As dawn began to lighten the shadows of the sheds and warehouses that lined the litter-strewn street, the battered, old, blue-painted Land Rover came to a halt at the entrance to the Government Jetty.
The Phantom turned off the ignition and together with Colin he sat, listening to the engine tick as it cooled. Colin's voice, soft and very low, broke the silence. "Phantom, I . . ."
"Don't, Colin, don't say goodbye." He turned his emerald eyes on the young man who had shared his bed, briefly, and smiled gently. "You asked me to tell you that I love you. I do." He turned to stare straight ahead. "I've also fallen in love with you and I didn't want that to happen." He shrugged expressively. "But it happened."
Colin reached out to hold The Phantom's hand but the youth drew back. "Phantom, this is not the end of us, I promise."
Laughing ruefully, The Phantom shook his head. "Colin, a few short steps from here is your ship. Sometime today you're going to sail for Esquimalt, and then you're going back home, or to Toronto, or wherever. In a few hours you are going sail out of my life, forever." Once again he turned to look at his lover of only two days. His green eyes were clear, and he knew exactly how he felt, and what he was saying. "Don't make this more difficult than it already is. Just go, Colin, leave me with the memory of a wonderful man who for two days made my life heaven. Please, Colin, do this for me."
Unwillingly, Colin got out of the car but before he closed the door he confronted The Phantom. "I won't say goodbye, Phantom, because so far as I am concerned, this is not goodbye. I'm coming back. I don't know when, but I will be back. Until then, there will be no more girls, no more fucking tramps in allies, or getting a blow job in the balcony of some grotty cinema. There will just be you, the smell of you, the feel of you, the memory of you! You will be in my thoughts, in my dreams. I am coming back, Phantom, for you! And that is a promise, an oath, a whatever you want to call it!"
Before The Phantom could reply Colin closed the door to the Rover, straightened his back and strode purposefully down the jetty toward the hulking shape of the gate vessel.
Cory heard The Phantom come into the Gunroom and watched as his friend slowly undressed and then moved to sit at the Mess table. As Cory watched The Phantom buried his face in his hands.
The Phantom did not hear Cory leave his bunk. He felt the soft hand on his shoulder and looked up, smiling weakly but saying nothing. Cory gave The Phantom a look that brooked no argument. "Come on, Miss Scarlett, it's time Mammy had a talk with you!"
"What?" The Phantom could not believe what he had just heard. A snort from the far corner reminded The Phantom of where they were. He had no desire to either awaken his messmates or give them the opportunity to overhear his conversation with Cory. He darted his eyes to where Nicholas lay grumbling in his sleep and raised a finger to his lips. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he asked in hushed tones.
"It means what it means," returned Cory, his voice a hard whisper. "Now get your ass off of that bench and park it out front!"
"I don't have any clothes on, I'm tired and . . ."
"You have your underpants on," snapped Cory quietly as he pointed at The Phantom's white boxers. "You're covered. Now git!"
The look on Cory's face told The Phantom that it would be better not to argue with the blond-haired demon that was all but pushing him out the door. "I can walk, Cory," he complained. "You don't need to be so pushy."
"Just git," Cory growled.
When they were settled on the stoop The Phantom glared at Cory. "What was that `Miss Scarlett' crack about?"
"Rhett Butler, also known as Colin Arnott, has walked off into the fog."
"There is no fog, it's a clear morning and Colin does not look a bit like Rhett Butler," returned The Phantom. "Or like Clark Gable!"
"And The Gunner is not Ashley Wilkes! Or Leslie Howard," snarled Cory in return.
The Phantom knew that somewhere in Cory's prattling, there was a point. Just what it was, and why he had decided to use characters from "Gone With The Wind" to illustrate whatever that point was, eluded him. The Phantom also knew that he should probably be angry with Cory, but Cory was Cory and The Phantom knew that he would forgive him anything. Well, almost anything. He had a vague inkling that Cory was about to interfere in his private life and he did not particularly care for that at all. "Cory, if you're going to start in at me about Colin, and smelling the roses, please don't!"
Cory snorted and then rounded on The Phantom. "I called you Miss Scarlett because, like her, you've done nothing but mooch around here mooning about The Gunner. You've convinced yourself that you're in love with Mister Ashley, but honey, you ain't and you never were!"
The Phantom's eyes flashed and a snarl curled his lips. "You have no right, Cory, no right to say that! How dare you!"
Cory matched The Phantom flash for flash and curled lip for curled lip. "I dare because I love you! I dare because I care deeply for you! I dare because finally, someone has to tell you the truth!"
"And that someone is you, I take it!" replied The Phantom venomously.
"Yes." Cory deliberately did not touch The Phantom. He made no physical move at all. "You can hate me later, but right now I'm going to lay a few truths on you and you're going to listen."
"I am, am I?"
"If I have to knock you down and sit on your chest," growled Cory. His hands shook slightly as he said, "Phantom, you've been so blinded by what you think is love that you can't see! The Gunner is a wonderful man. He's caring, he's devoted, and he loves you. And while he loves you, he loves something more. You know it, Phantom. You know it!"
"Hell and sheeit . . ." The Phantom's eyes fell. "Yes, I know it."
"What?"
