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Gator Chapter 1: "Shet up, boy. It ain't gonna do ya'll no good crying lak that. Ya'll going to the Rev. Whitcomb's home. That's all they be to it. They ain't nobody else'll take ya'll. Ya'll ain't got no kin folk n ya'll too old to be 'dopted. You're damn sight lucky ya'll ain't gonna be shet out in the cold on your own." Deputy Cobb, driving the car, was talking to the boy in the back seat. Gator McAllaster felt awfully small sitting in the back seat of the patrol car by himself. Two deputies were in the front seat. One, Deputy Jones, was sitting in the passenger's seat smoking a smelly cigar. Gator thought he was going to die of smoke inhalation. The air coming in the window blew the smoke into the back. He didn't see why it took two of them to take him to this home they'd been talking about, anyway. He was only eleven years-old.. He'd been in different foster homes since his parents had died in that car wreck a year before. They'd put him up for adoption, but nobody had wanted a half grown boy. Now, they were taking him to some boys' home, and he'd heard bad things about the place. They were just rumors, but other boys had said, "Ya'll don't want to go to Rev Whitcomb's place. They treats ya'll real bad there." Some said a boy had even died. Gator wanted his ma, but that lady from the church, Sister Harris, had said his ma was in heaven. He'd have to wait till he died to see her again. She had told him she was with Jesus-as if that made it all right. Gator wanted to see his ma; he just wasn't sure he was ready to die to do it. Deputy Cobb pulled the car off the road, stopping in front of a gate. A sign above the gate said, Rev. Whitcomb's Home for Boys. Gator peeked out the window. A big house sat up on a hill at the end of a long driveway. As they approached the house, Gator saw that it was mostly gray, the gray of weathered, unpainted, wood. Two windows, like owl's eyes, were set in a large gable at the front of the house. Steps rose to a high, covered porch which ran the width of the building. A broken porch swing was at one end. One of the chains holding it had come loose, so that the right front end was resting on the floor. Broken windows had been patched with cardboard. Gator thought, If ain't nobody spend no money on this place, they gonna spend any on the kids? He didn't think so. The grass around the house was short, but he saw grazing cattle which kept it that way. Deputy Jones knocked at the front door. It was answered by, a boy about Gator's age. He wore ragged jeans and a t-shirt. He was barefoot. "We gots another youngun for the reverend. Tell 'em we heah." Jones brushed past the boy, stepping into a parlor, lit only by the light coming through the windows. The interior of the house was as colorless as its exterior. Gator followed Jones, urged on by a shove in the back from Cobb. After saying, "Yes suh, the boy, who had answered the door, disappeared down a dark hallway, returning a few minutes later with a tall, gray haired, man. To Gator, the man seemed more like an apparition than a man. His white skin had no hint of color. A thick shock of gray hair stood straight out from his scalp. Deep set, blue-gray eyes, like ice cubes, looked out beneath bushy eyebrows. His mouth turned severely down at the corners. Stepping up to Jones, he held out a boney hand, did something strange with his mouth-it was probably meant to be a smile, but was like no smile Gator had ever seen-and said, "Deputy Jones, Deputy Cobb. So, you've brought me another one." "Yes suh, Reverend Whitcomb. This heah's Gator McAllaster." Jones handed Whitcomb a large manila envelope full of papers. "Is he a criminal or a pauper?" "He a pauper. He's folks died in a car crash." Whitcomb looked closely at the boy. He was a handsome child, certainly handsome enough to serve in the dining room, but that was never his decision. It was God's. God chose which boys would serve. Reverend Whitcomb was merely the instrument of his will. Turning to the boy who had answered the door, he said, "Take him upstairs; find him a bed." Cobb handed Gator a small bundle. It contained some clothes and a small photograph of his mother, all that remained of his former life-of happier days. The boy, red haired, raw boned, and freckled, led Gator down the hall and up the back stairs. "Your name Gator?" "Yep. What's your'n?" "Randal." He hesitated for a moment. That's a funny name." "Whut?" "Gator. Is yore name really Gator? Yore honest to God real name, not just some ole nickname?" "Yep. That's mah real name." "Ya'll don't look lak one." "Lak one whut?" "Lak no gator. Ya'll looks lak an ordinary old boy-kinda a scrawny, peaked ass, little ole boy at that. Ya'll don't look so tuff to me. I betcha I could whup your ass. Is yore name Gator cuz ya'll's tough or cuz ya'll rough and scaly lak a gator." "Gator's just mah name, all rite. It don't mean nutin. Does Randal mean sumthin?" "I don't know." "Well, Gator don't mean nutin neither. It just be mah name." "Well, ya'll don't look lak no gator." Gator shook his head. Every time he met new kids he went through it all over again about his name. Why hadn't his parents given him some name like Johnny or Jimmy? It wasn't bad before his parents died. He'd been in the same school since he'd started, and all the kids had long since quit making a big deal about his name. Since they had died, however, each new foster home had meant a new school and a new hassle about his name. Besides, he didn't want to talk about his name. He wanted to know about his new home-and about that scary looking Rev. Whitcomb. "Whut it lak here?" Randall looked all around before answering, then spoke in a voice a little above a whisper. "It real bad. They makes you work real hard and they beats you. Ya'll looks at any of them grown-ups cross eyed, and ya'll gets a beating; and it ain't no little pat on the ass beating, neither.. Stone n Finn-they works for the reverend-they each carries a stick. It must be nigh on three quarters of an inch thick. They hit you wid that, you knowed it. The rev, though, he the wurst. He don't beat kids too often, but when he do, he use a strap. He use that on you, ya'll might not walk for a week. More'n one boy gots marks that never going way. "Gaw'n. Ya'll just saying that to scare a little ole new boy. They ain't allowed to beat no kids lak that." "Oh, yeah?" Randal glanced around again, then pulled up his t-shirt, exposing his back. It was crisscrossed with scars. "The rev, he did that to me when I back talked him wunst. My back wuz all bloody wunst he finished using that strap on me. I ain't never back talked him no more, no suhree Bob, an I ain't about to neither. Ya'll better steer clear of that reverend, if'n ya'll know whut's good for you." The boys had reached the second floor and were headed up a second flight of stairs-to the attic. The stairs debouched into the center of a large attic room. Metal cots lined each wall; clothes hung from hooks on the walls. Each cot had a thin mattress, with a mattress cover, and an equally thin blanket, but no sheets or pillows. It was hot in the attic, almost unbearably-can't draw a breath-hot. Sweat dripped from Gator's face. "Gawd, it's hot." "Yep, and it's just as cold in the winter." "Do it cool off at night?" "Not much." "How does ya'll sleep and its so hot?" "They works ya'll so hard, ya'll be tired nuff ya'll don't pay no never mind to the heat." Although it was almost dark, no other boys were in the room, and Gator hadn't seen any other than Randal. "Where the other boys?" "They's still working. They be back soon. Then it be time for supper." "How come ya'll not working?" "Randal held out his hand, the one wrapped with a rag. "I cut mah hand. Oh, Finn, he beat me cuz I did, but they let me stay and work round the house today cuz I weren't be no good in the fields with no cut hand." Randal showed Gator to an empty bed. He hung his clothes on the wall hooks and slipped the picture of his mother under the blanket. "Whut's that?" "Whut's whut?" "That piece of paper ya'll put under yore blanket?" "It be picture of my ma." "Ken I see it?" Gator was reluctant to show the picture to anyone. It was all he had to remind him of mother, of life as it had been before she'd died, but he didn't want to make an enemy of Randal. He felt he'd need any friends he could make in this place. Pulling it out from beneath the blanket, he showed it to Randal, but kept hold of it. "That's yore ma?" "Yep," said Gator, swallowing, feeling tears well up in his eyes, but fighting to keep them from flowing. It wouldn't do to be known as a cry baby. Randal didn't notice. He was looking at the picture. "She shure purty. Where she be?" "She dead." "That why ya'll heah?" "Yep. I'm an orphan. There ain't nobody wants me." "Yep, me, neither. I ain't got nobody, neither," said Randal. The boys were sitting on Gator's bed when they heard steps on the stairs. Soon, other boys, their dirty faces streaked with miniature gullies eroded by rivulets of sweat, straggled up the stairs. Scarcely glancing at Gator or Randal, they plopped onto their beds without bothering to brush off their dirty clothes. "nuther rough day, huh?" asked Randal of the one on the bed next to them. "Ain't they all?" answered the boy. "Who that?" "That there's Gator." "He don look lak no gator to me." Not again, thought Gator, but, the boy closed his eyes and said nothing further. Chapter 2: "Wash up," someone hollered up the stairs. With many a groan, the boys sat up on their beds and began shucking their clothes. Randal began undressing, too. "Get your clothes off," he said to Gator. It's time to wash." "But, I don't need no bath. I had one this morning afore I come heah." "It don't matter. Everybody washes at the same time, whether ya'll needs it or not. Better get yore clothes off, if'n ya'll don't want no beating." Most of the other boys, already naked, had taken pajamas off the hooks beside their beds and had begun filing down the stairs, holding the pajamas under their arms or in their hands. Most of them had hair around their cocks. Gator didn't. His cock was tiny compared to many he saw. He knew he'd be subjected to teasing once the others saw it. It was some relief to see that Randal's crotch was hairless, too, and that his cock was no bigger. At Randal's urging, he pulled off his shirt, kicked off his shoes, then slipped off his jeans, sitting on his bed for a moment in his underwear, before slipping them off as well. None of the boys even glanced his way. They were apparently too tired to care. Randal had put Gator in the empty bed next to his. Although other empty beds were in the room, he'd decided to give Gator that one. Gator was about his age. Randal had only arrived the month before, and younger than most, had no real friends. He liked this new boy with the funny name. Maybe they would be friends. He needed one. Life at Whitcomb's Home for Boys was lonely as well as hard. Taking his pajamas off their hook, he said to Gator, "Come on. We don't wanna be late." Self conscious