A LAMB FOR THE LION

by Attis

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WARNING: This story is for a mature reader who does not object to scenes of sexuality in stories with a minor. It is important for the plot of the story.

PLEASE NOTE: This rendering is a re-formated version of the rather well-conceived original story written by Attis and archived February 17, 2004. Other than inserting paragraph breaks and correcting the few mispellings, it is identical to the original but, hopefully, easier to read.

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A vacant hotel room in Atlanta

50394827364 12-20-03
---Delta Flt. 962 Atlanta (ATL) to Minn.-St. Paul (MSP) $229.00
54523466454 12-20-03
---Starbucks Coffee Shop (ATL) $7.80

The message was an order. Everyone who came in contact with it knew that. It was an order because it came from the Lion, and the Lion never requested anything. Accordingly, the otherwise perfunctory message was processed swiftly and in the mode appropriate for such matters. It was hand carried from Saudi Arabia to Kuwait, where it was doubly encrypted and sent as email that bounced off a dozen proxy servers until it reached an email account that had been specially created for the month of December. Indeed, that account existed only to receive a single message. Only one time was that account accessed after it had been set up two months earlier by an Iranian graduate student in Vancouver, Canada. The message resided, unread, for a single week, then disappeared forever.

The email, after it was decrypted twice using different passwords, read simply: "A lamb for the Lion."

Such a simple five word message should not have caused what followed, or perhaps it should be blamed entirely, if only because it was so innocuous. Despite its very simplicity the message was very clear to the one man who read it.

"My Lion desires another lamb, does he? So I must find another pretty American catamite to share his bed," Abdul Al Ghiran said aloud.

No one heard him. At the time, he was sitting in a hotel room. Room 2704 was a suite on the 27th floor of the Marquis Marriot in Atlanta. No one even knew that he was there at 9.30 a.m. on a Monday morning. In fact, the room was scheduled to be repainted and re-carpeted within minutes of him leaving. There wouldn't be so much as a fingerprint or a single hair left behind.

Abdul Al Ghiran was dark haired, with an olive complexion, not quite thirty-five years old, and clean shaven because for an Arab to have worn the customary beard would surely arouse suspicion following 9/11. His laptop was opened before him. It was not the latest model, but it sufficed for what he needed. It wasn't used that often or for anything that demanded much performance, although it came equipped with certain file protection software as befitted a man of his vocation, a procurer.

No longer did he need to refresh his memory of the Lion's basic specifications. This was the third 'cat' in as many years that he had delivered to the man. He didn't care what happened to the boys after leaving them with the middleman. What happened when they were with the Lion, he neither knew nor cared. He assumed, correctly, that they seldom lasted longer than a few months. The Lion could be very cruel at times. The boys just disappeared, one after the other, like they had been sent to the minotaur in Crete.

Abdul Al Ghiran quickly entered the appropriate keystrokes, downloaded the less-than-2K attachment, and within a minute brought forth the Lion's five-line file, no longer encrypted. He read slowly, easily committing the concise if somewhat curt details to memory.

• Boy. 9-11. US Caucasian. Must sing.
• Blond hair, blue eyes preferred.
• Above avg. intelligence. NOT fat!
• All expenses, deliver via Paris contact.
• C&C healed prior to $50K COD.

Abdul Al Ghiran smiled, although nothing was amusing to him. There was no surprise. Not really. The Lion's requests for boys were seldom so unusual as to cause him much of a problem. This time, he wanted a boy who could sing. It was vaguely amusing, the Lion wanting a boy who could sing. Why that? Still, the Lion wanted what the Lion wanted. It was not his job to question taste. However, it would complicate the procurement process somewhat, to say the least, but not to the degree that the he would turn down the assignment.

The last line was also entirely predictable as well, although it always irritated him to see it set down as a formal requirement. C&C. There, in two simple letters, was the ultimate contradiction. One resulted in the most important mark, the sign of Allah's glory, especially if the circumcision was performed in the appropriate manner, and the other? It was the ultimate indignity for a boy. It was also illegal because Moslem law forbid castration, at least for Moslems in Islam. It was a different matter for non-Believers. Fortunately, it was not difficult to arrange if one knew where to go. The boy's circumcision, which might or might not be needed, and castration, which most certainly would be needed, were his responsibility, even if he didn't wield the knife. Arrangements would have to be made for it to be properly done because tradition was very important to the Lion.

Medically speaking, a misnomer in a way because a doctor was not going to be involved, the elimination of a boy's maleness was a relatively simple procedure compared to the rest of the assignment. Far harder was the task of locating and then kidnapping a boy who met the specifications, and spiriting him across the Atlantic to Cairo. There, Abubakar would take care of the rest of it in less than an hour. Simple as it was to do, that part of his assignment still necessitated a delay in delivering the boy of a week or two. It took that long to heal. It was risky too, if not done by an experienced hand.