"Cory, I know it!" The Phantom reached out and pulled Cory to him. Then he slipped his hand down the front of Cory's boxers. "This isn't sex, so don't get any ideas," he said as he grasped Cory's flaccid penis.
"Never thought it was," replied Cory as he returned The Phantom's favour. "Now, what is it?"
Sighing, The Phantom answered slowly, "Cory, I've thought a lot about what happened between The Gunner and I. When I went home I didn't go looking for Colin and drag him into my bed!"
"You didn't? But you were with him, and since it's just dawn, I suspect that you were with him all night!"
"I was. We talked and talked, and yes, we made love. It was very nice."
"Just nice?"
The Phantom giggled. "Brilliant, actually."
"I know the feeling," replied Cory with a happy grin. "I dragged Sean into bed after we got back from town. Well, it was his bunk, but who cares." He sighed theatrically. "I am very much afraid that we frightened Jeremy Cher."
"He'll get over it," said The Phantom with a grin. "But Cory, I'm talking about before I called Colin. I went home, I had a swim, and I thought about . . . things."
"The Gunner, you mean."
"Yes. You're wrong if you think that I'm not in love with him. I am, but I also know that he's not the one for me. Not yet."
"When did you figure that out?" asked Cory.
"When? Well, I suppose when I was lying in bed with Colin, and he was holding me in his arms. This was after we'd been to town . . ."
"Part of which little journey we are going to discuss!" growled Cory. He knew that The Phantom had put Colin up to the little show in the public lavatory and was going to wreak his revenge.
"Okay, but since you're so determined to find out why I'm thinking the way I am, please shut up and listen."
"Okay."
"Cory, I have finally realized that The Gunner is a man who cannot really allow himself to fall in love. In all the time we were together we never went out on the town. We never went to the pictures, we never walked along the seashore, and we never did anything, really. When we were in bed together he never held me in his arms all night."
"And Colin did?"
"Yes. He didn't, after we made love, he didn't snuggle and smooch and then roll away. The Gunner always did. Colin held me and how he ever slept is beyond me."
"Oh, shit," whispered Cory.
"What?"
"That's how Sean, I mean, after we, well . . ." Cory blushed fiercely as he gave The Phantom an embarrassed smile. "I guess you were right. I am in love with Sean because I never wanted him to let go of me."
"Good! Now, back to me," returned The Phantom briskly. He ignored the dirty look from Cory and continued. "Your relationship with Sean is based on more than sex. You do things together; you know each other. Hell, I learned more about The Gunner from Chef than I ever did from him!"
"But Phantom, you really can't expect a man who has kept his true self hidden for so many years to open up completely. Be fair!"
"I am being fair. The Gunner is in love with me, I'll go along with that. The problem was, and is, that he was so busy protecting me that he forgot to tell me what he was protecting me from! I don't mean about being a gay in the straight world. I know what can happen and I think I'm smart enough to know how to keep myself out of trouble. But that was not the only thing. He never really told me anything except, well, sort of as part of a story, or one of his Gunnerisms. He'd be talking, and there be a little bit of him in the story, and then there wouldn't be. It was as if his life is one big jigsaw puzzle and every so often he'll drop a piece of it on the table."
"Now Phantom, you can hardly get to know everything about a man," temporized Cory.
"You know everything about Sean," replied The Phantom. "You know about the two boys he slept with after Kingston. You know that when he returns home he's going to join the Naval Reserve and go to UBC and take premed."
"And The Gunner, I suppose, knows everything about you?" asked Cory sceptically.
"More or less," conceded The Phantom. "He knows that Todd was the first boy who ever made love to me, the first boy I went all the way with. He knows that you and I have been together. He knows that I've slept with Ray, and Matt. He even knows that last year I snuck over here and beat guys off and that this year I snuck over and gave out blow jobs!"
"But not to all and sundry," returned Cory dryly, recalling the night that he and Todd had first discovered The Phantom's secret, the night when they had discovered the depth of feeling that each held for the others.
Glaring at Cory, The Phantom continued. "The point is, Cory, I told him everything. I wanted to be open and honest with him. Yet he never returned the favour! He wants me to be a part of the Order, but he never bothered to tell me that he was elected Chancellor! I had to practically drag that out of him. He's off on something now and even if it hadn't come up during his aunt's funeral, or whatever, I'll bet you a dollar he never would have told me what's going on." He remembered the notes he had read in Chef's desk. "Now, he's probably thinking that I don't need to know, and maybe I don't. But, I do know something big is going on. I also know that it's consuming much of his time. I understand but damn it, Cory, could he not have picked up the telephone, once? He knows where I am! I haven't run away. If I'm not here I'm at home! All he had to do was call Chef! Just one telephone call! Was that too much to ask?"
Cory sighed as he gave The Phantom's penis as gentle a squeeze as he could. "No, Phantom, it was not too much to ask."
As he returned Cory's squeeze The Phantom stared at the dark underbrush bordering the barracks yards. "At first I was hurt, and then angry, and then, Cory, I felt empty. Then I called Colin. We made love, and we spent some time together. For a little while he made me forget the hurt I felt and then, suddenly I didn't feel hurt anymore."
"How do you feel?" Cory asked.
