he was the General Secretary of the Communist Party. Only he was worshiped.

Heinrich replied, his voice heavy, as he looked evenly at Jergen. "There is no God."

The sound of a car passing down Buttery Street broke the silence of the room momentarily as Jergen thought bitterly that Heinrich should have added, "For boys like us!"

Jergen supposed that he truly had first become aware of the belief in God when he was taken from Berlin and delivered to his first "master". Heinrich had come for him and explained that they were going on a trip. Jergen, together with his meagre possessions, which were only the new clothing Brost had bought for him, and the promised American underpants that Heinrich had given him, was bundled into the back seat of Brost's ancient Mercedes.

From Berlin, where Brost handed the border guards his papers (conveniently supplied by the East German Security Service, the STASI) and a large bundle of bank notes, they drove south, stopping first at Nurnberg. They stopped overnight in a back street hotel where Jergen was bathed and put to bed. The next morning they drove on to München where they again spent the night in an out of the way hotel. Jergen was fed, again bathed and powdered and put to bed. Shortly after noon they crossed the frontier and were in Austria.

They drove on to Salzberg and here Jergen was handed over to a tall, whippet-like man with white hair and a permanent sneer on his lips. This was Jergen's first master.

For the next three years Jergen had lived in a tumble down schloss overlooking the town of Salzberg. The Austrian, who was a Count of the Imperial Empire, had no interest in Jergen as a person. The boy, who was rather comfortably lodged, was there to please the Count. Jergen was not an hour in the old schloss before the Count came to his room, ordered him to strip naked, and in effect raped the boy.

Jergen barely remembered the excruciating pain he felt that first time, and his screams no longer echoed in the shadows of his mind. Jergen very quickly learned that the act, which happened every night, would be over sooner if he did not struggle, or scream.

Living in Salzberg, which was a major religious centre, filled with churches and surrounded by monasteries and nunneries, it was inevitable that Jergen learn something about religion. In addition, the Count was a fixture in the town, and outwardly very religious. Every morning he, and the members of his household, which included Jergen, attended Mass in the private chapel of the schloss. Every Sunday, and on Feast Days, the Count dragged everyone down to the Cathedral for High Mass, a ritual filled with hymns and incense.

Religious fervour seemed to stimulate the Count for he always came to Jergen's room as soon as they returned from chapel or church. In time Jergen became accustomed to the Count's demands. He also became aware that as he grew older and approached what he later learned was something called "puberty", that the act of intercourse was becoming more pleasurable for him, particularly when the Count's thrusting penis touched something deep within his body.

Puberty was Jergen's downfall so far as the Count was concerned. As Jergen grew taller, and began to take on the form of a pubescent boy, the Count's visits became less frequent and when Jergen had his first true orgasm, and soiled the sheets of his bed, the Count came not at all.

Shortly after his first emission, a man came to visit the Count. Jergen later learned that the man, a tall, greying hawkish figure, was "Herr Stennes". By eavesdropping Jergen learned that Herr Stennes was the mastermind, the boss, who arranged for little boys and sometimes, big boys, to be sold to wealthy men for pleasure. The two men had had an acrimonious argument about what had happened. The Count was not pleased that "his" boy had entered puberty at such a young age! He wanted his boys smooth and hairless, and not squirting all over the sheets!

Stennes, for his part, could only argue that he could not be held responsible for Nature. The Count was not a stupid man and should have expected Nature to take her course. To mollify the Count, who was a valued customer who bought a new boy every three or four years, Stennes had paid a higher price than he normally would have to buy Jergen back. What the Count, and Jergen, did not know was that Stennes already had a client waiting for a fresh, pubescent boy.

From Salzberg, and with a new set of papers, this time supplied by a "friend" in the Foreign Ministry in Bonn, Jergen, accompanied by Herr Stennes, went by train to Paris. Here he was given over to a Frenchman and driven to a large chateau in the Ile de France.

Broad, green lawns surrounded the chateau, which was a showpiece and much envied for its opulence of architecture and furnishings. M. Buonoparte, was short and squat, very hairy, and a native of the Marseilles slums. He professed to be a retired banker. Actually he had spent the war in Switzerland, collaborating with the Nazis and trading on the Black Market. His activities had garnered sufficient profits to enable him to purchase and restore the chateau to its former glories. He had made so much money that he had also purchased the property surrounding the chateau and owned a stud, racing the horses at Longchamps every year. He also owned a vineyard with the appellation of premiere cru. His money, and his knowledge of what many Frenchmen actually did during the war, brought him into the highest levels of society. His money also kept his hidden vices out of the newspapers.