at being naked, Gator looked around. The hook beside his bed held no pajamas. "Where's my pajamas?" "They'll get ya'll some. Miz Peters, she'll give ya'll some." "Miz Peters? Who's Miz Peters?" "She the cook." "I don't want no woman see me naked." "It want be nutin Miz Peters never seed before. She seed us naked all the time. Now, come on, less'n we gets a beating." Gator followed Randal, who ran to catch up with the other boys. The boys filed down the stairs, the hallway, and out the front door. A frumpy woman in an apron, holding a wooden spoon in her hand, stood in a doorway watching the boys pass. Few even glanced her way, but, Gator, his face burning, covered his genitals with his hands. He could feel her watching him. A pretty boy, thought Ms Peters. I wonder how long afore he'll join the dining room boys." Gator wondered where they were going. He thought they were to take a bath, but they went outside. The boys ran off the porch and around the side of the house. A stocky man with a pock marked face, holding a hose sprayed each boy as he stepped in front of him. He seemed to pay particular attention to their genitals, directing the sturdy stream of water at the boys' balls, screaming at them if they attempted to protect them with their hands. As a result, each boy spent as little time as possible under the stream of water, many of them little cleaner when they emerged on the other side. "That's Stone," Randal muttered behind his hand. When Gator, the last of the boys, ran into the stream of water, Stone said, "A new un. Whut's your name, boy?" When Gator answered, he said, "Gator? Whut kinda name that?" He directed the stream of water at Gator's balls. It hurt, like someone thumping his nuts with his finger." He turned once and joined Randal and the other boys, who were wiping off the water the best they could with their hands, then slipping on their pajamas. No towels had been furnished. Soon they were all clothed-except for Gator, who felt all that much more self conscious because he was the only one naked. He followed Randal and the other boys into the house, trying to hide himself behind Randal. When they passed Ms Peters, who still stood in the doorway, she handed Gator a pair of pajamas. "Heah. Cover yourself up, boy," she said, as if he'd had some choice. Gator slipped one foot, then the other, into the pant's legs, hopping as he pulled them up past his butt, tying them around his waist with the drawstring. He'd been given a t-shirt for a top. Hurrying to catch up, he followed the other boys through a doorway, where Randal was standing, urgently beckoning him on. Inside was a long table. Each boy, standing, had taken his place beside a chair. Reverend Whitcomb was seated at the table's head. A thin man sat at its foot. Gator took his place at a chair next to the one where Randal stood. At a nod from Whitcomb, the boys sat down. No food was on the table yet. Once they were all seated, except for Stone, who circled the table with his birch rod in his hand, boys-ones Gator had never seen-began bringing in plates of food from the kitchen, placing the first, heaped with food, in front of Whitcomb and Finn, Whitcomb's other helper. Little food-most of it beans and corn-was on the boys' plates. Whitcomb and Finn each had a large glass of milk. The boys only had water. When the boy carrying his plate set it in front of him, Gator said, "Thanks." He received a whack across the shoulders from Stone's rod. It stung, worse than a bee sting. "No talking," Stone said. Gator had just been attempting to be polite. Gator looked down at his plate. It wasn't enough food for how hungry he felt, and he hadn't worked all day. How could it be enough for the other boys? Looking around the table, he noticed that all the boys were thin, except for those serving. They appeared to be well fed-and they were all handsome, which even Gator, who wouldn't have normally noticed, saw. It was as if all the good looking kids got the easy jobs and were well fed, while the others worked in the fields and were starved. Gator had been told he was a handsome kid. He wondered if he was handsome enough to work in the dining room. They never smiled, though. None of the serving boys ever smiled. Maybe it was just because Whitcomb was at the table-and because Stone circled the table with his rod. But, it wasn't their mouths he was thinking about. Non of the boys, even those seated, were smiling with their mouths. It was their eyes. When he looked at their eyes, he saw no sign that anyone looked out. Rarely, would one even meet his gaze. When one did, he saw no acknowledgement that he was there. When Gator returned to the attic room, he saw that all the dirty clothes had been removed. Another ragged pair of jeans and a t-shirt had been placed on the hooks by each boy's bed. Gator's clothes were gone. A ragged pair of jeans and a t-shirt hung in their place. Panicking, he felt under his blanket. It was still there! The picture of his mother was still there. The lights were turned off in the attic room soon after supper. No entertainment was furnished at Reverend Whitcomb's Home for Boys, no radio, no books. Tired as they were, most of the boys fell asleep immediately, in spite of the stifling heat. Gator couldn't. It was almost too hot to breathe. Since Randal hadn't worked, he was awake. "Who them boys?" Gator was thinking of the dining room boys. "Whut boys?" "Them boys in the dining room. Who they? Where they sleep?" "Shhh," said Randal, looking around the room. "Don't ask nutin bout them boys and don't never say nutin to any them again. Ya'll lucky ya'll only get one whack from ole Stone tonight. It coulda been wurst-much wurst." "Whut you mean, do't talk to them or about them?" But, his questioning did no good. Turning onto his side, facing away from Gator, Randal pretended to be asleep. Chapter 3: Gator didn't think he'd ever fall asleep, but he must have. The lights in the room were on; Stone and Finn were walking down each row of beds, banging on each with their rods. "All rite, ya'll lazy little turds. Wake up. Get out o bed. Time to eat." Randal smiled weakly at him, pulled off his pajamas and slipped into the jeans which had been hanging on the wall. He wore no underwear. Looking at his hooks, Gator saw he had none either. "Where's my under britches?" he asked. A boy across the room laughed. "Listen to the new boy. He want he's under britches." "There ain't no under britches," said Randal. "But I had some." "Not no more, ya'll don't." Gator slipped on the jeans. They felt rough against his cock. The seam rode up into his balls. He had to walk bowlegged to keep them from rubbing him raw. His shoes were gone. None of the boys had shoes, but Gator wasn't accustomed to being barefoot. His feet were tender. He followed Randal down stairs. Most of the boys went outside first, many taking a leak beside the house. Some used the two outhouses behind the main house. Needing to take a shit, Gator waited his turn at one. One inside, Gator held his nose, attempting to keep out some of the stink. Still dark outside, it was darker inside the toilet. In the gloom, he could just make out a stack of newspaper, which served as toilet paper. Using it, he wiped his ass the best he could, pulled up his pants, and stepped out. No other boys were in sight. Running toward the house, he stopped long enough at a water spigot to rinse off his hands. Where were they? Where was Randal? On the way to the house, Gator ran through a patch of stickers. He sat down for a minute to pull them out, then, hobbling on first one foot and the other, attempting to pull out the rest, he made his way toward the house, thinking about Stone's rod. He didn't want to be on the receiving end of it again. It was too late. By the time he reached the dining room, the other boys were seated. Whitcomb wasn't present-he didn't rise so early-but Stone and Finn were. "You're late." Stone began beating him about the shoulders with his stick. Gator took the empty chair next to Randal, receiving another blow after he was seated. Randal said nothing, but he gave Gator a look-one of those I told you so looks. Gator's shoulders hurt, especially where the rod had struck bone. Breakfast was hominy grits without anything to sweeten them, although each boy had a glass of milk, which some used on their grits. Gator poured his onto his grits. Although some people put salt and pepper on theirs, he'd always used milk and sugar. They were bland without sugar, but, hungry from the night before, he finished his bowl. No one, except for Stone and Finn, was given seconds. Two of the dining room boys served everyone. As before, they spoke to no one; and no one spoke to them. After breakfast, Gator followed Randal and the other boys. "Where wuz ya'll?" asked Randal. "I had to take a crap." "You're better off crapping in yore pants than being late. Ya'll got off lucky. Ole Stone didn't beat ya'll half bad." That's not how Gator felt. His shoulders were sore, and his neck hurt. He'd never received such a beating in his life. His pa had whipped him with a belt a few times, but that had been on his butt and the back of his legs where he had plenty of meat. The bones of his shoulders hurt from this beating. Gator thought the beating had been plenty bad. Stone had gone easy on him, though. Whitcomb had told him he didn't want this new boy marked. He was a good looking kid. Whitcomb never let him mark up the good looking ones-at least not until Whitcomb had finished with them. The boys gathered around a shed behind the house. "Whut're we doing heah?" asked Gator. "We gots to get our tools." A padlock was on the door of the shack. "Ole Stone or Finn will be along in a minute to unlock the door. Heah come ole Finn, now." Randal pointed to a door in the back of the house. Gator had never been in the part of the house leading to that door. He and the boys always used the front door. The sky was finally becoming light in the east. "What time is it?" Gator asked. "How would I know? I ain't got no timepiece, but it probably be about five o'clock-maybe a little later." Of course Randal had no watch. None of the boys had any personal possessions-except for Gator. He had the picture of his mother. Gator and Randal, because of their small size, were given hoes. Weeding rows of corn would be something they could handle. At least the tall rows of corn offered some shade from the brutal mid-summer Arkansas sun. It was not only hot. The humidity approached 100% on most days. It might cloud up, rain, clear off, then cloud up and rain again more than once during the day. By the time the sun came up, the boys were drenched in sweat. Stone and Finn supervised the field hands, the twelve boys who slept in the attic. Gator and Randal, at eleven, were the youngest at the home. They were also the newest. In the summer, the field hands spent all daylight hours working, leaving for work before sunrise and returning after sunset. As Gator had noted, food for the field hands was inadequate. They survived by stealing an occasional ear of corn or handful of