"Content," replied The Phantom with a soft smile. "Content in the knowledge that Colin loves me, that I have good friends near me. The Gunner might be gone from my life, but I am content." He squeezed Cory's testicles a little harder. "So you see, Mammy, Mr. Rhett did not walk off into the fog. And, unlike Miss Scarlett, I won't have to wait until tomorrow to think about him."
Cory grimaced. "I'll retract the Miss Scarlett crack," he said with snicker, "if you'll apologize for telling Colin about me!"
"Why?" The Phantom asked, trying to look innocent. "You wouldn't have rested, or given me any peace at all, until you approved. Look what you did to the poor Gunner, feeling him up like that!"
"Well I only want the best for you," replied Cory righteously. "I wouldn't want to think that you'd settle for less than prime goods."
The Phantom laughed and inadvertently gave Cory's testicles another squeeze. Cory groaned and leaned closer to The Phantom, gently fondling him. As he laughter left him The Phantom allowed Cory's hand to do as it pleased. He leaned his head against Cory's and whispered, "I do love you, you twit." Then he pulled away quickly.
Startled, Cory stared at The Phantom. "What's the matter?" he demanded, not angry, but not in the least bit pleased, either.
The Phantom was staring down the range of barracks at the Headquarters Building. "Greg just came out of the Head Shed. And look who's with him."
Following The Phantom's gaze, Cory's eyes narrowed and he snorted contemptuously. "Jimmy Collyer!" he snarled. "He and Greg are as bad as Nathan and Fred, but at least they come home most nights!"
"Is that where Greg was yesterday?" asked The Phantom. "I noticed he wasn't in town with the rest of the gang."
Cory stood up and placed his hands on his hips, his deep blue eyes flashing. "Greg's been fucking Jimmy ever since the night of the Chiefs' Dinner. I'm surprised that the Executive Officer hasn't caught them going at it in the Ship's Office, because that's where they do it!"
"What they do is really none of our business," returned The Phantom. "He's more than likely on the rebound from Harry. To be honest I never expected that Greg would . . ."
"Well he is," flared Cory. "Every chance he gets. If Jimmy's YAG isn't duty, and they're alongside, he comes up and hangs around until the Ship's Office closes and all the high priced help goes home. Then he goes in and they lock the door."
"And how do you know all this?" asked The Phantom, although he had a fairly good idea. "Been snooping, listening at keyholes?"
Sitting down abruptly, Cory nodded. "Phantom, Greg was one of us! When Alfie got sick, and had to go home, Tyler went out of his way to bring Greg into the Gunroom. I thought he'd become one of us, someone we could trust. But now, never! Look at him! He'll come staggering home, smelling of booze and semen!" He turned and looked down at The Phantom, who had not moved or said a word.
"You remember Stephen Tyler Perkins?" demanded Cory. The Phantom nodded. "Well, he loved Greg! I mean he was in love with Greg!"
"I know the story, Cory," replied The Phantom. Cory was off and running. He was thoroughly pissed off at Greg and The Phantom knew that the only cure was for to let Cory have his say.
"Yes, well, Greg wouldn't do anything with Stephen Tyler, would he? Oh no, he was Saint Gregory of Bohunkville . . ."
"Keswick, actually," supplied The Phantom with slight smile. He was actually enjoying Cory's little tirade.
"Whatever! He wouldn't do anything with Stephen Tyler but the first time he gets in bed with Harry he takes the Pride to sea! They had live fire exercises when we were in Victoria! Our room smelled like a spunk factory and it was not Todd or I doing the spunking!"
"No, you did that in The Gunner's room," thought The Phantom.
Cory continued his rant. "And then what does he do? He puts the moves on the first hard dick he finds! You should have seen his back the morning after the Dinner! He's been fucking Collyer ever since, and Collyer is fucking him! And he's drinking!"
The Phantom did not have to be told about Greg and Jimmy, or about Greg's drinking. He had an idea that Greg was filching bottles from the Spirit Locker. As Ship's Writer he had access to the master key press, and The Phantom knew that there were several cases of liquor and wine for the use of the officers.
"Yesterday, we all went into town! Todd, Tyler, Val, Stuart, Steve, Rob, the whole lot of us! When I asked Greg he told me he was too busy to go! Busy my ass! According to Eion Reilly, who was Duty PO, Greg spent the day in the Ship's Office, with Jimmy, `typing the Squadron PERs', which is kind of funny because Sean told me that the only reason he could come to town yesterday was because he'd spent all day Saturday signing off on the Squadron PERs."
Cory shut up as Greg approached and watched as the Writer stumbled as he approached the Staff Barracks. Greg stank of booze and that particular ammonia smell that only semen produces. His eyes were glassy and it was apparent that he was under the influence.
Greg saw The Phantom and Cory and halted. He waved at them and then reached down to his open fly and before The Phantom's and Cory's amazed eyes he slowly withdrew his penis. "Say hi to Phantom, L'il Greg," he slurred. "Say . . ." he hiccupped loudly. "Say . . . 'ello to Tiger!"
A low growl rose from Cory's throat and he started to rise. The Phantom pushed him roughly back down and strode purposefully to where Greg was standing. He deliberately pushed Greg's hand away from his penis and stuffed the organ, which was still slimy from his recent sex with Jimmy, back into Greg's bell-bottoms. "Go do bed," he ordered, his voice low, and very dangerous.