The reason that motivated such drastic action was known only by a few men. Unlike Abdul Al Ghiran's other clients who much preferred eunuchs over boys with their genitals intact, the Lion was not so inclined. He had sworn a sacred vow that he would not lie with a woman until the battle was won against American-Zionist aggression. Neither would he lie with a man, since the Koran expressly prohibited it. Thus, a eunuch boy was the only option for him to obtain relief, and an American boy in particular since it reflected on his power. If a few boys suffered the loss of their maleness to make the Lion happy, it was no one's fault but the warmongers in Israel and the White House. It was nothing more than what the Zionist-loving Americans deserved, the fate of all men who rejected Mohammed for false prophets.

The fee was small compared to what he usually received. It represented just one fifth of his normal quarter-of-a-million US dollars. Under any other circumstances it would have been insufficient to ensure the request was given any priority at all. However, the fee was unnecessary. Abdul Al Ghiran served the Lion before all others. The Lion was very generous in other ways, especially for matters that were important to him. Indeed, Abdul Al Ghiran would keep very little of the fifty thousand dollars for himself. The rest would go to aid the struggle against Zionist oppression.

He closed the laptop only after he'd booked and paid for a one-way flight to Minneapolis-St. Paul, Flight 962, on the 20th of December with a previously unused Visa credit card in the name of Jeffrey Alvin Dalton. His destination made perfect sense to him. After all, there were more blond-headed, blue-eyed boys to be found in Minnesota than anywhere else in the United States. Surely, one of them would have to be able to sing. It went without saying that the criteria also included good looking, presenting the only real challenge in the assignment if only for the simple matter that he considered himself something of a connoisseur of boys.

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23485373202 12-20-03
---Three day rental Dec 22-24 Ryder Co, St. Paul
64563431212 12-20-03
---St. Paul Motor Inn. Three nights. Bus rate. $274.50
52441232323 12-20-03
---Warner's Restaurant, St. Paul $47.23
52441456354 12-21-03
---Warner's Restaurant, St. Paul $38.20

As luck would have it, snow fell on the afternoon of the 23rd of December. There was not a lot of snow. Just three inches over as many hours, certainly not enough to close down the airport and re-route incoming flights. There was just enough snow on the roads to delay homebound traffic by thirty minutes.

Inside the Cathedral of St. Paul, on 4th Street, three dozen boys sang to the glory of God. Three dozen boys were attired in black trousers and white shirts. For once there were no scuffed sneakers or insulated boots. Instead, they were wearing polished black shoes for the final rehearsal. Amongst those angelic boys, some slim, some cherubic, there were but two voices that could shatter crystal. Two pure sopranos that were matched with powerful lungs and the desire to make music that reached, if not to the heavens, then to the far corners of the cavernous gothic-revival building. One of the voices belonged to Shayne Santorini.

He stood in the middle of the first row. Unlike the other boys whose hair was blond or light brown, and more often than not was either closely cropped or styled in the latest fashion, Shayne's hair was dark and long. He had unruly hair that rejected brushing, hair that was too long for a boy with curls that reached well past his eyebrows or lapped his collar from behind, hair that could have been inherited either from his Irish-Catholic mother or his Greek father. His pale complexion and cerulean eyes made him appear more innocent than the rest, and that was despite a mischievous smile. If his good looks were not enough, his noticeably dimpled cheeks were guaranteed to bring unwanted attention.

He sang with all his strength, forming Latin words whose meaning escaped him with near perfect diction. His voice wavered only once, because he missed a breath. The choir leader immediately scowled in his direction, then recognizing the culprit softened from a stern glare to merely frowning his displeasure. Any other choirboy would have surely incurred his wrath, but not Shayne. He had that effect on people, especially for those men who favored his delicate almost girlish features for reasons of their own. A single glance at him was enough to form an opinion that he was different to the other boys. He was without guile, yet he was as seductive as any ten-year-old boy could be. Indeed, it might have been thought by people who didn't know him that he even went out of his to incur the favor of the men who looked at him. He recovered his demeanor quickly, gaining vigor in his voice for the final chorus of the 12th century hymn. It was an honor for him to take the lead. It ended in a crescendo of song and organ. He was breathless, if not humiliated.

"Shayne!"

"Yes Father?"

"And what was that exactly?"

"I'm sorry, Father."

There were no excuses allowed. The priest towered over him, a gaunt grey-haired man in a cassock of Franciscan appeal. It made no difference to him whether the boys were nine or twelve. Perfection was expected of them all, even of a boy of his favorite age.

"Don't do it again!"

His shoulders drooped, his expression glum, but not because of the reprimand. During the last carol he had scanned the rows of seats, even the long aisles. There were parents scattered in the nave, one or two sitting in every row as far back as the transept. There were even one or two people he didn't recognize. Perhaps they were friends of the choristers, he mused. One was a man, which caused him some amusement, thinking that the man might even be another boy's special friend. The man had been there every day for the last three days. It was almost like he was taking Peter's place. On the second scan, there was still no sign of Peter. Peter was supposed to be there before practice ended. Peter didn't like him walking home by himself when it was dark.