beans, or by catching and eating small animals and certain insects. Grub worms were a favorite of the boys. They were actually quite nutritious. The animals, mostly mice and rabbits, were eaten raw. Although Stone and Finn didn't care that the boys ate insects and animals-it kept the pests down-they punished them severely when they caught them stealing from the crops. Luckily for the boys, Stone and Finn were lazy. They took turns napping under a shade tree. Except that it was so hot, the day wasn't bad for either Gator or Randal since they were hidden among the rows of corn. Finn only thought to check on them once during the day, giving each of them a whack with his stick, telling them they weren't working hard enough. His blows were perfunctory, though. The boys had at least been making an effort to hoe when he came upon them. If they'd been sitting or lying down, it would have been another story. As it was, Finn, the lazier of the two men, found that it took too much effort to whip a boy during the hottest part of the day, usually satisfying himself with one or two quick blows. Stone was different. It was never too hot for him to whip a boy. He watched the older boys, though. Two of them were seventeen and would be released from the home when they were eighteen. It was Stone's self assigned duty to keep them busy enough to prevent any organized rebellion. As long as the older ones were kept in line, he didn't expect trouble from the rest. He gave the two, Billy Rae and Robert, the hardest jobs and beat them regularly. Another troublemaker was a fourteen year-old, Jacob Sneed. He didn't cause trouble for Stone or Finn, though. He caused trouble for the younger kids. Chapter 4: Sneed had already picked on Randal. Now, he had another; and he'd already decided he didn't like the new kid. For one, he was too pretty. Jacob Sneed, by any stretch of the imagination, couldn't have been called a handsome boy. His teeth were crooked, his nose was too big, and his eyes were spaced wide apart. Besides, his face, because of puberty and poor diet, was covered with pimples, face scaring, endemic, acne. He'd been ill treated by the world, and wanting revenge, he took it where he could-on those who couldn't fight back. On that first day, when the boys lined up to return home, Jacob Sneed took his place in line behind Gator. Gator's feet hurt: from stickers that morning; from rocks he'd walked across; from the stubble in the fields. When the boy behind him stepped on his heel, he said, "Ow. Watch it." The pressure on his heel drove the sole of his foot into the rocks. More than anything, he wanted to sit down to rub his feet, but he'd already seen what happened to others who dawdled. He wanted no more of Stone's stick. Looking behind him, he saw the pimply faced boy. He'd seen him before, noticing him because of his face, wondering whether he'd been burned, his face was scarred so badly. Other than the pain in his foot, he didn't think much of it at first, assuming the boy had stepped on his foot accidentally. At least he thought that until the boy stepped on it again, harder this time. Gator fell alongside the path. Even the threat of Stone's rod couldn't keep him on his feet, the pain was so bad. "Ya'll did that on purpose," he shouted. Stone was on him in a flash. He only moved quickly when presented with the opportunity to inflict pain. not that he needed an excuse. "On your feet, boy." He struck Gator on the back and shoulders, taking care not to hit his face. He had his instructions from Whitcomb. Gator wanted to tell him that the boy had stepped on his foot-on purpose; but he'd been in State custody long enough to know not to squeal on another boy. A code existed, similar to that in most State run institutions, the inmates-the boys-worked out their problems among themselves. Anyway, he expected no sympathy from Stone. He stood up-began walking, hobbling along. The pain was almost more than he could bear. Sneed stepped on his heel again. Turning, Gator swung on him. The boy dodged easily, then swung back, striking Gator in the eye, knocking him to the ground. "What the fuck is going on here? Stone asked, hurrying over to where Gator lay, sprawled out on the ground. His nose was bloody and his eye was already turning black. Whitcomb had told him he didn't want the new kid marked up. Now, the pimply faced little bastard had smashed him in the face. If it left a permanent mark, Stone would never hear the end of it from the reverend. "No god damned fighting," he said, striking Harris with his rod. Unmercifully, he struck him, over and over, paying no mind where his blows landed, whether on his face or elsewhere. The boy was fortunate Stone didn't put out one of his eyes. "He swung at me first," whined Sneed, from where he lay on the ground, trying to shield his face from Stones rod. Stone paid him no attention. Normally, he would have let the boys fight it out, despite their discrepancy in size, but he had his instructions from Whitcomb, who had other plans for the new boy. He continued to beat Sneed, quitting not out of sympathy for the boy, but from exhaustion. He walked away, leaving the boy lying on the ground. A boy, in the line behind him, helped him to his feet. Sneed hadn't expected the beating. He'd expected a staged fight between him and Gator, egged on by Stone and Finn. It would have given him the opportunity to really hurt the boy. His dislike for Gator turned to hate at that moment. It was gator's fault he'd been beaten. He would have his revenge. One way or the other, he would have his revenge-but, not that night. That night, he was in too much pain. Gator was in pain, too. His feet were cut and bleeding by the time they returned to the house. Even Stone noticed. Bloody footprints left by Gator led up the porch steps and into the house. Stone went to see Whitcomb. "Thet new boy, he's feet's cut up real bad. Nuther boy hit him, too. He got a black eye, but, it ain't too bad," he added before Whitcomb could chastise him for his carelessness. "It ain't gonna leave no mark. What chu want me do? Want me leave him behind tomorrow?" Whitcomb didn't yet know what God's plan for the boy was, but if he were to be chosen to join those in the dining room, it wouldn't do for him to become crippled. God only chose the most perfect of the boys-at least the most perfect physically, if not morally. It would be up to Whitcomb to correct any moral deformity, by removing temptation from their paths. God would let him know in time if this boy required Whitcomb's ministering. "Let him stay. I'll have Miz Peters fix a poultice for his feet." Chapter 5: The next morning, after breakfast, Stone said to Gator, "You ain't going today, boy. Go back up to yore bed. Someone'll bring you something for yore feet." Of course, Gator was relieved. He could barely walk on the smooth floors of the house. Walking on the stony path to the fields would have been unbearable. Hearing Gator's reprieve only increased Sneed's hate for him. Hurting, too, he could barely walk; but, Stone made no offer to let him stay behind; and he knew better than to ask. Gator watched, standing at the foot of the stairs, as the field hands left for work. He saw Randal turn and mouth, "You lucky..." He couldn't catch the rest. Once the boys were gone, he hobbled up the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister. Glancing back, he saw one of the house boys watching him from the dining room doorway; but as soon as the boy saw him look, he ducked back into the room out of sight. What was it with those boys? Why couldn't he get any straight answers about them? Randal refused to talk about them; and few of the other boys talked to him at all. Thank God for Randal. At least he had one friend. Back upstairs, Gator climbed onto his bed. He was soon asleep. Sometime later he awoke. Someone was shaking him. It was one of those boys-from the dining room. He had a large bowl in one hand and some rags in the other. "I'm supposed to put some of this heah poultice on your feet." In two days, those were the first words Gator had heard one of those boys speak. "Wha-what? Gator said, still half asleep. "I'm supposed to put some of this heah poultice on your feet," the boy repeated. Gator sat up on the bed, back far enough that his feet extended straight out, parallel with the floor. With a large wooden spoon, the boy began spreading a thick, white, paste over the bottoms of Gator's feet. It was cool, soothing to his feet, removing much of the pain, especially the burning. "What's your name?" he asked the boy. The boy didn't answer-or look up. When he had finished applying the poultice, he began wrapping the rag bandages he'd brought around Gator's feet. Dissatisfied with the boy's lack of response, Gator said, "My name's Gator. What's your'n?" Still no answer. "What's the matter, ya'll deef?" Gator said, almost shouting this time. Maybe the boy was hard of hearing. Obviously frightened, the boy looked around quickly toward the stairs. Putting his finger to his lips, he said, "Shh, no I ain't deef. Ya'll gonna get us both in a heap of trouble, if'n ya'll ain't quiet." "But, why? We ain't doing nutin-just talking." "I ain't supposed to talk to ya'll-not to none of ya'll. The reverend, he beat me if'n he caught me." "Why can't ya'll talk to none of us?" He grabbed the boy's arm as he turned to leave. "Leave go of me," he said, with such panic in his voice that Gator let go immediately. The boy practically ran for the stairs. Gator pulled his feet up onto the bed and lay there with his hands behind his head. What was it with those boys? Why weren't they allowed to talk to the others? He'd thought he might like to work in the house like they did. None of them were skinny like the field hands. Work in the house couldn't be as hard as work in the heat of the fields-but, he'd never seen anyone so frightened. Even Stone's rod didn't frighten the field boys like that boy was frightened. His fear had almost been palpable, hanging in the air around him. Gator was determined to find out the secret of the house boys. About midday, he walked downstairs. Already, his feet felt better. Stopping at the door to the kitchen, he looked in. Ms Peters and two boys, one of which was the one who'd dressed his feet were busy in the kitchen. Gator cleared his throat. Ms Peters looked up at the sound. "What ya'll want, boy? Ya'll ain't allowed in heah." "Please, mam. I's hungry. I ain't et since breakfast, and it were a long time ago." Ms Peters looked at the small boy standing in the doorway. He had such an angelic face. Hardened as her heart had become-hardened as it had to become for her to continue to work at the home-it went out to the boy. Hell, he'll be working in here soon enough, anyway. Of that, she was certain. "Come on in, boy. Lenny," she said to the boy who'd brought up the poultice, "heat him up some of thet stew out of the icebox. Have a set, boy." She pointed to a chair at a small table next to the window. "How's the feet? Looks like Lenny did a real bang up job wrapping them up." "Yes'um," said