M. Buonoparte was a pig and Jergen was his "piglet". The first night Jergen spent with the man was beyond horrible. While he did not in any way hurt Jergen, the Frenchman's demands were stomach churning. He adored penile filth. He enjoyed what he called "Golden Showers" and defecation. Their first night in the master's bedroom set a pattern that Jergen was required to follow for the year and a bit that he spent at the chateau.

Jergen was forbidden to cleanse his penis, and required to build up a good supply of smegma. He was to masturbate frequently, but not to clean his glans after he ejaculated. Further, he was not to wipe himself after going to the toilet. He was not to bathe until after he had visited the Frenchman.

Never had Jergen felt so dirty! He felt so dirty that he rarely left his room and only ventured into the grounds of the estate when the master was away. Given the M. Buonoparte's social schedule, and the racing meets, this was frequent and Jergen soon learned to "prepare" himself two or three days before the master's expected return. He was rank, and filthy, but the master was pleased.

The sexual acts were demeaning and stomach churning. Jergen would enter the room, naked, and straddle the master, also naked, who lay on the bed in impatient anticipation. The master would suck on Jergen's member, moaning and exclaiming his pleasure at what he found under the boy's foreskin. Jergen would ejaculate and the master would swallow greedily. When his penis softened Jergen would then urinate in the master's open, eager mouth. To ensure a sufficient supply of urine, Jergen always drank at least two litres of water before going to the bedroom.

Once Jergen's bladder was empty the master would thrust upward and enter the boy. Fortunately the master had what Jergen learned to call "a hair trigger". When the act was finished Jergen would then turn around and present his anus to the master, who would tongue and suck his own semen out of Jergen's body.

Their coupling lasted barely an hour.

Once dismissed Jergen would hurry to his own room where he vomited into the toilet. He would then shower for at least an hour, trying to scrub away the filth. Usually, after his shower, he would go to bed. He was plagued with horrible nightmares all the time he lived at the chateau.

Life for Jergen, other than his sessions with his master, was not unpleasant. When the master was away he had the run of the grounds. He also visited the stud and watched the horses being trained. He learned to ride and so long as he used one of the riding horses, and did not complain that he had to be accompanied by one of the grooms, he was allowed to ride freely.

The master employed an excellent cook and staff of servants. They knew, of course, what Jergen's position was in the household and coddled him, fearing that displeasing Jergen would displease the master. As the master paid them very well for their service, and their silence, keeping Jergen happy was a small thing.

Jergen was happy, except when the master was in residence, and allowed to more or less do what he pleased. He could leave the chateau, but was confined to the grounds. But he had the library, and television, and he learned French. He also had a friend in one of the stable boys, a friend who enjoyed being with him. If the master knew what Jergen did in the tack room with the stable boy he said nothing. The master had the European attitude towards sex and expected that Jergen would want to be with a boy closer to his own age. So long as the boys kept their liaison discreet, and so long as Jergen followed the rules when he was in residence, the master had no objections.

Once he had got over his initial revulsion of the master's sexual habits, Jergen allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security. He was past puberty, so he had no worries in that department. He pleased the master and that was all that was important. In his eavesdropping, and from what Heinrich had told him, he convinced himself that he would more than likely be in France until he was well into his teens. M. Buonoparte liked teenage boys and had only dismissed his last boy when he reached the age of 20. The boy had been sent away with more than adequate compensation. So it was with some surprise when one night, when the master was in Paris, he heard a news report in which the master's name was prominently mentioned. Jergen could not understand some of the context of the report, but from what he could understand he knew that the master was in trouble.

The other servants knew it as well and from their gossip Jergen learned that the master's activities during the war were being investigated. While no one wanted to dredge up old scandals, and many Frenchmen wanted the past buried as deeply as possible, from time to time the graves would be reopened.