Greg, the fire of defiance rising in his eyes, took a step back. Then he grinned idiotically. "Aw, come on Phantom, L'il Greg wants to play summore! He had fun with Jimmy." He pulled open the front of his bells and looked down. "Stupid fuck is asleep."
"Jesus," whispered Cory, shaking his head.
The Phantom knew better than to try to argue with a drunk. He grinned and then reached out and gave "L'il Greg" a squeeze. Then, as he wiped the slime from his hand onto Greg's pants he smiled said, his voice low, "Tell you what, why don't you go inside, get into bed and I'll come in and play with L'il Greg."
"Ya mean it," asked Greg, looking stupidly sceptical.
"Sure, L'il Greg's a cute little fucker." The flames of disgust dancing in his emerald eyes betrayed the Phantom's smile.
"Ya got that right," replied Greg as he tried to walk toward the stoop. "Been fuckin' Jimmy all night! Guy sure likes to fuck!"
Cory hastily moved aside as Greg stumbled up the steps and then turned. "Be in my bunk. Come alongside and I'll show how L'il Greg likes to play!"
His face thunderous, Cory glared after Greg and then spat, "And to think, I wanted to . . ." Then he saw the look on The Phantom's face. "What . . . what are you going to do?"
The Phantom's eyes were dark with anger and disgust. "We will tell Tyler. Greg is his problem." Then he looked directly at Cory and he was about to pronounce his judgment against Greg when suddenly his eyes spanned the length of the parade square and once again he saw the Boys of Aurora standing on the steps of the Mess Hall and the sound of Todd's low voice seemed to drift on the wind:
"We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne're so vile."
Sighing, a sob of deep sadness clutching at his throat, The Phantom whispered, "Greg is one of us. I will help him if he will allow me and I will do nothing to harm him."
Sadly, Cory had to agree, but had to comment, "What a waste of talent."
"What a waste of a human being," returned The Phantom coldly. "Come on. We have to get Tyler out of bed."
"Right, then lad, up you get, out of bed!"
Logan sat up as the bellowing voice broke his sleep. He sat up quickly and saw the Kipper laying out some clothing on the bedside chair. "What's that?" he asked as he coughed the night crud from his throat.
"Battle dress," returned Noel. "You're going to be playing with Laurence. But first, here are some shorts and a singlet. Mr. Bloody Howard is waiting for you in the weight room."
"The weight room?" Logan threw aside his covers and sat on the edge of his bed, not realizing that his morning woody was jutting out from his boxers.
Noel saw that the head of Logan's impressive morning erection was, except for a perfectly round hole over the urethra, covered in skin, the hidden glans underneath clearly outlined. He whistled his appreciation and asked, "Do you want some help with that?"
Logan quickly put his penis back inside his underpants. "Uh, no. No help." He grinned in embarrassment. "Thanks anyway."
"Not into lads, then?" asked Noel as he put the last of Logan's new clothing onto the chair.
"Uh, no," replied Logan. Then he added silently, "At least not with you."
"Too bad. You'd go far with that wee beastie you have. But then you'd have to lose the skin."
A confused look crossed Logan's face. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Logan's answer told Noel that the young man had been told nothing, and knew nothing about the Order. While he himself knew little, he did know better than to tell tales out of school. "It doesn't matter. My guess is that you're for the outside security force."
With that he was gone, leaving Logan confused and still wondering why he was here.
"My name is Laurence Howard. I am a Lieutenant in the Royal Marines Reserve and it is my task to teach you how to be a Royal Marine Commando."
Laurence walked around Logan, who was standing in the middle of the weight room. He was dressed in running gear, shorts and a T-shirt. He was also perspiring nervously.
"We will begin each day with a five mile run, and work up to ten. Hold out your arms." Logan did as he was told and Laurence felt first the muscles in his arms, then down his legs. "Flab!" he spat when he finished his examination. "One would hazard that the only muscle you've exercised of late is the one between your legs!"
Logan, who found Laurence's upper class English accent annoying, turned his head slightly. "Would you like to feel that muscle?"
Reaching out, Laurence placed his hand on the side of Logan's neck and pressed. Before Logan knew it he was on the floor, writhing in pain. He tried to speak, to scream out, but could not.
"Understand me, Mr. Hartsfield, and listen carefully, because I shall only say this once," said Laurence, his voice quite calm. "You will never again speak to me in such tones, nor will you ever again invite me to feel anything. You will address me as `Sir', and speak only when spoken to. I do hope you understand."
Logan bobbed his head and reached up to grasp he wrist of the hand that was causing so much pain. "Please," he croaked.
Releasing Logan, Laurence pulled him to his feet. "Now, we will begin again. We will start with a run. After our run we will shower, change and have breakfast. After that we will spend some time on the range. Do you know how to fire a weapon?"
Logan, who had struggled to a position of attention, and daring not to rub his neck, managed squeak out, "Sir, only shotguns and hunting rifles."
Nodding his approval and thinking that there was hope for the lad yet, Laurence said, "We will see how you do with a long rifle sometime in the future. We will however, begin with hand guns."
As Laurence turned to lead him from the weight room, Logan asked, "Sir, why am I here?"