Gator. They's much better." He sat at the table, waiting while the boy heated his stew. Once in a while, he'd see the other boy, a tall boy, about fourteen or fifteen with almost black hair, throw a glance in his direction. Lenny, with blond hair and blue eyes, was almost the boy's opposite, except that they were both handsome. Gator guessed that Lenny was closer to his age, probably no older than thirteen. When Lenny brought him a bowl of the hot stew, Gator smiled and said, "Thanks." Lenny flashed him what was almost a smile, but not quite. There was no one around to hit him for saying, "Thanks" this time. Busy at her work, Ms Peters paid him no mind. Stone and Finn were out in the fields. Whitcomb had gone into town. If he hadn't, Ms Peters wouldn't have allowed Gator into the kitchen. The stew was good. With large chunks of meat, it was nothing like their usual fare. Gator suspected the kitchen boys always ate like that. Why then, did they seem so withdrawn-so unhappy-so frightened all the time? Ms Peters seemed kind enough. He hadn't heard her so much as yell at either of the boys since he'd been sitting at the table; and she had fed him. That alone made her o.k. in his book. By the time he had finished the bowl, he was almost stuffed. His stomach wasn't used to so much food at one time. In two days at Whitcomb's it seemed to have shrunk. When he had finished and pushed back the empty bowl, Ms Peters said, "Ya'll better run along now, back to your bed." It wouldn't do to have Whitcomb come home and find the boy in the kitchen. "Thanks for the food, mam. It were good." Looking at Lenny, he smiled and gave him a little half wave with his hand, held down at his waist where Ms Peters couldn't see it. Lenny didn't acknowledge the wave. Gator liked the boy, or at least wanted to like him. If Gator were to work in the dining room, it wouldn't hurt to have a friend there. If I work in the house, I'll still be friends with Randal, too, he thought. I won't shet him out just because I have a better job. He returned to the attic, where he lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. It was so hot he took off his pajamas. Because of the heat, few of the other boys had worn clothes in the attic room. Becoming bored, he walked over to the two big windows in the gable at the front of the attic room and looked out. In the distance, he could see the road. Occasionally, a car-a reminder that another world existed- would pass on the road beyond the gate. Gator imagined he was sitting in the back seat of one of those cars, looking out the back window as the gate to Reverend Whitcomb's Home for Boys disappeared into the distance-disappeared to never be seen again; but when he awoke from his reverie, he was in the still in the attic. The cars were driving off without him. He was looking out the window when Lenny came back to reapply the poultice. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, Gator turned to look. ."Hello again," he said. Lenny said nothing at the time, but he nodded. It was at least some acknowledgement, more than Gator usually received from one of the house boys. He pointed at Gator's feet. Gator knew what he meant, but wanting to force Lenny to speak, said, "Whut?" "Miz Peters says to put more of this heah poultice on your feet. Ya'll gots to sit down for me to do it." Sitting on the floor, Gator held up his feet. Lenny sat down placing Gator's legs across his, suspending Gator's feet off the floor. Gator noticed that the boy kept glancing at his crotch. Ain't he never seed no pecker? Uncomfortable, Gator covered his genitals with his hand. Lenny took off the bandages, throwing them into a pile beside him, then began ladling more poultice onto Gator's feet. Again, it soothed his feet. "Thet do feel good," said Gator, then he asked, "Do ya'll lak working downstairs?" Lenny said nothing, but the look he flashed at Gator spoke volumes, No, the look shouted. Hell, no. "Why not?" asked Gator, interpreting the look correctly. "It look lak easy work to me; and ya'll eats real good," but no matter how he persisted, Lenny would say nothing about his work. "I ain't supposed to talk to ya'll," he repeated. "I just want to be your friend," said Gator. "I ain't got no friends. I don't want none neither." He finished applying the poultice, wrapped up Gator's feet with fresh bandages and went back downstairs, leaving Gator sitting-puzzled-on the floor. On some level, Gator felt he had connected with the boy. Why was Lenny shutting him out? Didn't everyone want friends? Didn't everyone need someone who cared about him? He was still sitting on the floor when Randal returned. "God damn. Ya'll lucky," Randal said to Gator. He'd run up ahead of the other boys to see his friend. "It were powerful hot out there today, and heah ya'll sit all comfy on yore butt." "It be plenty hot in this heah attic." said Gator. "Get outta heah. Don give me no hot in the attic. Ya'll been sitting on your butt all day while I been working." "Thet because of mah feet." "Whut about mah hand?" Randal held out his cut hand. The bandage around it was stained with blood. Boys weren't usually left behind because they had a few cuts on their feet. Feeling a little jealous, he was angry at Gator. "Ya'll got to stay home the other day, the day I come here." "Yeah, but I gots a real cut on mah hand, not just some little ole scratches." "Yeah, but ya'll don't have to walk on yore hands," said Gator. Their banter was interrupted by a call from the bottom of the stairs to come wash up. As before-with groans-the exhausted boys, who had flopped down on their beds while Randal and were talking, stood up and began taking off their clothes, piling them beside their beds. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, though, Finn said to Gator, "Ya'll don't need no warshing today. Ya'll get your wrappings all wet. Set heah on the stairs till we gets back." Since he wasn't going to wash, Gator slipped on his pajamas, rather than sit on the stairs naked. While he was sitting there, Lenny came out of the kitchen. Not expecting to see any of the field boys, he was startled. Seeing that it was Gator, he opened his mouth, as if to speak, but closed it without saying anything and disappeared through a doorway to the back portion of the house, where the house boys and the staff had their rooms. Chapter 6: The next day was Sunday. Even at Whitcomb's, the boys didn't work on Sundays. Reverend interpreted the Bible literally. It said Sunday was a day of rest, so it was. He held church services in the parlor. His sermons were about Hell and damnation. His god was one of retribution, not of love and forgiveness. Although he ended his prayers with "in Jesus' name, amen," he never talked about salvation, but about how sinners burned in Hell and about how God destroyed those who provoked him. No boy came forward to be saved. None was invited. No work on Sundays, but nothing to do either. Afraid that-given the chance-they'd run away, the boys weren't allowed to leave the house unsupervised, other than to use the toilets in the back, and then only when they were wearing pajamas. A creek ran through the farm. A swim in it would have felt good on a hot day, but it wasn't allowed. Most of the boys-tired from working all week-were content to lie around on their beds, even in the heat of the attic. Because of the heat, most of them had stripped and were lying on their beds naked. Gator and Randal had, too. It was too hot for clothes in the attic. Gator had spent the previous day there. He was rested; and he was bored. "Ain't there nutin to do? he asked Randal. "Nope." "How bout some cards. We could play cards, War or Go Fish, anything." "The reverend don't allow no cards. He say they sinful." "How bout I kick yore ass, then? Gator said, smiling. Sitting on Randal's bed, he grabbed him around the neck. "Ya'll and whut army?" The boys wrestled around on the bed until they fell on the floor. It was too hot to wrestle, so they lay still next to each other under Randal's bed. "Ya'll ain't got much of a pecker." Randal flicked Gator's penis with his finger. "Ow. It bigger'n your'n." He tried to flick Randal back, but the kid rolled over onto his stomach to protect his. "Ain't neither," said Randal. "Mine's bigger." "Let me see, then." "No suh. Ya'll just wanna flick it." "Let me see. I won't flick it. I promise." "Cross yore heart-hope to die?" "Cross mah heart, hope to die." Gator crossed the left side of his chest with his finger. Randal's pecker was bigger, it was also erect. See, he said, "mine's bigger." "Ain't fair. Ya'll got a boner." "Rub on your'n and make it hard. It don't count when they all soft anyway. It only count how big they is when they hard." Gator had never played with his penis. Sometimes it became hard, but he'd never massaged it to make it so. "Rub it how?" he asked. "Heah, I'll show you." Wrapping his hand around Gator's cock, Randal began pumping it." Gator's cock became hard. It felt good. Gator didn't tell him to stop, once it'd become hard, and Randal didn't choose to stop. He masturbated regularly, even though-prepubescent-he couldn't come. It felt good; and it was something to do. Gator liked it, too. He especially liked for Randal to do it for him. Pressure built up in his groin. Spasms, originating in his cock, began. "Oh, oh," he said, thrusting his hips, trying to shove his cock deeper into Randal's hand. He'd had his first orgasm. It was dry. Nothing came out, but it was an orgasm. "Wh-Whut happened?" he asked, when he was able to speak. "Ya'll done cum, silly. Don't ya'lll know nutin?" Robert, the seventeen year-old, who was watching from the bed next to Randal, said, "He ain't cum. Ain't nutin shoot out of his cock. Heah, I'll show ya'll little boys how a man cum." He began pumping his cock. Sunday was jack off day for the boys in the attic. It was the only day they weren't too tired to indulge in it. Some did their own. Some did another boy's. It was also a game, a way to pass the time. They held contests: who could shoot first; who could shoot the farthest; who had the biggest wad. Privacy didn't exist in the attic, so no one tried to hide his actions from the others. Gator watched the boy pump his cock. Big, at least six or seven inches long, it would have made several of his considering how much thicker it was than his. The boy bit his lower lip, sucked in his breath, then moaned as strings of white cum spurted from his cock, splashing clear up onto his chest. Gator was fascinated by it. He'd heard boys talk about jacking off, but he'd never tried it before or seen another boy do it. "See," said the boy, "that how a man cum." Gator and Randal had been sitting on the floor beside the boy's bed, leaning over for the best possible view. Gator saw Robert's cock jerk in his hand as it spurted out his seed. "I wish I could do that," he said, in awe of what he'd just seen. "Ya'll gots to get hair around yore pecker first," said Robert. "Ya'll can't shoot less'n ya'll gots hair." Two boys in another bed were doing something different. Head to toe, mouth