It had long been an open secret that the natural venality and greed of the French had risen to the fore during the late war. Their greed and venality was directed at the most vulnerable of the population: the Jews. Hand in glove with the Germans, and being natural anti-Semites, the French had plundered their Jewish neighbours with glee, helped by a decree from the Vichy Government that declared that Jews, being an alien "race" were not French at all, and therefore not citizens.

With their Jewish neighbours being shipped to the East for "resettlement", the average Frenchman, who saw no reason not to make a few francs, moved in. The Germans were not the only ones well versed in the plunder of innocents. As far as the French were concerned the Jews were natural prey, and who cared anyway?

The Allies, in the persons of Churchill and Truman, were aware of what had gone on. They agreed that the French talked a good war, being either at an enemy's neck or at his feet, usually the latter. They also agreed that France would make a good buffer if the Bolshevik hordes decided to swarm out of their nests in eastern Germany and Poland. While they did not trust the French, and detested their arrogance and false bravado, the Western nations turned a blind eye to their wartime collaboration. The French were a necessary evil. Certain events could be, and were, overlooked. Certain politicians, whose pasts were as shady as a Cherbourg hooker's, were tolerated.

At first Jergen paid little attention to the growing scandal and except for that one report, M. Buonoparte's name was not mentioned again. However, what neither Jergen nor his master knew was that a bored reporter for one of the Parisian gutter press, had decided to "investigate" further. In the manner of many reporters the man made up with journalistic enthusiasm what he could not confirm.

M. Buonoparte was hardly innocent. At first he ignored the questions directed to him by the newspaper riff raff that dogged his every step. Being a man of enterprise he had taken precautions, in the form of envelopes stuffed with francs, distributing these envelopes with largesse. He also hired a firm of advocats, the best Paris had to offer, and discretely reminded certain politicians that he knew where the bodies were buried.

With M. Buonoparte scurrying back and forth between Paris and the chateau, trying to save his fortune and avoid the modern equivalent of the Chateau D'If, Jergen found life every pleasant indeed. His master was much too worried about the scandal to bother with Jergen, and when he was not screaming profanities down the telephone lines he was swilling Absinthe and more often than not had to be helped to his bed by the English butler.

Jergen, with the naiveté of childhood, paid little attention to what was going on, and even less to the dark visaged men in dark suits who came calling at all hours of the day and night. They would sequester themselves in the salon privée with M. Buonoparte. Eventually they would leave, and Monsieur would call for another bottle of Absinthe.

As the scandal grew, now fed by questions concerning decrepit ships sailing from Marseilles to Palestine just after the war. These ships, filled with refugees from the camps in Germany would sail away, and return empty. That such ships plied the Mediterranean, dodging patrolling British destroyers was not in question. What was being questioned was the absence of passengers when the ship, or ships, were intercepted by the Royal Navy. M. Buonoparte, who owned three such vessels, was hard put to explain.

Eventually Jergen noticed subtle differences in the chateau. The English butler, a status figure in French society, left without notice. An etching by Picasso, which Jergen thought looked liked it had been drawn by one of the inmates in the local insane asylum, suddenly disappeared from the wall it had hung on for years, leaving an empty square of faded wallpaper. The horse farm was sold, and with it the horses. The vineyard passed into new hands. M. Buonoparte was disposing of his assets. Jergen knew that it was only a matter of time before he too, was sold off. As M. Buonoparte put in one of his drunken near-stupors, it cost money to make certain documents in the National Archives disappear.

Jergen was not surprised when, one sunny morning when he returned from a walk in the grounds, he found Herr Stennes sitting in the lounge. Neither spoke a word and Jergen went upstairs and packed his belongings.

They travelled in a first class compartment on the train to Paris. Here, ensconced in a suite at the George V, Jergen's wardrobe was inspected and any deficiencies made good. A man with a camera appeared and Jergen's photograph was taken. Two days later the man returned and handed Stennes a large envelope. Inside were the official looking papers, stamped and signed with illegible scribbles, certified that Jergen Leyens, aged 13, was a citizen of Germany, and authorized to travel to Canada as an exchange student.

They stayed a week and Jergen was once again lulled into a false sense of security. That he was going to Canada was not at all worrisome. It meant a new master, but a new master every few years was Jergen's lot in life. The boy had worried that Stennes would want servicing. When he made no moves in that direction, Jergen breathed a sigh of relief. His relief was short-lived.