Laurence turned slowly, his face impassive. "You are here because you were given assistance when you needed it. You owe a debt and in this world all debts are settled. Part of the debt is owed to a young man who, for reasons best known to him, saw potential in you and asked that you be given assistance. How you settle the debt to him I will not presume to advise you. The balance of the debt is owed to the Grand Master of the Sovereign and Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, who has taken you under his personal protection at the behest of the Chancellor of the Order, who holds the young man to whom you owe the original debt in some esteem."
Logan realized that the Lieutenant was talking about Brian. "Sir, I only met him once. How could he . . .?"
"He could, and did." Laurence motioned for Logan to follow him.
They jogged down the driveway and as they approached, the wrought iron, ornate gates swung open silently. They jogged, a slow, steady pace, as Laurence wanted to see what Logan could do, past the villages and into the forest, following the trail.
When, eventually, Laurence signalled for a stop, they did knee bends and stretches to keep their muscles from tightening and then Laurence told Logan to rest. Groaning, Logan stretched out on the grassy edge of the trail.
Laurence was winded, but determined to keep up with the youth, who was fitter than he looked. "Mr. Hartsfield, you were brought here for a purpose. What that purpose is I do not know. I was instructed to tell you that you will not be asked to do anything that offends you, morally or legally. You may leave at any time."
"You mean I could just get up, and walk away?" asked Logan. Then he added, "sir."
Laurence chuckled dryly. "Well, in a manner of speaking, but we are not quite so cold hearted. I would escort you back to the house where you would have your clothes returned to you. Arrangements would be made to return you to Victoria. After that . . ." he shrugged.
"I'm on my own." Logan finished Laurence's sentence for him.
"I'm afraid so," replied Laurence. "Mind, your application for entry in the Canadian army would go ahead. That I understand has already been arranged, and Eddy Tsang will keep you in his employ until you are called up." He looked at Laurence. "The Order will not completely abandon you. It is not our way."
"If I stay, what will happen? Will I be forced to be a part of this Order?"
"IF you stay, I will turn you into a Royal Marine Commando." Laurence waved his hand, indicating the surrounding forest. "We have the perfect training area. The training will be intensive, and very difficult. And the time is short. I will do the best I can with, and for you. If I feel that you cannot make the grade, then you will be compensated. If you wish to leave at any time, the original conditions outlined will apply."
"And the Order, sir?"
"You will not be `forced' to do anything you do not wish to do. If you wish it, and ask, the history and the aims of the Order will be told to you. The Rule of the Order will be explained to you. You will not, of course, be told everything, but you will be told enough to make an informed decision. Then you wait until you are invited to become a candidate knight. Some, many, are still waiting. Membership in the Order is not automatic and you will need sponsors. Your application will be examined, you will be examined, and if you are found acceptable you will be invited to become a candidate."
"Will I have to, um, sleep with someone?" ventured Logan.
Laurence stared at Logan and then asked, a pained expression on his face. "Why would you ask that? Why would you even think it?"
"It was something the servant, the footman who brought my clothes said," replied Logan. He somehow knew that no matter how he was treated he had better always tell the truth, and hold nothing back. "He also, well, he saw my morning erection, and said that I'd go far because I'm kind of . . . well, anyway, he said I could go far `around here'. Then he said that I'd have to lose the skin. Then he sorta propositioned me."
Laurence's eyes narrowed. "Logan, please do not quibble. One does not `sort of' proposition another person. One either does, or one does not. Please remember that and what exactly did this, footman, say to you?"
"He asked me if I wanted some help with my morning . . ." Logan drew back, almost cringing. "I told him no, and he asked me if I was into `lads' and I told him no again, and that's when he said it was too bad, but then I'd have to lose the skin."
Noel! Laurence kept his temper in check, but determined that Noel would soon be looking for new employment. "Mr. Hartsfield, your sexual orientation has no bearing on your being here. If you are homosexual all that is asked is that you be discreet and conduct whatever liaisons you might have quietly. Your being homosexual, or heterosexual, has no bearing whatsoever on your being here and will not in any way influence your training or your position here." He stood up. "Now, come along. We have a ways to go before breakfast."
As they set off at a faster pace, Logan said, "You didn't ask if I was homosexual. You also did not explain to me what `losing the skin' means."
Laurence glanced at Logan out of the corner of his eye. "There are times, Mr. Hartsfield, when one should practice discretion and not ask too many questions. This is one of those times."
Sylvain awoke, as he always did every morning, with an erection. He lay in the bed, luxuriating in the comfort and warmth, half-asleep, enjoying the warm tongue that gently licked the skinned-back glans of his penis. "Tabernac," he thought idly, "Laurent, he never gets enough of me!" A slow smile crossed his face. "Or maybe, it is Pierre? He always wants to do it in the morning." He felt his foreskin being expertly manipulated, and dreamed on, thinking drowsily. "But not this morning. Ma fois, I am tired. That Paul Greene, he wears a man out and, tabernac, can he . . ."
Sylvain opened his eyes abruptly and stared down to see Little Big Man carefully examining his erect penis, pulling the skin first up to cover the head, then down, to reveal it. "Wha . . . Ce que dans l'infer. Que faites-vous?"
Paul, who spoke no French, ignored the young Quebecker and slowly took the bulbous head of Sylvain's penis into his mouth and began sucking avidly.