to cock, they were sucking each other off. Such behavior was strictly forbidden in Whitcomb's home for boys. Many sermons about the evils of homosexuality were preached, but no one usually came up stairs on Sundays, and a couple of boys were sitting by they stairs to warn the others in case they did. It wasn't homosexual behavior to them. It was just sex. No girls were available. They only had each other. A mouth-or an ass-felt better than a hand. Randal poked Gator, pointing to the two boys. "Whut're they doing?" asked Gator. "They's doing a 69." "Whut's a 69?" "Thet's where two boys suck each other's cocks." "Why they do thet?" "Cause it feel good." "You ever do it?" asked Gator. "Robert, he made me do him wunst, but nobody never did it to me." "Did you lak it?" "Naw. He lak to choke me with his big cock and he spurted all into mah mouth. The taste of it almost made me puke, but I'd suck your'n, if'n ya'll suck mine. Your'n ain't so big, and ya'll won't be cummin into my mouth." Gator wasn't sure. He didn't want to put another boy's pecker into his mouth. It had felt good, though; that orgasm had felt good. Maybe some time he'd try it, but not today. As usual, Reverend Whitcomb's sermon had been about the evils of homosexuality. Gator wasn't sure what that was, Whitcomb said it was evil for one man to love another. Gator wasn't sure that applied to boys, but he thought it best to wait. Anyway, he didn't love Randal. He liked him, but they were just friends. "No," he said. "I'll rub it for you; but I don't want to suck on it none." Randal settled for that. Jacob Sneed watched the two boys. He jacked off, although he was still almost in too much pain to do it. No one had ever sucked his cock. No one had even asked him to suck theirs. It was as if they didn't want his scarred face next to their cocks-as if they'd catch his pimples. Jacob Sneed had no friends, not even a jack off buddy. Maybe I'll fuck the little bastard, he thought. Maybe I'll fuck both of them. Randal and Gator soon became tired of playing with their peckers. It felt good, but, after an orgasm apiece, neither of them had another. It was so hot that the boys dragged their mattresses off their beds, putting them on the floor next to one another. It was a little cooler on the floor-not much-but a little. They lay with their heads close together. "Tell me about them house boys," said Gator. Randal quickly looked around. Other than Sneed across the room, no one was paying them any attention, and Sneed was too far away to hear. "We ain't supposed to talk about them." "Thet don't make no sense." This time, it was Gator's turn to look around. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, "I talked to one today." "Gaw'n. Ya'll ain't." "I did so. I even know his name." "Whut be it?" "His name, Lenny. He the one with blond hair." "How come he talk to you?" asked Randal "He put this heah poultice on mah feet." Gator held up one of his bandaged feet. "Then I had somethin to eat in the kitchen." "Gaw'n. Ya'll et in the kitchen." "Yep, and it were good, too, some stew with meat in it. Miz Peters, she give it to me. She ain't too bad. Then thet boy, Lenny, he come up and put some more of thet poultice on mah feet." "Then, why ya'll asking me about them. I ain't never talked to none of them. I just know thet, anyone who do, he get a beating. Ya'll can gets a beating just for looking at them. Whut's he lak?" "I don't know-just an ordinary ole boy. Sure hard to get him to talk, though. Gots to pry the words outta him. It's lak he scared to talk to un of us. He say he ain't supposed to talk to none of us." "Well," said Randal. "We ain't supposed to talk to them neither." "But, why? That don't make no sense. We all just boys." The boys continued to talk about one thing or the other until it was time for supper. When all the field hands were seated, they were served by the four house boys. Lenny placed Gator's plate in front of him. It seemed to have more food than the others-not enough to be really noticeable, but a little maybe. Gator, looking up at him, smiled-with his eyes. He didn't dare let it extend to his mouth. Stone stood beside the table with his rod. Chapter 7: Two weeks passed. Calluses covered the bottom of Gator's feet. He no longer felt the stones on the path. Always hungry, he had learned to eat grasshoppers and grubs and to grab a handful of beans or a tomato when Stone or Finn weren't looking. He hadn't eaten raw rabbit or mouse yet. The older boys usually claimed them. It was another Sunday. Various boys were engaged in their usual sex games. Gator and Randal weren't. Without the hormones of puberty to drive them, they had quickly became bored with sex play, although they still liked to watch the others beat off. The contests were fun. Gator and Randal would bet on which boy would come first, wagering some of the grasshoppers or grubs they would catch the next day. They were watching one such contest when Gator felt someone grab his shoulder from behind. It was Sneed, who hadn't bothered him since that day, over two weeks before. "Come on, boy. Ya'll gonna suck my cock." Robert had made Gator suck his cock the week before. Like Randal, Gator had almost puked when Robert had come into his mouth. He'd refused at first, but Robert had twisted his arm up behind his back. "Gaw'n, Gator," Randal had said, "It ain't so bad. It better'n getting your arm broke. He'd been sitting next to Robert's bed, watching him pull on his cock, wanting to see how far he'd shoot that time. Looking over at him, Robert had said, "Want to suck mah cock, Gator?" "Naw. I don't want to suck no cock." "Randal, he suck mah cock, didn't ya'll, Randal?" "Ya'll made me," said Randal. That's when Robert had grabbed hold of Gator's arm. "Suck my cock, Gator. Ya'll real purty. I think I'd lak to have a purty little ole boy lak you to suck mah cock. Grabbing Gator's hair with his other hand, he had pushed his head toward his cock. Gator had clenched his teeth and had twisted his mouth to the side. Robert had pulled his arm, twisting it up clear to his shoulder blades. "I'll break it off, less'n ya'll suck it." The other boys, including Sneed, had been standing around watching. Gator's arm had felt as if it were about to break. Randal had been telling him to do it, that it wasn't so bad, so he had opened his mouth, letting Robert slide his cock inside. Robert had rammed it into his throat, making him gag. He had tried to pull his head away, but Robert, holding him by the hair, hadn't let him. Before long, he had felt Robert's hot spunk erupt into the back of his throat. He had tried to spit it out, but Robert had held his mouth closed, holding his nose as well. He'd had no choice but to swallow his come. Robert had patted him on the cheek. "Thet a good boy," he had said. "Want to suck mine, now?" Randal had said afterward. Gator had hit him-hard. At that moment he had hated both Randal and Robert. It had passed though. Robert was nice enough to him at other times, and Randal was his friend. Worse things happened at Whitcomb's. Being hit with Stone's rod was worse than sucking Robert's cock, and Whitcomb scared him more, even though he'd never so much as spoken to him. "Ya'll gonna suck mah cock," Sneed said again, pulling Gator toward his bed. "No, I ain't," said Gator struggling fiercely. It was one thing to suck Robert's cock, and so far, Robert had only made him do it once.. It was another entirely to suck Sneed's, even though Sneed's pimples didn't extend to his cock, which was normal enough, about five inches long when hard, as it was now. "Then I'm gonna stick it up ya'll ass." Lifting Gator off his feet, he carried him, kicking, over to his bed and threw him face down on it, holding him down by the shoulders as he straddled the boy. "Leave him be," said Randal. Sneed paid as little attention to him as he did to Gator. Lying down on top of Gator, he pried his legs apart, exposing his hole. It was pink and hairless. "Leave him be," he heard again, but this time it wasn't Randal; it was Robert. "Leave him be, Sneed. Get off'n him." Sneed looked back over his shoulder at Robert. Ya'll made him suck ya'lls cock." "That don't mean I'm gonna let ya'll ugly ass fuck him. Get off'n him now, less'n you don't want no beating." Them kids, they belong to me, Robert felt. If anyone was going to fuck one of them, it would be him. Robert was the oldest and toughest kid in the room. He could beat any of them in a fair fight, and he didn't fight fair. Sneed rolled off Gator, letting him up. "Thanks," Gator said to Robert, not realizing Robert had only saved him from being fucked by Sneed. Robert had seen the boy's pink hole. He wanted to try it. Taking Gator by the hand, he led him to Gator's bed, shoving him down onto it. Spitting onto his hand, he moistened Gator's hole, pressed the head of his cock against it, and shoved. It hurt! Gator thought Robert's cock was going to split him apart. Pushing his cock past Gator's sphincter, Robert shoved it into his ass. Gator felt it fill his ass. He could feel it deep inside of him. Robert began thrusting, pumping his cock into Gator's ass. Gator was crying, from both the pain and the shame. Sucking Robert's cock had been bad enough; being fucked by him was worse. Gawd, it feel good, Robert thought. The boy's ass was tight around his cock. He'd fucked other boys, but they'd been fucked so often that their assholes had been stretched. Gator's virgin ass was tight. A few more thrusts and he came, pumping his seed-this time-into Gator's ass instead of his mouth. When he finished, he patted Gator's cheek again, his butt cheek this time. "That were real good, Gator. Ya'll got a nice ass." He hadn't tried Randal's ass. Next Sunday, I'll fuck Randal, he thought, wondering why he hadn't fucked the boys before, thankful to Sneed for giving him the idea. It was better than having them suck his cock. They weren't very good at that, anyway. Gator lay on his bed face down afterward, crying. His ass hurt. But worse was the knowledge that they was nothing he could do about it. He was the smallest boy in the house, smaller even than Randal. The others could do with him what they wished. He couldn't go to Stone or Finn, certainly not to Whitcomb, who preached against queer behavior-and hadn't that been what he'd just done? Was he a queer? A boy had fucked him. He'd sucked a boy's cock. Wasn't that what queers did? He thought about going to Ms Peters, but what could she do? She was just the cook, with no power to discipline the boys; besides, she would probably tell Whitcomb. No, he couldn't go to anyone. "Ya'll o.k.?" Randal asked, patting Gator on the back. "He o.k.," said Robert, looking over from his bed. "It be ya'lls turn next week." "When it gonna be mah turn?" asked another boy, the one who slept next to Sneed." "It ain't never gonna be ya'll turn," said Robert. "I got these boys. Ain't nobody fucking them cept me. They's mine." If he let the other boys fuck them, their asses would be stretched out in no time. After a moment, Gator rose from his bed, pulling his