Stennes had made reservations on Air France for a city in Canada, Toronto. The evening before they were to leave he ordered room service to send up a magnificent dinner. Jergen was allowed to have wine with the courses and he was feeling quite giggly when they finished eating.

When the waiter left with the dirty dishes Stennes poured a large brandy and took an envelope out of his pocket. He passed the envelope across the table wordlessly. A sudden chill passed through the boy's body as he opened the envelope. Inside were two photographs, graining black and white images that would be seared into his memory.

The first photograph was of a young boy. He had dark hair, and a winning smile. He was naked except for some gym shorts and playing with a golden-haired dog. As he gazed at the photo and at the boy's happy face, Jergen imagined that he could hear the laughter as he gambolled with the dog. He looked at the photograph for a long time and then removed the second photo from the envelope. What he saw made him run into the bathroom and vomit the fine dinner.

The photo was stark, taken by a professional photographer. It was a picture of the same boy. He was lying naked on the ground beside a deep, open hole. The boy's eyes were open, and his face a rictus of pain. His head was thrown back to reveal a long, bloody slash in his neck. His body was splotched with dark bruises and his hands were claws. Where his genitals should have been there was . . . nothing, nothing but a huge patch of blood.

"Turn it over," growled Stennes.

Jergen did so and saw, written in black ink, the words: Das Grab erwartet die, die schweigsam nicht bleiben konnen!

Jergen barely heard Stennes order him into the bedroom and in a trance-like state, knowing what was coming, removed his clothing and lay on the bed with his legs spread. He did not feel the man entering him, felt no pain as Stennes began thrusting and grunting.

"The grave awaits those who forget to remain silent!"

"The grave awaits!"

Life with "Uncle Bob" was boring. At least with the Austrian and the Frenchman Jergen had been allowed a certain measure of freedom, even if it meant being dragged to a Baroque church or just riding within the grounds of the chateau. Jergen was not allowed out of the house and forbidden to so much as answer the door. He was confined to the rooms of the house but he did have a television to watch, and books to read - mostly insipid romance novels that did nothing for him. Jergen spent much of his time sitting on the window seat in his room, watching what little street traffic there was and pondering the strangeness of his new master.

"Uncle Bob" was an architect of some renown and his creations dotted the landscapes of every major city on the continent. They were horrible examples of modern architecture, all glass and steel with unexplained projections marring the lines. For some reason the art world loved even the monstrous carbuncles "Uncle Bob" added to stately and formal buildings. The walls of "Uncle Bob's" office, which occupied a full third of the floor space on the ground floor, were hung with awards and plaques testifying to his skill. "Uncle Bob" was a partner in a firm with offices downtown, but did most of his work at home and visited his partners once a week.

The normal routine of the house was simple. There were no servants. A cleaning service came three times a week and Jergen was required to sit in the office while the ladies worked. "Uncle Bob" did all the cooking, in a kitchen tiled with white porcelain and equipped with stainless steel appliances. The kitchen, supposedly the heart of any home, was cold, lifeless, and as inviting as the autopsy room in the City Morgue. Every meal was eaten at the serving counter, the better to maintain cleanliness. "Uncle Bob" was a neat freak and loathed dirt of any kind. It was Jergen's job to scour the kitchen clean after every meal and "Uncle Bob" always inspected to make sure that Jergen had done his job properly. More than once "Uncle Bob" had been displeased and Jergen was made to clean all over again.

Except for the weekly visit to his office downtown, "Uncle Bob" spent all day, every day, in his office. He worked from 0830 in the morning, made lunch at 1345 promptly, returned and emerged at 1800. He would cook dinner and after eating, Jergen would clean up and go upstairs to his room, and prepare for what came next.

"Uncle Bob's" fetish extended to everything he did or touched, and that included sex with Jergen. The boy had been carefully instructed in what he was to do to prepare himself to receive "Uncle Bob". Remembering the photograph of the dead boy, Jergen followed his instructions to the letter.

First, Jergen would shower. He used perfumed soap - rose scented because "Uncle Bob" liked the smell. Jergen would scrub every inch of his body carefully, paying particular attention to his penis and crotch. He would retract his foreskin and carefully clean the sensitive glans of his penis. This was essential for any hint of smegma, stale urine, or dried semen would throw "Uncle Bob" into a controlled rage. Their first meeting had been disastrous. Jergen had failed somehow to meet the standards set for him and "Uncle Bob" had whipped him unmercifully with a leather belt.