Sylvain, who could no more control his body responding to Paul's sucking mouth than he could fly to the moon, arched his back and, groaning, felt himself brought to a crashing orgasm. Paul, when Sylvain's penis had stopped throbbing, pulled away, licked his lips, and got off of the bed. "You're not bad," he said dispassionately. He picked up his overnight bag and sauntered into the adjoining bathroom, closing the door behind him.
Staring at the closed door Sylvain shook his head. He knew that he had been brought to the house to give pleasure to whatever guest happened to be in residence. That the guest was a young, clean Anglais was a bonus, and the level of pleasure Sylvain brought to the guest would increase his uncle's generosity, but this, this . . . creature . . . he had no heart! Paul Greene did not care if Sylvain felt pleasure. All he cared about was having his senses pleased, his cravings satisfied.
For the first time Sylvain felt used. He was not a fool and knew that Father Marcel, and Lucien, and all the other boys he had been with had used him. But when they were finished they had at least pretended a modicum of affection, and had not got up off the bed and walked away, turning their backs, making him feel disgusted and as if he were little better than a Sherbrooke Street rent boy, hired for a few hours dalliance.
Dejectedly, Sylvain left the bed and began searching for clean underpants. Two days ago he had been the Drum Major of the Bugle Band, respected if not liked, listened to by 35 of the finest musicians in the country! He had been part of something wonderful and now, now he was little more that a whore, selling his dick for the price of a new motorcar!
Sylvain did not hear Paul return to the bedroom after his shower but he did feel Paul's hand on his backside. "Mon Dieu," he thought, "not again!"
"Not a bad ass," said Paul. "Better than the first guy who fucked me."
Confused, but curious, Sylvain turned and looked at his diminutive sex partner. "Your first guy?"
"Yeah," snarled Paul. He sat down on the sofa that stood at the end of the bed and idly scratched and pulled at his scrotum. "Fucked me silly. He wasn't near as big as you, and he was cut." He grimaced. Then he grinned. "But then, he gave me my first taste of cock!"
"You, um you, like cock?"
"Sure do," replied Paul. "Wish I knew who the guy was. He sucked me and fucked me, and I never knew who he was." His face grew hard and, if it were possible, his eyes grew colder. "Of course, I also sucked him, and fucked him, but it wasn't the same. The next time I'll fuck him properly and I'll slit his throat as I cum up his ass!"
Paul's words were spoken dispassionately, but Sylvain knew that he meant every word.
"You would . . . kill . . . someone?"
"Why do you think I'm here?" as Paul as his eyes bore into Sylvain. "I didn't come up here to get laid."
Sylvain had been asking himself why Paul was here. As an Anglais, and a boy, Paul Greene could not possibly be involved in the General's machinations, whatever they were. Nor could he, because he was not laines pures, was not in fact Quebecois at all, be involved in the campaign to liberate Quebec. "Why then, are you here?" he asked. He began to pull on his underpants, wanting to hide himself from this distasteful boy.
"Leave them off," snarled Paul dangerously. "I like looking at you." A throaty chuckled rose from his throat. "When your uncle told me that he'd be able to provide a little . . ." he paused and smiled, " . . . companionship, I figured you'd be like all the other guys back home, or in that shit pit we just left." He reached out to pull on Sylvain's foreskin. "I do like that bit o' skin." He looked down at his own diminutive, circumcised penis. "I'm gonna have to see about getting this fixed. Only I want a long skin. That's what really turns me on."
Sylvain, whose English comprehension was not the greatest could not, at first, understand what Paul was talking about. Then, as he watched Paul playing with his foreskin, he stared, shocked, at the implications. "That is impossible!"
"No, ain't," retorted Paul. He released Sylvain and began dressing. "The Reichs Fuehrer SS told me that before we started sending the Jews to the camps some of them went to plastic surgeons. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. What matters is that it can be done." He stared evenly at Sylvain. "When I return from the Laurentian camp, when I do what I must do in Germany, when I return to complete the Fuehrer's plan, I will find a doctor." He smiled almost wistfully. "Maybe, if I do well in Germany, the Reichs Fuehrer will reward me and make me a true Aryan." He deftly knotted his tie as he said, "I don't intend to go around looking like some Jew boy!"
Sylvain thought it best not to tell Paul about his own preference for sleek, slim, and neatly circumcised penises, Jewish or otherwise. Nor did he think it wise to remind Paul that the procedure was quite commonplace. Instead he asked, "In the Laurentian Camp, what will you do there?"
"Learn," replied Paul firmly. "I've wasted too much time fucking around with Sea Cadet camps! Now I'll learn to be a true SS Man and what I learn I will take to Germany with me! What I learn in Germany I will bring back and I will help build the Brotherhood and then we will finish the Final Solution. We will get rid of the Jews, the niggers, the chinks, and make this country fit for a white man to live in!"
The depth of Paul's hatred astounded Sylvain. "You believe that you will do that?"
"Of course!" replied Paul, his tone implying that Sylvain's question had been idiotic. "The Brotherhood is growing. We have friends in the States, and in Germany. There's even a Standart in England! Your uncle wants a free Quebec. I want, my people want, a continent free of mud people and trash of all colours!" His eyes turned to steel. "We want a white world, a world for white men! Your uncle wants a Quebec free of Englishmen, a Quebec for pure blood Canadians!" For the first time a light had come into Paul's heretofore dead eyes. "Our goals are the same. And we will achieve them!"