Shayne took his time taking off his shoes and putting on his boots, expecting Peter to arrive any moment. He kept looking up, checking the front doors because that was where Peter would come from once he'd parked his car. Several minutes passed and still no cheerful greeting. He wasn't worried. Peter had been delayed before. Besides it was snowing outside, or it had been when he walked the four blocks from his home.

Finally, unable to delay much longer because everyone else had already departed, he picked up his jacket, a down-filled, oversized so-he-could-grow-into-it snow jacket that must have cost Peter a lot of money. It came with a fuzzy-lined hood that almost enclosed his face. Putting it on and closing the zipper was a bit like getting into a sleeping bag. It puffed out around him so that he might have resembled the Pillsbury dough-boy except that his jacket was blue and black.

He left the same way that he came in. He reasoned that it only made sense because he might meet Peter on the way in, but the real reason was something else. It was safer that way. It was a lot faster going home if he went out the side door and down the alley, but that meant going past Father Joseph's office. He didn't like being alone with Father Joseph. In fact, he went out of his way to avoid it. Nothing had happened, at least nothing that could be reported to someone, and certainly nothing of any significance had happened since he told Peter. Then, Peter had come with him to confession and talked to the priest before he went in. Still, there were lots of looks that unsettled him. Not that being looked at like that bothered him as much as it used to. He received lots of looks from men, and most of them made him feel uncomfortable in the pit of his belly. It was different with Peter even though the looks were similar. He liked those looks. He still got feelings in his belly, but they were more like butterflies.

He kicked snow and sent breathy mist into the night air as soon as he went outside. There was no sign of Peter, or of Peter's car. The only vehicle to be seen was a rental truck, one of the yellow Ryder vans that displayed the prices on the rear doors. He tromped down the half-dozen stairs, feeling clumsy and slow in his boots. It was next to impossible to run in boots and snow jacket. He started towards home, happily humming to himself. It wasn't that far, just a few blocks. He had Peter's key in his pocket. He could let himself in and.... He smiled at the thought of what he would do. He would brush his teeth before going into Peter's bedroom. He could be lying naked in bed, waiting with the Vaseline, when Peter came home. Peter would be happy. Yes, Peter would be very happy, especially if he had the 'urge' as they had taken to calling it. They were both looking forward to doing it again.

After another block, he turned right so that he would pass the park where he had first met Peter. It was just a few months ago, before the leaves changed color, but it seemed longer. It seemed as if he had known Peter all of his life, or only for a few seconds. Peter always said that life was full of surprises. He didn't hear the van pull up behind him because of the snow, because he was thinking of Peter. There were no witnesses, but it there had been they surely would have described it as Godzilla meeting Bambi. The boy was swept off his feet, both literally and figuratively. There was never a chance for him to escape. One moment he was walking, dreamily remembering how he had started playing with Peter's frisky Brittany so many months ago, the next instant he was scooped up by a man who was three times his size. The glove that was forced over his mouth was soaked in pungent fluid that made him choke and cough. He remembered only a few seconds of what happened next before he passed out. He kicked, he bit, and then he was slammed onto the floor of the van with a bruising thud. As his eyes closed, the rear door of the van closed and everything went black. Very, very black.

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23542525213 12-21-03
---Lug-it Samsonite World Proof 30 Hardside $159.99
43551233129 12-21-03S
---t. Paul Medical Supply Co. Miscellaneous $154.84
52441232399 12-21-03
---Warner's Restaurant, St. Paul $17.23

Much as Peter Hamilton expected, there was no one at the cathedral. Expecting to find Shayne walking home since he had arrived somewhat later that the few minutes they had agreed upon, he followed the only logical route, down 4th Street. No matter how direct the route was, he still detoured a block to go past the park, their park. He looked into the gloom, past skeletal trees, beyond the snow-covered field to the playground where he met the boy of his dreams. What he remembered was the picture of innocence, a lonely nearly-ten-year-old boy making friends with a liver and white frolicsome dog who had no manners at all. The dog was all over the little boy, licking him on any exposed skin he could find.

It was funny to watch and innocent too, at least at the start, but he when he finally found the courage to walk over and introduce himself, he got hard awfully hard because the boy was 'drop dead gorgeous.' By the time he finally managed to separate them and calm the dog down, he was head-over-heels in love. So was the dog. It was all so...so natural. They needed each other.

There was no sign of Shayne in the park, but Peter wasn't worried. He continued on his way, still looking for the boy who he had taken to calling 'lover-boy', because it was true, but it was only when it was just the two of them and the dog. Had it been daylight, there was a chance that he might have noticed the disturbed snow next to the tire marks. Even in the darkness of a late December night, there was still a chance, because there was a streetlight nearby, but Peter Hamilton was thinking of Shayne's beautiful body and the utterly delightful things that they could do together for the rest of the night, all through the night if they wanted. And tomorrow night too, because Shayne's mother was a nurse and she had taken a double night shift at the hospital where she worked to get some extra money for the holiday season.