pajama bottom off it's hook. Even though it was hot, he didn't want to continue lying on the bed naked. Presented with the sight of his ass, Robert might want more. He lay down on his back this time, placing his arm over his eyes, hiding them-and his shame-from the others. Robert didn't bother him during the week. After working in the fields all day, he only wanted to sleep. He was too tired for sex. So were the other boys. Rarely did one even jack off, except on Sunday. They didn't have the energy to spare. Gator began to wish he could work in the dining room with the house boys. Somehow, he didn't think any of them would want to fuck him. None of them seemed to be the type. He wanted to talk to Lenny, to find out how he came to work there, but never had the opportunity. Lenny didn't seem to like it, although he'd never said it-in words. The look he'd given Gator had shouted it, but Maybe I misunderstood, thought Gator. It can't be as bad as living in the attic and being fucked by Robert-or any boy who was bigger. The next week he had to watch while Robert fucked Randal. Then, it was his turn. He couldn't do anything about it. Neither of them could do anything. It continued. Week after week, it continued. Robert never jacked off anymore. Why should he, when he had the two boys? Once in a while he'd have one of them suck his cock, but neither of them were good at it. Their tight asses always felt good. He always fucked them on Sunday, usually Gator more than Randal. He was the cutest. Somehow, that made it feel better. Chapter 8: Sneed was jealous. Robert had been fucking both of the boys for weeks, and all he had was his hand. He couldn't do anything to Robert. He was too tough, and could easily kick his ass; and if Robert started a fight with him in the field, Stone would let him finish it. He'd let Robert give him a beating. Stone didn't like him. No one liked him. He might not be able to take it out on Robert, but he could take it out on Gator, but not outwardly where anyone would notice. Robert-even Stone-protected the boy. One morning, when the boys were going down the stairs to breakfast, he had his opportunity. Gator was at the back of the pack of boys. He had changed, keeping more to himself. He rarely joked or wrestled with Randal. He never played at sex. Robert fucked him at least once a week and sometimes made him suck his cock. That was more sex than he wanted. Sticking his foot in front of Gator's, Sneed tripped him, shoving him from behind at the same time. Gator fell, tumbling down the stairs, hitting his head on the way down. Blood poured from his scalp-so much blood. Sneed was sure he was dead. Whitcomb stood looking down at the boy. Still unconscious, he was pale, having lost much blood. He was in a room in the back of the house where the staff had their rooms. He was lying on a bed. His head was bandaged. Another man, in the room with Whitcomb and the boy, was speaking. "He'll be all right. It's just a bad cut-possibly a concussion, but I don't think there's a skull fracture. His collarbone's broken, but it'll heal up o.k." Doc Reynolds was a veterinarian, but he was the only doctor the boys ever saw. "I could do him now, but I wouldn't recommend it. He's already lost too much blood." Even wan as the boy was, Reynolds could see that he was a beautiful boy. It'd been a year since he'd done a boy for the reverend, so he figured it was about time. This boy was young, though. Whitcomb usually liked to wait until they were older. The last one he'd done had been the blond boy. "No," replied Whitcomb. "I haven't been given a sign yet. I don't know if this boy's been chosen." Chosen, hell, thought Reynolds. He saw how Whitcomb looked at the boy. He'd been chosen, all right. Whitcomb just had his little game to play first, so he could say it had been God's will for what he would do to the boy. It didn't matter to Reynolds. Whitcomb paid him well. What did it matter to him that Whitcomb deluded himself? "Well, let me know when you're ready. Meanwhile, keep him quiet. He don't need to be working none." He left the room. Whitcomb considered calling the vet back. The boy had almost been killed. Wouldn't it be better if he moved him in with the house boys now, rather than wait for a sign? At least the boy would be safe. But he couldn't do it. He had to have a sign from God first. God had to choose the boy, not he. Meanwhile, he'd keep him in this room. It was set up to handle hurt boys. Gator awoke in a strange room. He was lying on a bed. It even had sheets. Not as hot as the attic, it almost felt cool. When he tried to move, a sharp pain shot through his head and his shoulder. He lay back down, not daring to attempt to stand. After a few moments, the door to the room opened. Lenny walked in. "Ya'll awake," he said. "What happened," asked Gator. "Ya'll fell down the stairs." Lenny hesitated, then added, "or was pushed." Gator didn't know. He remembered waking up that morning, but little else. What he did know was that he was alone in a room with Lenny, and Lenny was talking to him. Maybe this would be a chance to get out of the attic, away from Robert. "Where am I?" "Ya'll in the recovery room." "The recovery room? What that?" "It kinda lak a hospital room. It where boys recover from..." His voice tailed off. He didn't finish his sentence. "Recover from what?" "Never ya'll mind. It just be a place for you to rest while ya'll get better. The reverend he say ya'll be heah till ya'll better. This was as good a time as any, thought Gator. "Do you think I could get to work down heah with you?" he asked. A look of horror passed over Lenny's face. "Ya'll don't want to work heah. Ya'll better off where ya'll is." "But ya'll don't know how bad it be upstairs. Ya'll don't know what they do to me there." "Believe me. It wurst heah," but, Lenny would say nothing further about life downstairs. "I can't talk about it. The reverend, he kill me, if'n he find out I tell ya'll; besides ya'll don't choose to work downstairs; the reverend, he chose ya'll." Looking at Gator, Lenny knew he would be chosen. If not, he wouldn't be in the recovery room, being treated so tenderly. If it had been another boy-one not as pretty as Gator-he would have been upstairs in the hot attic, injured or not. Even if he could tell him, what good would it do? Should he tell him to run? He wished he had, even if there was nowhere to run. What worse could the reverend have done, than he had already? Gator was hurt, though. He was in no condition to run; besides, it would change nothing, anyway. Gator was asleep when Whitcomb came into his room. Because of his head injury, he slept most of the time. Whitcomb pulled back the sheet covering the boy. He was naked under it. Except for fine, almost invisible, down on his arms and legs, the boy's body was hairless, none around his cock or under his arms. The reverend had never taken one so young before; the others all had hair around their cocks at least. Of course, he hadn't taken this one yet. God hadn't yet given him the sign. God only had him take the little queers, to punish them for their sins. Boys didn't usually commit such sins until after they had reached puberty. Perhaps, he'd have to wait. Whitcomb felt a stirring in his groin. A smooth, hairless, boy. What would that be like? Pulling the sheet back over the boy, he walked back to his office. In the hallway, he saw Lenny, who was on his way to check on Gator. "Go tell Stone to bring the boys in from the field. Tell him to come see me as soon as he gets back." He went to his office; sat behind his desk-and waited. Lenny ran out to the fields. He didn't know why Whitcomb wanted everyone back at the house. One didn't question Whitcomb when he gave an order. It didn't bode well for someone, though. Whitcomb wasn't giving the boys a half day off out of the goodness of his heart. Lenny wasn't certain the reverend had a heart. When he found Stone, he said, "The reverend, he want ya'll bring all the boys back to the house. He say ya'll come see him soon as ya'll gets there." Stone, too, knew better than question Whitcomb's instructions. Gathering the boys, he headed for the house. After sending the boys to their room, Stone knocked on the reverend's office door, opening it when he heard him say, "Come in." "Whut ya'll want, Reverend?" "What happened to this boy?" He picked up Gator's file from his desk. "This Gator boy. Were it just an accident or did someone push him?" "I don't know, Reverend. Ain't nobody said nutin." "Have you seen any..." The reverend hesitated, then added, "wrong behavior from the boy?" Stone knew what Whitcomb wanted. "Well, he right friendly with thet other little'un." "But, have you caught them in any sinful acts?" Stone couldn't say that he had. If he did, Whitcomb would be angry because he hadn't reported them. "I ain't exactly seen nutin, but I's certain he a little queer. They's all little queers." It wasn't enough for Whitcomb. He had to have a witness to an actual act of perversion to justify acting as God's instrument of retribution. He was confident he would find one. God would force one of the boys to tell the truth. "Bring the boys into my office, one at a time so I can question them. Bring me in the boy's friend first." After lining the boys up in the downstairs hallway and leaving Finn to watch over them, Stone took Randal into Whitcomb's office. "Ya'll a friend of this heah Gator boy?" "Yes, suh, Reverend. Usn's friends." "They tell me ya'll a couple of little queers." "No suh!" Randal knew such behavior was forbidden, even though it regularly occurred upstairs on Sunday. Had some boy said something. Robert fucked the two of them and made them suck his cock, but that didn't make them queers, did it? They had no choice in the matter. Robert was bigger. "No suh! Usn's aint' no queers." Stone struck him across the back with his rod. "Don't ya'll lie to me, boy." Whitcomb picked up his strap off his desk. "You remember this, don't you, boy?" Randal remembered it. All too well, he remembered it. "Yes suh," he said. He knees were quaking. He was so frightened he thought he might collapse onto the floor. "Strip him and hold him across the table." A small wooden table was set against one wall. Stone stripped Randal of his clothes and pulled his arms so that he was splayed face first across the table. Standing above the boy, Whitcomb snapped the strap together in his hands. The loud crack it made startled and frightened Randal; he voided his bladder. Hot urine flow across his front. "Is ya'll a couple of little queers?" "No suh," he said again. Whitcomb struck him across the back with the strap. Striking Randal's bare back, the strap made a different sound, muted this time by the boy's flesh. The angry red mark left by the strap began to welt. The pain of it freshened Randal's memory of the previous beating. Before another blow fell, he said, "Yes, suh. We's queers. Please, Reverend. Don't hit me no more." Randal would have admitted to murdering his mother to avoid another beating. Whitcomb hit him once again-for good measure. This