Once clean, Jergen would return to his room and take out a pair of new, white, briefs. The chest on chest that stood against one wall of his bedroom contained nothing but tighty-whiteys. "Uncle Bob" insisted that Jergen wear nothing else.

Once "dressed" as it were, Jergen would leave his room and walk down the corridor that led to "The Room", a large bedroom overlooking the back garden. It was here that all their sexual activity took place.

The Room was all but empty of furniture. There was a double bed, without sheets or coverlet, on which were placed two pillows, without cases. Beside the bed was a night table on which stood a shaded lamp. The lamp bulb was red and cast a muted cherry glow to the white painted walls. Under the window was a bench piled with soft, white bath towels. Beside the bench stood a wicker laundry basket lined with a large, dark green plastic bag. There were no curtains on the windows, no pictures on the walls. The room was for sex, and nothing else.

The ritual never varied. Jergen would turn on the lamp and lay two of the large towels carefully in the exact centre of the mattress. He would then lie on the bed, the pillows under his head. His feet were together and his arms at his side. He would lie in that position until "Uncle Bob" was ready. Jergen was forbidden to fall asleep, or play with himself. He was to lie there and wait.

"Uncle Bob" always entered the room without comment. He always wore a long, white terry cloth bathrobe over his naked body. He was showered, and shaved, and always wore a particularly foul smelling aftershave lotion, redolent and filling the room with its smell.

Jergen would lie stiffly on the bed. "Uncle Bob" would sit beside him and slowly pull down the boy's underpants. Jergen would raise his legs slightly to allow his briefs to be slipped off. These "Uncle Bob" would then carefully place to one side. "Uncle Bob" would then reach out and examine Jergen's penis, pushing the excess skin down. If Jergen was clean, and he always was, the next stage would begin.

"Uncle Bob" would masturbate Jergen with careful, meticulous strokes. When the telltale signs of impending orgasm appeared "Uncle Bob" would point the exposed head of Jergen's penis to one side and squeeze and stroke every dollop of semen onto Jergen's smooth skin. "Uncle Bob" would then stand, open his rope and expose his skin-sheathed member. He would take a condom from the pocket of his robe and roll it carefully down his erection. Then he would reach out and with two fingers carefully harvest Jergen's ejaculate. Jergen would roll over onto his stomach and "Uncle Bob" would lubricate Jergen's anus with his own semen. Jergen would draw the two pillows down and raise up his hips, using the pillows as props.

Wordlessly, "Uncle Bob" would enter the boy. Except for his loud breathing he spoke not a word. He would thrust and his breathing would become heavier and then, without a warning of any kind, he would thrust viciously into Jergen, the act complete.

"Uncle Bob" never lingered. He would withdraw, roll away, stand and reach for Jergen's briefs. He would carefully remove the filled condom and wipe his penis clean. Once satisfied that he was indeed clean, "Uncle Bob" would toss the briefs back onto the bed, tie his robe tightly and then depart, leaving Jergen to toss the soiled briefs and towels into the laundry basket. Jergen would tie up the bag of soiled laundry and take them to the large, wooden trash bin that sat outside the kitchen door. He would then either go to bed or watch television until the wee hours of the morning.

The routine never varied and Jergen expected that it would remain so for the length of his stay with "Uncle Bob". He was therefore very much surprised when one day, four months after his arrival, his position in the house changed drastically. "Uncle Bob's" firm of architects had been awarded a large, and very prestigious new contract. For the life of him, Jergen could not understand the fuss. He'd seen the drawings, and the architectural rendering and the building looked as if it had been calved from a particularly large and dirty iceberg, all spiky valleys and peaks. "Uncle Bob" celebrated by restocking Jergen's underwear supply with Fruit of the Looms, a step up from the Sears house brand that Jergen had been accustomed to. Firmly in the thrall of the advertising mavens of Madison Avenue, Jergen would have preferred Jockeys (for the extra firmness in the seat and a double pouch in the front for extra support) but as beggars could not be choosers, Jergen said nothing.