It was both reassuring and unsettling that she trusted him with her son, which didn't say a lot for her judgment, or maybe it did, because he did love Shayne. It wasn't infatuation, although it would have been easy to become infatuated with a boy like Shayne. It really was love. He loved Shayne and Shayne loved him back. And the sex? Well, one thing was certain. Shayne wasn't a virgin. They had done it for the first time only a week earlier, gone all the way, fucked. It was just the one time, although he got hard again before he pulled out so maybe it was twice. The strange thing was that once they had decided to do it, they discovered that is was remarkably easy to accomplish. Indeed, it was so much fun after only a few minutes that both of them realized that it was going to be essential to the love they shared. He couldn't wait to do it again. He fantasized about leaving it inside Shayne throughout the night. He hummed with happiness just thinking about it. Shayne's mother would have killed him if she knew what he dreamed of doing to her son that night. It wouldn't take very long the first time, but he planned on making the other times last.

There was no sign of Shayne when Peter arrived at his apartment. That was when he became worried. Really worried. He started making telephone calls. Father Joseph was the first one he called, even though he didn't like or trust the man. Then, he called Davy Gradison, who was Shayne's best friend, because there was a chance that Shayne went to play. He followed with a couple of the parents of other choristers, because the priest suggested it, and it made sense. After each person gave the answer he didn't want to hear, he became increasingly worried. He called Shayne's mother, Alicia. Then, he called 911. As he did so, he mulled over the incongruity of that number and 9/11, and then he tried to marshal his thoughts into some sort of coherence, or at least so as to not arouse suspicion. He was a concerned friend of the family.

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54534234231 12-22-03
---Walmart. St Paul Miscellaneous Items $64.56
23324229793 12-22-03
---Home Depot, St Paul, 2' plastic tube, 2" duct tape $9.40
98953242423 12-22-03
---Lucy's Upholstery Store. 4'x8'x4" cushion foam $74.39
52441232323 12-23-03
---Warner's Restaurant, St. Paul $12.23

The process of handling missing person reports was somewhat accelerated for that time of the year, but especially so when the person was a child. Peter Hamilton's phone call was immediately routed to Detective White, who was a woman with a man's voice. Peter's hair, already spiky at the back, went up like a dog's bristles. 'Time to be careful', he mentally instructed himself.

"His name is Shayne Santorini. Like the Great Santini, but with an 'or' in the middle." It was a standing joke between them. It made him feel good, just to say it. Very few people knew of the Mediterranean island of the same name.

Already, his heart was thumping. God alone knew why he was so scared. Actually, he knew why he was scared as well. The conversation went poorly from the outset, when he gave his name.

"No, he's not my son. He's a friend. Yes...his mother? Alicia Santorini. Of course, she knows. I just got off the phone with her. What? She's coming here right away, of course. He was supposed to meet me at St Paul's. What? S-T-P-A-U-L-S. It's the cathedral downtown. Sorry, I didn't mean to shout. Yes. Okay. He's in the choir there. He had practice today. I was going to pick him up at 5.30 but with the snow, I ran late. About six, I think. Father Joseph, that's right, Joseph. I don't know his last name. Everyone calls him Father Joseph. He's the priest who's in charge of the choir. I called him first. He said that Shayne had walked home. So I drove the way he would go. There was no sign of him. No, he's supposed to come to my place tonight. His mom's working late. He wasn't here when I arrived. Yes, I called his friends. Yes, I looked. No, I didn't search the fucking building. Sorry. Okay. Yes, I'll search right away. Call you back? Yes, of course. When? Okay."

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23434234299 12-23-03
---Am. Air Flt 231 Minn-St Paul (MSP) to Rome $750

It was several hours later when Abdul Al Ghiran turned into the parking area of the St. Paul Motor Inn. His success in the park urged even greater caution, and a lot still remained to be done before he could relax. He backed the van up and turned the motor off. It was as close to his ground-floor room as he could get. Transferring the unconscious boy from the rear of the van into his room was simply a matter of putting the boy inside the suitcase. He was pleased to see that there was ample room. A few of the boys he had kidnapped had broad hips and shoulders so that he had to skimp on the padding. This boy was the perfect size to transport. Not only would he arrive unbruised but he would be easy to carry as well.

After lifting the now eighty-five pound suitcase down from the truck he quickly wheeled it inside and locked the door behind him. He placed the boy on the only bed in the room and stood back to admire him. The child was as special as he had seemed when Abdul Al Ghiran had initially observed him singing in the cathedral choir. What better place to find a boy who could sing? And the angelic boy on the bed could sing. He sang like a nightingale, he thought. That alone would please the Lion, but the boy was so beautiful that it would not matter that he had dark hair instead of blond hair.