time, the strap brought blood. Randal was blubbering, "We's queers, Reverend. Please don't beat me no more." Hadn't he said what the reverend wanted? Placing the strap back on the desk Whitcomb nodded to Stone, who released Randal's arms. "Get ya'll clothes, boy," Stone said, "and go upstairs. Don't say nutin to nobody." "Leave the clothes be," said Whitcomb. He wanted the other boys to see the marks on Randal's back. Likely, they'd heard the whacks and Randal's screams. It didn't matter to Randal that he was leaving the room naked. All that mattered: he was leaving the room. He was crying as he ran past the other boys. Blood was streaming down his back. The other boys wanted to ask what had happened, but Finn, with his stick, was nearby. Back in Whitcomb's office, Stone asked, "Thet be enough?" It was enough for Whitcomb, but he wasn't certain it was enough for God. Under threat of the strap, Whitcomb knew a boy would say anything. To satisfy God, he would need corroboration. "No, bring in the others." It wasn't going well for the reverend. So far, none of the boys, even when threatened by the strap, had admitted to having observed any queer behavior. All of them had been guilty of it. None felt they could admit that it happened at all, lest he be accused as well. Sneed was the only boy in the attic who had never engaged in sexual play with other boys; and that had been their choice, not his. No one wanted so much as to touch him. He was the next to come into Whitcomb's office. "You know the boy who was hurt, don't you? asked Whitcomb. Sneed was terrified. He was afraid someone had seen him trip Gator on the stairs. "I-I don't rightly know him, Reverend. I seed him, but I don't rightly know him." "He know him, Reverend," said Stone. "He the one thet hit him. I beat him for it." "Strip him and bend him over the table." The boy had lied to him. That was reason enough to beat him. As Stone stripped the boy, he was screaming, "No. I ain't done nutin." He still thought it was all about Gator's accident. After tying the boy's feet to the table legs, Stone bent him across the table. "No," Sneed was still screaming. "I ain't done it." Whitcomb struck him across the back with the strap. Another blow and Sneed would confessed everything, but Whitcomb didn't ask him about the accident. "Is the boy a queer?" he asked instead. Taken aback, confused by the question, Sneed asked, "Whut boy?" Whitcomb struck him again. "Yes, he queer," said Sneed. He didn't care who it was the reverend meant. Rather than be hit, he would have squealed on anyone. He hated them all anyway. "The boy, Gator, he a queer?" Whitcomb had at last heard what he wanted. "Gator? Yes, suh. He a little queer. Both them little ones, they queer. They's always sucking on some'un's pecker or playing with each other. He a little queer all rite." "You've seen them. You swear before God-on your immortal soul?" "Yes suh, I seed them. They's always sucking on some'un's pecker." Looking around, although none of the other boys were present, he said, "They's always sucking on ole Robert's pecker. They's even let him put he's pecker in theys ass." Sneed was saying they, but Whitcomb was only hearing that he was talking about Gator. He had no interest in Randal. His appearance was-at best-average. Having what he needed, Whitcomb let Sneed go back to the attic. Other than Randal, he was the only one to go back naked with stripes across his back. They knew he'd told, but what had he told? Randal had already admitted that he had, but had sworn he'd only said that he and Gator were queer. He hadn't said anything about Robert. "What ya'll tell the reverend?" Robert asked Sneed, afraid he'd been accused of raping the boys. "I ain't said nutin." Two boys grabbed him, one by each arm. Robert grabbed hold of his balls-and squeezed. "I ain't said nutin," Sneed repeated. Robert squeezed harder. "They wants to know if'n the little boys be queer." He thought Robert was going to rip his balls out of their sack. Robert didn't care what Sneed had told Whitcomb about the little boys. He wanted to know what he'd said about him. After Robert twisted his balls again, Sneed admitted he'd told Whitcomb about Robert. Robert gestured with a flick of his head to the boys who held Sneed. They'd already discussed what they were going to do. After throwing him to the floor, where they held him, one stuffed a rag into his mouth. Robert pulled out a rusty bladed knife, he kept hidden in the room. Two other boys spread Sneed's legs. Grabbing the bottom of Sneed's scrotum, Robert pulled, stretching the skin of his sack. He began sawing at it with the dull knife, eventually cutting off the bottom of Sneed's nut sack, exposing his testicles. Grabbing first one, then the other, he sliced through their cords, dropping each ball-in turn-between Sneed's legs. That's how he'd seen calves done, except their balls were usually ripped out. In no time, Sneed's balls were swimming in his blood. Too weak-and in too much pain-to move, Sneed lay where he was, clutching at his mutilated groin with both hands. The others left him on the floor. He bled to death. When confronted later, all the boys swore he'd done it to himself. No one believed them, but Whitcomb cared nothing for Sneed. He'd keep him on the role-continue to collect for him from the State. He hadn't been much of a worker anyway. Now, Whitcomb would no longer have to look at him at the dinner table. The sight of the boy had been enough to spoil one's appetite. When Sneed had left his office, Whitcomb had dismissed Stone then called Reynolds, "I've received divine guidance. I want you to do the boy." Reynolds had been expecting the call. It had just been a matter of time. It would be interesting. He'd never done one so young. Would it be easier, he wondered? Surely, without so much to cut off, it would be. "We best wait a week," he said. "The boy, he need to recover from the accident first." Whitcomb agreed to wait the week. Chapter 9: Gator remained in the room. After two days, he was allowed out of bed, but had to keep his arm in a sling. Eating with the four dining room boys in the kitchen before the field hands ate, he was given all he wanted to eat. No one had told him he was to work with the house boys-and he was sent back to his room before field hands returned-but he thought he might. He couldn't understand why they were always so quiet-why they seemed so miserable. Their work wasn't hard and they had plenty to eat. Lenny was the only one who would even talk to him, and the looks he gave him seemed to often be filled with pity.. If he was going to be one of them, he couldn't understand why they wouldn't talk to him. By the end of the week, he was helping Ms Peters in the kitchen, trying his best, even though he could only use one arm. Gator wanted to stay downstairs. No one had raped him or had even asked him to suck his cock. Somehow, he didn't think any of the downstairs boys would. Lenny never mentioned sex; and he never heard any of the others mentioned it, either. He missed Randal, but being with Randal also meant being around Robert. His asshole finally closed properly. He didn't want to have it stretched out by Robert's cock again. Gator had just returned to his room after breakfast. He was always sent to his room while the field hands ate. Slipping his arm out of he sling, he flexed his hand. His shoulder was sore, but it wasn't bad. He thought he'd be able to use it in another week or two. Just then, the door opened. Whitcomb came in with another man, a short, fat, man with food stains on his shirt. Gator jumped to his feet. "Sit down, boy," said Whitcomb. His tone almost seemed friendly. "You don't remember Doctor Reynolds, but he looked after you when you were hurt. He wants to examine you again. "Hello, son," said Reynolds. "How's the head?" "It be fine, Doctor." "And the shoulder? I see you don't have your arm in the sling." "I were just testing it, Doctor." "Lie back. I want to examine you." Reynolds checked Gator's head, then ran his hand over his collarbone and shoulder. Gator winced when Reynolds raised his arm. "Just as I thought," said Reynolds. "There's a little bone out of place. I got to cut on ya'll a little, boy. It won't hurt, though. I'll give ya'll a little ether. Ya'll sleep right through it." Gator didn't like the idea of being cut on. He thought his shoulder was healing nicely. If Whitcomb hadn't been standing next to the doctor, he might have argued with the doctor about the need for any cutting; but Whitcomb, who intimidated him, was there. "Come with us, boy," said Whitcomb, as he opened the door. They took him to another room. Inside it was a table covered in plastic. "Take off your clothes and get on the table," the doctor told him. First, he just took off his t-shirt, thinking he wouldn't need to take off his pajama bottoms since the doctor planned to operate on his shoulder. "All your clothes," Doc Reynolds insisted. Gator slipped off his bottoms and climbed up on the table, keeping one hand over his genitals. The way Whitcomb looked at him made him uncomfortable. It reminded him of how Robert had looked at him before fucking him, although he couldn't even picture Whitcomb with a cock, much less a hard one like Robert's. Using straps connected to the table, the doctor tied down his hands and feet, then placed a strap across his chest. Gator couldn't move at all when he had finished. "Why ya'll doing thet?" he asked. "Now, we don't want ya'll moving around and spoiling things, do we? Opening his case, Doctor Reynolds took out a cloth covered strainer and a small brown bottle. He placed the strainer over Gator's nose and mouth, then poured a few drops from the bottle onto it. The liquid had a sweet, not unpleasant smell. "Breathe deep," said the doctor. Gator did. Before long, he felt as if he were falling, swirling around and around, like he was being sucked down a drain. It was dark, but bright lights, like comets, swirled along with him. Then, everything was just dark Everything winked out of existence, even himself. The boy was asleep. He was snoring softly. Reynolds looked at his little cock and balls. His testicles were little bigger than acorns. His penis, shrunken in his sleep, was only a couple of inches long. It'd be a simple operation. He'd have them off in no time. How many boys would this make? he wondered. He'd lost count, having cut boys for the reverend for over fifteen years now. One or two a year? That'd make maybe as many as twenty-five. At first, he'd just cut off their balls. That had been simple. As a vet, he'd cut off hundreds of sets of testicles off animals. He had to take more care with boys. They bled more; but that just meant he had to tie off the blood vessels to their nuts before cutting through the cords. About the third year he'd been nutting boys for the reverend, Whitcomb had decided he wanted their penises removed as well. That had been more difficult. Initially, he had just cut them off at the base of the penis, but that had been unsatisfactory. The boys had tended to urinate all over