Sylvain had noticed that all through his tirade Paul had been rubbing and squeezing his crotch. He had never seen such a thing before, but he realized that Paul Greene was sexually excited by his dreams of glory, of power. That he would never have this power was not important. Every word Paul had spoken was, so far as Sylvain was concerned, just so much merde. How anyone could believe that Fascism would once again dominate the world Sylvain could not understand. How anyone could believe that the rant of a madman, a man who had casually, coldly, ordered the deaths of countless millions, six million Jews amongst them, Sylvain could not understand, just as he could not understand how anyone could actually believe that decent people would follow such nonsense.
Sylvain's eyes grew wide as he watched as Paul slowly lowered the zipper of his trousers and drew out his slim, excited organ, red with lust.
"Suck it," Paul ordered harshly. "You're here to please your future masters. Now suck it!"
Sylvain's gorge rose and he would have refused had he not seen the hatred in Paul's eyes. Paul Greene had said that he would kill, and Sylvain believed him and did what Paul had told him to do.
"The world has never appreciated the beauty of young boys," the General said to his guest, in English, as he continued to slowly masturbate the naked, black-haired boy who sat in his lap. The boy, who had no English, was more interested in the huge plate of food in front of him than he was in the General's hand playing with his souris.
"This one is new," replied Edmond Stennes nodding his head toward the boy. He took a sip of coffee and regarded the boy, watching as the General's hand slowly pulled down the boy's rubbery foreskin, revealing a clean-lined, light purple coloured acorn. "And very pretty. He would command an excellent price."
"Ah, no," said The General. "Achille is laines pures and . . ." He stopped speaking as Achille suddenly downed his fork, shuddered, and squealed as a dry orgasm raced through his body. He lay against the General's chest, panting, and then, after recovering, resumed eating.
"He is not quite ripe, I see," said Stennes. "That alone would bring an even bigger price!"
The General smiled at Achille. "Did you enjoy that, little one?" he asked in Jouel. He resumed fondling the boy's little penis, which had shrunk to its normal, two inches.
Achille took a huge bite from a plump sausage made in the General's own kitchen, giggled, and ground his naked bottom into the hardness that filled the front of the General's trousers. "I liked it better when you sucked it," he said with a smirk. "When the snake leaves, can we do it some more?"
The General, who shared Achille's opinion of Stennes, merely smiled. Then he returned to his guest. "Achille is a very sweet little boy, and soon he will provide the sweet cream." His face turned cold. "We agreed, Edmund, that you would not seek out boys here. It is far too dangerous. At least with the East German boys, and the Poles, and the Russians, we can control them."
Stennes could not disagree with the General. Native-born white boys - there was only a very small market for blacks and Asians - all too soon learned that the authorities took a dim view of their being sold and abused. Unfortunately there had been complaints coming out of his biggest market over the status of the boys he provided. That would change, of course, when the little campaign he was funding in the United States bore fruit. He had long ago learned that the general public was composed of sheep that liked nothing better than to believe the big lie, which, if told often enough, became gospel and gained rabid adherents. He would not live to see it, but his successor would. He hoped that the General's nephew had pleased the young man, just as he hoped that the young boys now being born would please the men in the changed, new world. Until then . . . "The Russians have agreed to open two more orphanages to us."
"At what cost to us?" the General asked. He felt Achille's little souris stiffening in his hand and envied the resilience of youth. "The Russians are desperate for foreign, hard currency and, as we expected, they have not met their wheat quotas and already they are negotiating with the Wheat Board in Ottawa. My crop has been sold for a record price and it is not yet harvested."
"There will be an adjustment in price," said Stennes smoothly. "But then, we will not be paying it, will we?"
The General nodded. The men who purchased the boys that Stennes provided would not balk at an additional few thousand. After all, it was they who lusted after sweet young boys, non? "Just so long as it does not reduce your contributions to the Cause." He scowled. "Those fools you insisted on enlisting have managed to cost us a great deal."
Stennes waved away the General's complaint. "They have no control over the stock market. But no matter. They are responsible for the money, and they will see to it that the contributions are maintained. I will ensure that there are no problems." He saw that Achille was squirming and panting again and waited until the boy squealed and settled down. He was not pleased that the General had brought the boy to the breakfast table but there was little he could do about it. "And even if there are I have opened a whole new market."
The General looked enquiringly at Stennes. "A rich market?" he asked the General authoritatively.
"Very. The Arabs. The Middle East is awash with American dollars. The fools cannot spend their money fast enough, and it seems that there are many who would like to spend it on pleasure."
"Boys, you mean."
"Of course. Such conduct is hardly limited to the New World, or the Old World for that matter. The Arabs enjoy their boys just as well as their counterparts here and in Europe." He nodded toward Achille, who was now attacking an impossibly large plate of pancakes and syrup. "This one would please an Arab Emir." He smiled mirthlessly. "You need not worry about me shopping here. The Arabs know what they want and if I supplied a North American boy they would think that I was trying to foist a Jew on them. They cannot understand the difference and see assassins and Jews around every corner and under every bed!"
"Then neither of us have anything to worry about," responded the General. "My, Achille, you certainly are hungry."