For the first time since he had jerked the boy off his feet and clamped his hand over the small frantic mouth, Abdul Al Ghiran breathed deeply. It was a sigh of relief, even though the worst part was still to come. Momentarily, he studied what little of the boy that he could see beyond the burgeoning snow-jacket. The hands were fine-boned with longish fingers. The skin was smooth, unblemished, sallow, delicate the way a boy's hands were supposed to be when his role was to please a man. Abdul Al Ghiran licked his lips with anticipation when he imagined the depraved things those small hands would soon be required to do. There was still a lot to do, not the least being to remove all of the evidence of the boy's disappearance.

Getting the eight foot by four foot sheet of four inch foam into the motel room presented a problem because it would not fit into the suitcase. He compressed it onto the plywood floor of the van and used a box-cutter to slice it into several pieces.

The first boy who he had kidnapped in St. Louis died en route to Turkey by drowning in his own vomit. That was ten years ago. Now, he knew what to do. He took no chances. He waited until the boy began to regain consciousness. Then, he went to work. Shayne was still very groggy when Abdul Al Ghiran started to administer the luke-warm mixture of syrup of ipecac to induce vomiting and a solution of magnesium sulfate for good measure. The latter was both a harsh laxative and speedy cathartic, and cheap. It was easily purchased in any drug store because it was generally used for a quite different purpose than purging a young boy's stomach and intestines. Almost as soon as Shayne became aware of his surroundings, he began to vomit over the bedspread. Some of it splattered across his expensive jacket. Abdul Al Ghiran looked away, even turning up the television volume to drown out the sound of retching. As soon as the first wave was over, Shayne slumped back into darkness, not appreciating his predicament, or even realizing that another person was in the room with him.

While the boy slept, Abdul Al Ghiran set about removing his clothes. He was rough and cruel by nature, but not unnecessarily so because of the boy's special destiny. If the boy woke up, it wouldn't matter either way, but it was more enjoyable revealing the boy's body while he slept. From the moment he laid eyes on the boy in the choir, he had planned to do it slowly, relishing the task. That was always the best way. One piece of clothing at a time, savoring what could be seen and what was still covered. First, the bulky down-filled jacket that stank from vomit. He threw it across the room. He had seen the boy in his virginal white shirt only a few hours earlier and suddenly he wanted to see more, much more. He began to unbutton the front of the shirt. His hands trembled. Some boys had that affect on him, an affect that was so strong that he was unable to control himself. He ripped the last few buttons apart. He pulled the shirt apart and gazed at the pale slender body. The boy's nipples were tiny, like his slightly indented navel. The flesh was warm as he stroked across the firm belly. The Lion would be pleased. Very pleased indeed. He lifted the boy's shoulders up and removed the shirt, discarding it on the floor because the boy would never wear it or any other western shirt again.

The boy's arms were smooth and lean with only the slightest trace of peach fuzz on the forearms. It wasn't worth shaving off. Abdul Al Ghiran licked his lips and studied the sleeping boy. He would never admit to anyone, not even to himself, that he envied the Lion, but this boy was different than the others. This boy was truly beautiful. With surprising calm, he directed his attention to the boy's feet, unlacing his shoes before removing them. Then, the socks. The feet were small, like a girl's feet. The toenails, like the fingernails, were perfectly shaped and clipped close to the cuticle.

He unfastened the metal button and opened the zipper of the boy's trousers with nervous hands. It was so easy to spoil perfection. A single flaw, a mole in the wrong place, a scar. Cautiously, with tense movements, he removed the boy's carefully pressed black dress trousers. The legs were thin, as he expected, not well muscled, but not scrawny. Just beautiful. There was even less hair on his legs than on his arms. The thighs were smooth, slim, just the way the Lion liked. Legs that were neither masculine or feminine, but somewhere in between. All that remained was the boy's underwear, colorfully striped boxers. They felt like silk. Abdul Al Ghiran drew them down very slowly.

At first he did not believe his eyes. There was a ring of gold around the boy's penis. At the very bottom of it, where his scrotum joined. It was like a wedding ring, at least that was what he first thought of. Then, he saw the carved hieroglyphics that encircled the rim. At first, in a bizarre twist of fate, he thought the writing was Arabic. He reached down and pulled it off, musing as he did so why a boy would have a ring on his penis. The writing was not something that he could read. However, he was sufficiently familiar with young boys and their unusual habits, that he gave it no thought beyond putting the ring in his pocket. It was the only thing of Shayne's that he intended not to be destroyed. Nothing would be left in the room after he was finished.

When he awoke the second time, Shayne was naked and lying on his side in the bathtub. He vomited again, this time over himself, splattering his pearly skin with yellow fluid. As soon as his heaving ended, the cramping began. His bowels released before he could get up from his prone position. Barely had he recovered from the first bout of diarrhea when the second came, flushing out the remnants of digestion. That time, the stench was unbearable, even to Abdul Al Ghiran who had smelled it often enough to be used to it, yet it pleased him to see the watery dribble at the end. At least the boy would not drown in his own vomit or foul the suitcase.