themselves, or all over the floor when they used the indoor toilet; besides, the cock didn't end at it's base, it extended beneath the skin, down between the legs. By studying medical texts, Reynolds had learned how to remove all the erectile tissue and how to relocate a boy's urethra so that it opened between his legs, allowing him to pee straight down into the toilet when he sat on it. He was proud of his work. Once a boy's pubic hair grew back, little evidence showed he'd ever had a cock or balls. Of course, this boy had no hair around his cock and balls-but he didn't have much cock and balls, either. Reynolds didn't think the scar would show much. He washed the boy's genitals. At least he wouldn't have to shave the boy's groin. Whitcomb stood on the other side of the table watching. He always watched. His cock was always hard while he watched. Reynolds could see it poking against his pants. Once the boy was clean, it was time to start. Well, boy. You'll never know what it's like to shoot a wad. You'll never grow hair around your cock, under your arms, or on your face. You'll always be as hairless as you are now. The other boys he'd cut had at least jacked off. All pubescent boys did, especially when they lived with other pubescent boys. This boy might have even tried it, but if he had, not much happened. No way he was old enough to cum. Reynolds made his first cut, splitting open Gator's scrotum from top to bottom; then he pulled the flaps of his sack aside, leaving his bluish white, acorn size, balls exposed. Time to say goodbye to them, boy. Time to say goodbye to being a boy. Using sutures, he tied off the cords to one of Gator's balls-then picked up a small pair of scissors. He hesitated a moment. He always did. The next step was irrevocable. Until it was done, it was possible to go back. He could stitch the boy's sack back together. He looked at the reverend. Whitcomb nodded his head. It was a ritual they always followed. Placing the scissors below the tie, Reynolds snipped. Gator's ball fell into his hand. He looked at it briefly, marveling how small it was, then dropped it into a bowl. The boy was halfway there-halfway toward becoming a eunuch. He tied off the other. The cords of the first weren't bleeding much. So far, the operation was going well. Picking up the scissors, he snipped through the cords of the second, not hesitating this time as before, nor looking to Whitcomb for permission to continue. Gator's other ball dropped into his hand. The boy was no longer-a boy. Welcome to another world, child. Reynolds no longer called him a boy, even in his thoughts. Welcome to the world of eunuchs. The easy part was done. Now for the hard part. He began by feeding a catheter through the boy's penis into his bladder. The other end drained into a bottle below the table. Doing the prepubescent boy was easier. It still took more than two hours to do it right, to remove all the boy's erectile tissue and relocate his urethra. Finally, he was finished. Reynolds stitched up the boy. He thought the child would heal nicely, leaving only a small scar where his cock had been. He had removed the the boy's scrotum as well. Sexless, he would be smooth and hairless once he'd healed. Whitcomb looked over his shoulder at the boy's crotch and nodded his approval. Reynolds smiled. He'd done a good job. He wondered if the boy would appreciate the care he'd taken. Probably not. Chapter 10: Gator woke up a while later. He was back in his bed, but straps, similar to the ones on the table held him down. A sheet was over him. He couldn't see any part of his body. It wasn't his shoulder that hurt-oh, it hurt when he strained at the straps, but it didn't hurt like it would, had it been cut-it was his groin that hurt, a sharp pain like he'd been cut there. How could that be? Was his body somehow confused, feeling pain in the wrong location? He wanted to look, but he couldn't. It hurt so much! He called out, "Help. Some'un, please help." Lenny had been waiting nearby for him to wake up. Hearing him, he came into the room. He'd asked Ms Peters for the job of caring for Gator. "What's wrong with me?" Gator asked. "It hurt so bad between mah legs." Gator was one of them now. Lenny had no reason to hide anything from him any longer. "The doctor, he cut off ya'll pecker and balls." Was he hearing Lenny right? Why would the doctor want to cut off his pecker and balls? He was supposed to operate on his shoulder, not cut off his pecker and balls. "Naw, he wouldn't do thet. Why wouild he cut off mah pecker and mah balls." "Cause ya'll queer. The reverend say he do it to save ya'll soul." "But, I ain't queer." "Them boys, they says ya'll is." "Whut boys?" "Thet little ole friend of ya'lls and thet pimply faced boy, the one thet died." Randal? Randal had said he was a queer, and Sneed? It sunk in, what Lenny had said, "Sneed is dead?" "Yep, some'un cut off he's balls and he died." "Is I gonna die?" "Naw, the doc, he fixed ya'll up good. I looked at it while ya'll asleep. He done a real nice job. Heah, I'll show ya'll. He just put a little ole diaper on ya'll, that's all." Lenny pulled back the sheet. A diaper was around his crotch. Lenny undid one of the safety pins and pulled the diaper aside. Gator lifted his head, straining to see. Lenny had been telling the truth. He had no pecker or balls. A bright red, stitched, cut ran from where his penis had been down toward his ass. He could see plastic tubing coming out from between his legs. Gator began crying. Seeing the cut made it hurt that much more. "I ain't queer," he said. "Why they do thet?" "They say ya'll suck some ole boy's pecker. They say ya'll and thet other little ole boy play with each other's peckers all the time." "Thet Robert, he make me suck he's pecker and Randal and I never do nutin much. We just play around wunst." "When the reverend want ya'll, it don't take much." "Robert and Randal? Did they cut of they's peckers?" "Naw, the reverend, he don't want them." "Whut ya'll mean, he don't want them?" Lenny had said enough. None of the boys talked about what happened in Whitcomb's bed at night. It was too hard to shut out as it was. "I don't want talk about it no more." "Ya'll don't want talk about it. Ya'll ain't the one got no pecker." As an answer, Lenny unbuttoned his jeans, dropping them to the floor. Other than a patch of blond hair, nothing was between his legs either. Staring at Lenny's crotch, Gator said, "None of ya'll? None of ya'll gots peckers?" "None of us gots peckers or balls neither. Ya'll one of us, now." "But, why?" "The reverend, he say we all queer. He say he saving our soul," but Lenny didn't believe that. He knew the real reason the reverend had done it. "But, how the reverend get away with it? They's laws again stuff lak this. Whut about them boys thet grow up and leave. Don't they never say nutin?" "No boy, he never leave. Not none of us, no how." "Whut ya'll mean?" "Just thet. None of us'll ever grow up and leave." "Whut happens to us'n?" "They be one boy. He name Sam. He work downstairs when they cut me. One night he heah. The next morning he not." "Maybe he run away." "No, he not run away. Stone, he come get him out of bed. Sam, he never come back." "You mean they kill him?" Lenny just shrugged. After he'd healed enough, Gator moved into the room with the other four downstairs boys. He worked with Lenny in the kitchen during the day and was given all he wanted to eat. Ms Peters rarely yelled at him, but he wasn't treated special. He was just another house boy, now, except that he kept to the back of the house when the field hands were in the home, he hadn't yet seen Randal. The downstairs boys used an indoor toilet in their part of the house, so he never went outside to the outhouses. It has seemed strange to have to sit to pee at first, but, now, he was accustomed to it. He had healed. His scar was still pink, but it had closed nicely. In time, it would scarcely show. He didn't particularly miss his balls. It was almost nice to not have to worry about having them squished. He'd never cum like those boy's in the attic had, though, and he'd so wanted to know how that felt. A boy needed full grown balls to cum-and a pecker. He had neither. Lenny had told him he'd never have hair on his crotch either, "I already had mah hair when's they cuts mah balls off," he had said. "If'n ya'll don't have hair when they cuts them off, ya'll never gets none." One night, he was in the room by himself. The other boys were working in the dining room. The door opened. It was Whitcomb. "Come with me," he said. Gator followed the reverend to his bedroom. "Take your clothes off." Gator did, standing in front of Whitcomb while the man stared at his empty groin. "Nice," said Whitcomb. The doc, he do nice work. Get on the bed. As instructed, Gator climbed on the bed. Whitcomb took off his clothes. Gator stared at his scrawny, but erect cock. Looking at his face, he saw that look again, the same look he'd seen on Robert's face, before Robert had fucked him. Whitcomb climbed onto the bed. He rubbed his hand over Gator's smooth crotch. "Nice," he repeated. Then, he had Gator raise his legs and poked the head of his cock against his hole. Robert had never done it that way. He'd always fucked him from the rear. Gator preferred it that way. At least, from the rear, he could close his eyes and pretend it wasn't happening. With the hair of Whitcomb's chest in his face, with the stale stink of him in his nostrils, it was harder to pretend. Whitcomb's cock, though, not as big as Robert's, didn't hurt as much; and one time was always enough for the reverend. Robert had often wanted more. When Whitcomb had dismissed him that first time, Gator had stood at the door with his clothes in his hand, Whitcomb's cum leaking from his rear. "I thought ya'll don't lak queer behavior," he said. "I'll tell you wunst, boy, and I don't want to never heah ya'll say it again. It be only queer behavior when a man do it to another man or boy. Ya'll ain't no longer no boy." No, Gator agreed, I ain't no longer no boy. The following night, Gator worked in the dining room. He helped serve the field hands. He said nothing to any of them. He never so much as looked any of them in the eye, not even Randal. A chasm existed between them and him. They were still boys. They still had hope. Even Randal-even if Robert was still fucking him-had hope. One day he would be old enough to leave, perhaps making some kind of life for himself in the outside world. He might even some day have kids of his own. Gator had hated it when Robert had been fucking him. He had wanted to be anywhere but up in the attic with him; but he'd had hope that it would someday end, that he would someday leave the home. Also, he'd had a picture of his mother. That had given him some solace. It was gone. After he'd fallen on the stairs, he'd never seen it again. That Whitcomb was fucking him wasn't the worst part. That he had no hope-that was worse. Some night-some time in the future-Stone would come for him. No-he'd never leave Reverend Whitcomb's Home for Boys. |