"So are you," replied Achille knowingly. He deliberately looked down at his once again erect little penis. "He is that way again!"
"And so he is," returned the General with a laugh.
"The Russian boys will take up the slack, as there are plenty of them, and thus we have no market shortage to worry about," Stennes said, returning to business. "Fortunately the Arabs have paid in advance and I have a special order in Toronto that I must deliver." He face darkened. "Simpson had better not have touched the boy."
At that moment Achille let out an almighty groan and, much to the General's delight, deposited the evidence of his first wet orgasm over the General's hand. "Why Achille, look what you have done!" The General beamed. "Your very first time!"
Achille bobbed his head vigorously. He chattered away, his reply coming thick and fast. Stennes sighed inwardly, waiting for this . . . farce to be over with! He could not understand a word of what the boy was saying, or what the General had said in reply.
"Well, we must honour the occasion, mustn't we? How shall we do it? You are much too young for a motorcar." He pretended to think as Achille giggled. "I know, a new bicycle! A mountain bicycle." Achille bobbed his head again and the General slid the boy from his lap. He patted Achille's bare behind and then turned his iron gaze on Stennes. "Perhaps it is time that you reconsidered your arrangement with Messieurs Simpson, Willoughby and Hunter. Perhaps it is time to terminate your arrangement with them." He shrugged. "As for the Arabs? Obey the law of supply and demand and pay heed to their paranoia."
Stennes sniffed disdainfully. "As if a prepubescent Jew boy would have the sense, or the courage, to lurk in shadows waiting to assassinate some fly blown Arab!"
"I imagine that Herr General Stroop and his SS Grenadiers thought much the same when they marched into the Warsaw Ghetto," observed The General dryly in reply.
Sylvain pressed his back against the wall of the corridor. He had heard every word! Enfants! His uncle, his doting, loving uncle was selling, selling boys! Children! It was bad enough that Uncle used little boys but . . . selling them?
After servicing Paul Greene, Sylvain had showered, dressed and gone downstairs. Here the maid had told him that the General was breakfasting with yet another guest in the morning room and Sylvain, anxious to avoid Paul, had gone there. He had just placed his hand on the doorknob when he heard the two men talking. Cracking the door just a bit he listened.
Rushing from the house, Sylvain leaped into the front seat of his 'Vette and pulled away. He could not, he would not, believe that such things were possible. He could not, would not believe that his uncle was involved in this . . . slavery, this abomination.
Sylvain did not presume to be a sweet, innocent teenage boy. He knew what he was, a horny, big-dicked teenaged boy who would fuck anything. But he had never forced himself on any other boy, just as the other boys, the boys in school, the Anglais boys with the smooth penises he so enjoyed holding and having, the priest, all had wanted to be with him.
As he drove with ever increasing speed, Sylvain's mind raced. He could not be a part of this thing that his uncle was involved in. He would not be a part of this thing! He would not! He would not!
As the countryside flashed past, Sylvain sped down Autoroute 40. He did not know what to do. He could not go home. The General would look for him there. He could not return to the College. That would be the first place the General would look and the priests would give him up to the General! They had no loyalty to anything except their order, and themselves.
Sylvain's hands gripped the wheel tightly. Where could he go? What could he do? Whom could he turn to? Then a glimmer of hope crept into his brain. There was someone - in Comox. The problem was how to reach him. He thought about where he would get the money and then it came to him. In the glove compartment of his brand new Corvette were the ownership papers, papers that listed Sylvain de Beauharnais as legal owner of this fire engine red, Chevrolet Corvette convertible.
Smiling, he looked ahead, waiting impatiently for the suburbs of Quebec City to appear, Quebec City with its used car emporiums lining the highway leading to the airport.
"What a fool I was," thought Sylvain as his foot pressed the accelerator further. "He would have been my friend, and I would not allow it, because I was angry and jealous! I saw the way the other boys looked at him, talked of him. I should have . . ."
"Il est mort," said the Quebec Provincial Police constable as he reached out to close the unseeing, blue eyes of the stunning, handsome, blond-haired boy whose broken body had been flung from the shattered and mangled wreckage of the plastic-bodied car. He gently laid a blanket over the teenager's body and shook his head. "Boys and cars!"
His partner, who had been interviewing one of the witnesses to the accident, nodded his head in agreement. "He was speeding, and missed the curve," he said as he closed his notebook. "The car hit that rock and he was ejected. He never buckled his seat belt." He shrugged expressively. "It happens."
"Oui." The QPP constable looked at his watch and then made a note of the time in his notebook. As he did so a Boeing 707 - another load of anonymous tourists come to visit the old walled city - roared overhead, on it's landing path to the Quebec City Airport. Looking up as the airliner flew overhead, the constable wondered why so many people sped like demons to the airport. There were always other planes, non?
A wailing a siren drew the constable's attention to the approaching ambulance and he looked down the highway to see the white, boxy vehicle, red lights flashing and blinking, threading its way through the snarled traffic that clogged the motorway. "The meat wagon is here," the constable remarked to his partner as he jotted the arrival time of the emergency vehicle in his notebook. "I'll radio this in so that headquarters can let Chicoutimi know."
"Better them than me," replied his partner. "I could never do it, I think, never tell a family that their son is dead." He shook his head slowly, sadly, and repeated, "I could never do it."