The mixture that had caused him such distress was soon followed by another potion, an oily extract of the castor plant. Shayne fought to keep the ungodly liquid from his mouth, but there was little he could do to stop it. He gagged violently as it flowed into his mouth, even spitting some of it out before the man's hands forced his jaws apart and drained the bottle into his esophagus. And then, just as Shayne recognized the man before him, he shrieked as cold water from the shower sprayed down upon him. He shook uncontrollably, unable to resist as he was shoved back and forth under the water. Finally, when he was rinsed clean, the man dragged him from the shower. A cloth was forced into his face, covering both his nose and mouth. For the second time, he smelled the pungent over-powering fumes and he struggled to resist the arms that clasped him, wrapped his naked cold body in towels, and lifted him up onto the vanity. He was losing consciousness again even before he was placed in a face up position on the counter top.

What followed required more than a little care because of the nature of what needed to be done. There, in the harsh fluorescent light, everything that needed to be seen could be seen. There was more than a half inch of skin that protruded beyond the head of the boy's silky cock to form a nozzle-like pucker. Although it was not too late to correct the problem, it still angered Abdul Al Ghiran that such an otherwise absolutely perfect boy could be fouled merely because of his parents' neglect in circumcising him. Unlike his own parents, who waited until their son was old enough to have it done in the traditional manner of Islam, if a western boy retained his skin after birth, it was intended to remain until he died. It fouled the child. For that reason only, Abdul Al Ghiran donned a pair of latex gloves that would have been at much at home in a surgery as in the paint section of the hardware store where he bought them. He was ready for anything. Indeed, the little piece of skin that puckered from the tip of the boy's cock was quite unexpected, although he had heard only recently that American parents were increasingly choosing the unclean appearance for their sons. What surprised Abdul Al Ghiran was the apparent ease with which the foreskin retracted to expose the perfectly shaped if tiny helmet within. Usually, a young boy's foreskin was tight, in some cases even adhered to underneath.

Although he would not do it himself, he knew what needed to be done for the Lion's particular taste. In a way, an uncircumcised boy offered an opportunity that seldom came along. The Ring of Allah could be made as it should be made, not at the top of the shaft, but at the very bottom. Indeed, he had seen the procedure performed only three times before, twice on boys he'd procured and once upon himself when he was nine years old, in a tent in the desert of Saudi Arabia. Actually, he considered himself lucky that his cock wasn't flayed in the Bedouin tradition.

With amusement he fingered the child's prick until it became erect, then he pulled the prepuce down, completely exposing the head. Fascinated despite his disgust, he drew the rippling folds further down the thin hard shaft, until he observed what he hoped to find, that there was sufficient inner skin for the entire length. The circumcision scar would be at the very base. It would have the appearance of a kind of wedding ring because of the narrow band of darker tissue. A circumcision like that would have the effect of covering the shaft almost entirely with delicate mucous membrane instead of the more durable outer sheath. The boy's cock would have a glossy shine to it whenever it was erect for the skin would be stretched very tightly.

His attention turned to the boy's scrotal pouch. Like the child-sized cock protruding boldly above it, there too was a surfeit of skin. He fondled the delicate balls without applying much pressure, until he was able to lure them from their hiding places underneath and capture them between his fingers. They were as small as they appeared beneath the silky folds of pale skin. He was not experienced enough to detect the slight enlargement that preceded the arrival of puberty, yet he realized that maturity was at least a year or two away. Not that it mattered for the boy was destined never to know the delight of shooting his seed. For himself, he secretly preferred boys who had begun to ejaculate, but it did present a problem for many of his clients.

Just two tiny eggs could make all the difference in the world. With them, a boy was male, and therefore forbidden to a Moslem. Without, a boy was nothing, neither male or female, but a eunuch, an in-between. The word itself meant 'keeper of the couch', as much a guardian of the harem, as a means to satisfy a man's lust. He had seen the gelding done often enough, for most clients who preferred boys generally wanted them without their eggs. It was not performed as easily as circumcision, not at all, but it was nothing that required a doctor's surgery, not if one knew how to do it in the traditional way.

He continued to hold the boy's cock like that, with the foreskin pushed all the way back, while he inserted a No. 2 catheter into the urethra. It took patience, something that he normally had little of, and even less when he was under pressure. The boy's cock was fully erect and the tiny opening was barely large enough for the thin rubber tube, so it was rather like threading a needle. Nearly six inches went in before the boy's bladder was punctured and a stream of yellow urine squirted out the end and into the basin.