"Uncle Bob" also purchased a new boy. Stennes appeared out of the blue with a boy, barely more than a child in Jergen's eyes. Alexander, or "Zander" as Jergen called him, was short, thin, and terrified. He had dark brown hair, wide, questioning eyes, a sweet face. "Uncle Bob", much to Jergen's disgust, had all but drooled at the sight of the little boy.

The first night was a festering abscess in Jergen's brain. No matter how he tried he could not rid his memory of the screams that echoed throughout the upper floor of the house as "Uncle Bob" ravished the little boy. Jergen had lain in his bed, petrified at the screams, thinking that the man was killing Zander and cringed when the door to his room opened and "Uncle Bob" entered. He had looked stonily at Jergen and snapped, "Clean up the mess!"

Hurrying from his room, Jergen had found an all but comatose Zander sprawled across the mattress. The little boy's eyes and mouth were open, and he was breathing shallowly. His body was a mass of welts and new-forming bruises. There was blood, a great deal of blood, on the towels, on the mattress and on Zander's buttocks.

Appalled at what he had found, Jergen had at first not known what to do. He had stared at the near lifeless form of the little boy and then, as if in a trance, gone to work. He lifted Zander as carefully as he could from the bed and carried him away. Zander came to life and clutched at Jergen, sobbing quietly as Jergen held him. Zander would not let go of Jergen, and it was with difficulty that Jergen managed to fill the bath with warm water. Holding Zander up, Jergen had bathed him, carefully washing the blood away.

After bathing Zander, Jergen had taken the little boy into his own room. Zander was still bleeding from his rectum and Jergen was terrified beyond belief. He had no medical knowledge at all, indeed, except for the knowledge he had absorbed from the romance novels and television, he had very little knowledge at all. He knew that he had to stop the blood from oozing from Zander's rectum. Perhaps it was instinct, perhaps it was a dimly remembered line from one of the novels, or a scene from one of the endless television shows he had watched, but Jergen remembered that something called "direct pressure" helped stanch the flow of blood. He had no bandages, he nothing except . . . He raced to the chest on chest and pulled out packets of white underpants. Ripping open the plastic wrap, he then used the rolled cotton briefs to press against Zander's anus. He pressed and pressed the cloth against the boy's rosebud, all the while holding him as tightly as he could. Zander made not a sound, not a whimper.

That night was one of the worst in Jergen's young life. For a time it seemed that the blood that oozed from the little boy's body would never stop. Eventually it did, and eventually, Zander slept.

The next day "Uncle Bill" appeared and asked after the "brat". Jergen, frightened at the man's indifference, but too afraid to say much, told "Uncle Bill" of the bleeding. With a snort the man left. Jergen heard the front door slam and wondered what would come next. Tired beyond reason, Jergen waited for "Uncle Bill" to return, wondering if Zander would be removed from the house. Eventually the man returned to Jergen's room and tossed a bag onto to the bed.

"There's something to help," the man said. "Pack the little bastard's ass with the gauze," he said cruelly. "Use the Mecca ointment as well." Then he added ominously. "He'll get over his first fuck. They always do."

Jergen clumsily did as he'd been told. Zander whimpered as his rectum was packed with the salve-soaked gauze. He obediently, without a murmur, took the over the counter pain medication "Uncle Bob" had also brought. Then he slept, huddled as close as he could to his imagined protector.

From the day onward Zander rarely left Jergen's side and slept with him. Jergen tried to make the boy's life as easy as he could. He found a supply of simple toys in the laundry room and played with Zander. He also, aware of his own ignorance, began to teach Zander his letters and simple arithmetic, for the boy was illiterate. He also tried, in his own fumbling way, to explain that Zander was "Uncle Bob's" boy, and that he would have to do certain things. Jergen felt like weeping when he saw the look of terror on Zander's face, but could do nothing. It was their lot in life.

Zander healed and Jergen was made to "get the brat ready". The second time, Zander still screamed at the penetration, but he no longer bled. Again Jergen cleaned up both Zander and the room. All too soon Zander's screams ended. "Uncle Bob" had broken his spirit and only Jergen's presence kept Zander's will to live alive.

The door to Jergen's bedroom opened and the bulky shadow of "Uncle Bob" filled the doorway. "Clean up the mess," the man growled.