As soon as it finished, Abdul Al Ghiran began the task of taping the boy's limbs. First, a second skin of tightly stretched plastic wrap was applied, then loops of duct tape were wound around the arms to pull the boy's hands to his shoulders, and around his legs to secure his feet beneath his buttocks. He inserted the long rectal tube and securely taped the collection bag into place just in case there was something left inside. There would be no messy accidents this trip. Only when the task was finished did he stop to think how easily the tube had entered. He put the thought aside quickly. This wasn't the Middle East. The boy was most definitely a virgin. If only American parents knew that carefully protecting their sons in a bubble-like innocence made them all the more desirable to men like himself and the Lion.

More plastic wrap was applied to the boy's face, momentarily smothering him until Abdul Al Ghiran inserted two No. 6 catheters through the plastic film and into the boy's nostrils and down his nasal passages so that breathing was restored. Each catheter was connected to a piece of plastic tubing which would terminate in parts of the suitcase that had been specially prepared to guarantee a supply of fresh air. Then, more duct tape was wound around and around until a metallic-gray hood completely enclosed his head, until the child's back and chest were crisscrossed with two-inch stripes. By then, the boy's body, now bound into the fetal position, was completely immobilized. It would not matter if he did regain consciousness, and if he died, he would do so silently. Only two things remained to be done before the boy was placed in the suitcase. He secured the urinary catheter and a plastic collection bag to the boy's slender thigh with more tape. Then, he inserted an intravenous needle and feeding tube into a vein in the upper right forearm. For the next 36 hours the boy would survive on a liquid diet of Pedialyte and dissolved sleeping pills.

Only then, did Abdul Al Ghiran turn on the television set. He was shocked by the first thing that he heard. The director of the Department of Homeland Security had only that moment announced a change in the alert status from yellow to orange. It had happened before. The delay at the airport would be hours long, especially with the rental truck. With security concerns at the forefront of his mind, Abdul rushed to leave. He left the room not as he had found it, and certainly not as he intended, but fouled with feces, vomit, and scattered clothes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

34355393539
---Veterans of America Cab Co. 5 miles. St, Motor Inn to Airport. $15.00
23434234928 12-23-03
---Am. Air Flt 231 MSP to Rome 45 lbs Excess Baggage $25
54484954545
---Starbucks Coffee Shop Minneapolis-St Paul (MSP) $12.30

Of course, Peter Hamilton was the prime suspect. That was the nature of kidnapping investigations. First look to the family's trusted friends because more than likely one of them was guilty. A computer program weighed probability, motive, opportunity, and whatever else was needed to make the same decision as Detective White. Within four hours, which was about the time that Shayne was being taken aboard an American Airlines 737 at Minneapolis-St Paul International Airport, a search warrant was issued for Peter's apartment. Nothing was discovered to implicate him, not as a kidnapper, not even as Shayne's lover. Only Peter's computer skills saved him in the latter situation because evidence of the latter certainly existed if someone knew how to find it. There were over a hundred jpeg image files hidden inside his computer. Taking photographs of Shayne without his clothes was but one of the games they played in Peter's bedroom. The files weren't encrypted, just encoded and hidden.

Peter knew better than most people how to hide things on a computer. His profession, if it could be called that, was computer security expert for CA, assigned to manage the upper-mid-west region. Long ago he realized that the best place to hide something was in the open where everyone could see it, or in this case, hear it. The only requirement was that no one knew what they were looking for, or how to translate a music track back into what were sometimes obscene photographs of a ten-year-old boy. It wasn't surprising that Peter's favorite group was the Trans Siberian Orchestra. In the cacophony of sounds, his jpeg noise went unnoticed.

Nearly 12 hours had elapsed from the time that Shayne was kidnapped before the focus of the investigation shifted from interrogating Peter Hamilton to checking his alibi. Only then was any thought given to the possibility of an unknown perpetrator, and by then it was too late. The plane that Shayne was on was already making its final approach into Rome's da Vinci Airport.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

34534505359
---Air Italia Flt 23 Rome () to Cairo () Departing Dec 24th L. 568,000
67535332222
---Trattoria Bernadetto. Roma. Prix fixe, vino, gratuite Dec. 24th. L. 30,800

On Christmas Eve evening Peter Hamilton sat in St. Paul's and cried while 35 boys in pure white surplices sang carols. There was an empty place in the middle of the front row, a place where Peter stared. He longed desperately to hear Shayne's pure soprano voice, to see his infectious grin or that shy awkward smile he had whenever he wanted to be touched by the man who he loved, but was too embarrassed to initiate something.

Peter had noticed that Shayne had the same smile when they made love, even if it had only been one time. For the days that followed that, he was incredibly happy, happier than he had ever been. More, he could tell that Shayne was happy. It wasn't simply a matter of being inside Shayne's wonderful body, tight and hot though it was. They were both happy just being together, but making love had taken that happiness to an even higher level. Joining their bodies was the natural outcome of what they felt about each other. Shayne claimed it didn't hurt that much. In fact, it was Shayne who kept asking if they could do it again.