Jergen left the bed and hurried down the corridor. In the room, he found Zander lying on the bed, staring on the ceiling. Jergen picked the boy up and carried him down to the bathroom. Jergen set Zander on the toilet seat very gently, knowing that the boy would be in pain after "Uncle Bob" had finished with him. Zander's eyes were blank and his shoulders were slumped with resignation.

Saying nothing, Jergen began to draw the bath, then turned to the medicine cabinet and brought out the salve that he always used on Zander's bottom. Zander looked at Jergen and spoke, his words edged with the pain he felt. "I do not like it, Jergen. Why does he do it to me?"

Jergen sighed. "Because he owns us, Zander."

"I hate him!" spat Zander.

"So do I," replied Jergen weakly. What else could he say? He did hate the man, but there was nothing he or Zander could do about it. He lifted Zander and placed him in the tub.

Zander said nothing as Jergen gently cleaned him. He felt safe with Jergen, who had never hurt him, and never made him do the things that the beast did. Zander had nothing but Jergen to hold onto. He did not know his past, and he was afraid of the future, because . . .

Raising his head, Zander's dark eyes grew sad. "Nobody cares, Jergen," he whispered.

Zander's pain-filled words touched a chord deep within Jergen and for a moment he felt the compassion he had long ago learned to suppress. There was no point is showing love, or compassion, or the least emotion, really. There was no point in forming an attachment. Soon Jergen would be gone from this house. Zander, so long as he continued to please "Uncle Bob" would remain. Where Jergen would go he did not know. What might happen to Zander Jergen did not dare think about. Their future was bleak and while Zander was too young to know it, Jergen did and it was best to remain alone with his own thoughts, his emotions tightly reigned.

Jergen took a deep breath. Nobody cared. To "Uncle Bob" Zander and Jergen were nothing more than objects to be used and used again. To Stennes, to Her Brost, and yes, to Heinrich, the boys were nothing but commodities, to be bought and sold at a profit.

Suddenly the image of the dead boy swam before Jergen's eyes. He could not tell the little boy what he saw, nor could he verbalize the thoughts that ran through his head. All he could think of was the opening words of the warning on the back of the photograph: "The grave awaits . . ."

At the end of Buttery Street, hidden in the shadows of the overhanging branches of an ancient maple tree, the car sat. Shane Kingscote did not hear the rhythmic clicking of the car's engine as it cooled. He peered intently from behind the windscreen, staring at the dark house. He was not supposed to be here at all, but he could not sleep, he could not rest calmly as he imagined the horrors being perpetrated inside the house.

Shane had left his apartment angry and resentful, his anger and resentment directed at The Gunner, who insisted that they would not move until 0300. The Gunner wanted his men, his Rangers, to rest. Shane could not and he had driven here, to Buttery Street.

From behind the car came the soft crunch of gravel underfoot. Shane looked into the rear view mirror and saw the man approaching. He was one of Terry Hsiang's men, and dressed in a security guard's uniform. At the end of the street sat a City Hydro van. Shane knew that on the other side of the van the manhole covering the transformer that supplied electricity to the street had been taken up, ostensibly for maintenance on the equipment. The manhole had been left open and a guard was posted to prevent an unwary pedestrian from falling into it. Terry Hsiang had planned well.

Lowering the side window, Shane nodded to the Chinese, who nodded back, his eyes blank, his face emotionless, and returned slowly to his post. This was third time that Shane had returned to Buttery Street and the guard recognized his face.

Shane's resentment increased as he watched the Chinese walk away. Shane reasoned that the man, the men, that Terry had set to watching, had to know what they were watching, and why. Yet this man, and the others, showed no emotion. His placidity was, to Shane, annoying. Shane's eyes narrowed as he regarded the back of the retreating Chinese and then he lowered his head. What, he asked himself, were the other men supposed to do? They could not as yet change anything. Yelling and thundering their anger and disgust would have served no purpose. All would be made right in time and it was better to wait patiently for the moment to be right.

Shane glanced at his watch. The moment was approaching, slowly yes, but with patience it would arrive and then he, and The Gunner, Lester and Sophie, Terry Hsiang, all of them would arrive at the time and place they were meant to be and Jergen and Zander, and all the other boys who lived in fear would no longer see a future where a grave was all that awaited them.