Peter waited until the performance ended, until the priest gave a brief sermon and blessing that was appropriate to the season, until communion was finished, and people were leaving the cathedral. Only then did he find the courage to walk up to Father Joseph.

"Yes, my son? Oh, it's you." There was bitterness in his voice, but it passed quickly. "There's no word on the Santorini boy?"

"Nothing," Peter said bluntly.

He resented Shayne being referred to as 'the Santorini boy'...especially after Shayne had been in the choir for nearly two years. In his opinion, the priest was guilty of something. In Alicia's opinion, Father Joseph was responsible too, but only in so far as he had been remiss in allowing the boy to walk home by himself in the dark.

"I'm so terribly sorry. I've spoken to all the parents. No one has seen him. Perhaps he ran away?"

"No! Shayne wouldn't do that."

The priest inclined his head, thoughtfully considering. "Yes, I agree with you. Actually, for the last few months he always struck me as being very happy." He stopped to straighten a pile of papers. "You're fond of the lad, aren't you?"

His question took Peter back. 'Fond?' There had never been a time when his feelings for Shayne could be called 'fond'. He was fond of Shayne, very fond, because it was impossible not to like a boy like him, but it was always part of his love, an endearing, all encompassing love. He nodded slightly, not much but it was enough to show agreement. It also provoked comment. The priest nodded understandingly.

"He's rather attached to you, isn't he?"

"We're close friends," Peter answered brusquely. He resented how the priest inferred something more than friendship in his choice of words, even if it was true.

"You've not been here for choir practice at all this week, have you?"

"No. I had business to take care of," he replied.

He found himself resenting the priest's implication that he had been there, then Shayne would not have been kidnapped. He didn't need to be told that he was responsible. It was his fault because he wasn't there, because he was too busy at work to be there for Shayne when he really needed him

However, it was the carefully compiled timeline for business meetings and the phone calls he had made back at his apartment that finally provided his alibi. There was simply no time for him to do anything except the things he had claimed to have done the day that Shayne disappeared.

"It distracts him, when you're not here," the priest mused aloud. "I think he sings his best when you're here."

He gestured to the side aisle, to the row of seats that had become Peter's by virtue of his presence.

"And the police? They've found nothing yet?" he added.

"Nothing!" Peter could not hide the disgust. Shayne had disappeared from the face of the earth and there wasn't a single clue to be found.

"They came here to ask me about you," the priest confided. "So many questions. They kept me for an hour. They wanted to know about your relationship with him. I didn't tell them anything. Of course, you'll understand why I expect?"

Again, he ended with a question, but it wasn't one that Peter planned on answering. The man's manner unsettled him even more than the police interrogation he had undergone. They had given the impression that he was lying. The priest gave a very different impression...that he knew Peter had something to hide.

"You didn't tell them anything?"

"Nothing other than you're a good friend of the family and Shayne is fond of you. But that's only the truth, isn't it?"

"That's true," Peter agreed apprehensively

"However, it's not the complete truth, is it?"

"Meaning what?" Peter demanded.

"You and I are a lot alike," the priest observed quietly. "We enjoy similar things, I think. I'm quite sure we do in fact. We do, don't we?"

"Such as?" Peter queried. Increasingly, he distrusted the man.

"Ah, shall we say the sweetness of youthful innocence. The purity of an unbroken voice. The delight of a kiss given willingly. A shy smile that means something more than happiness. I'm sure you appreciate those things. You do, don't you?" The priest smiled, not shyly.

"A poet in the priesthood?" Peter said cruelly.

"No, just an admirer, like yourself."

Peter was taken aback. He swallowed dryly. The man's tone said a lot more than his words. "An admirer? Of what?"

"Ah. Our previous discussion about dear little Shayne has been forgotten already it seems?"

'What are you saying?" Peter demanded abruptly. He didn't like the way the priest referred to Shayne as 'dear little Shayne'. He didn't like anything about the man.

The priest smiled cynically. "And I thought I was making myself very clear. I was so certain that you'd understand what I'm getting at. And you don't, do you?"

"You aren't being clear at all."

"Well then, perhaps I should come right out and say what should be very obvious to the both of us. Should I?"

"Please do," Peter said brashly.

"Perhaps I'm wrong, but I believe that while we have our differences, we both agree on one thing." He paused for effect.

"There's nothing quite like the company of a charming boy, is there?"

Peter stepped back in shock. His ears burned with the truth.

"Yes, my son," the priest continued confidently. "We share the same affection for beautiful boys, don't we?"

"I don't," Peter replied hotly.

The priest smiled calmly. "Of course, I wondered about your relationship with Shayne when we talked before. Your concern for him was really quite unexpected. I expect you realize that, don't you?" the priest continued.

"Why unexpected?"

"Of course, I should have realized there was another man. He's so much better than I deserve. He's very sweet, and I'm sure he doesn't mean to, but the poor boy does send signals. I'm sure you've noticed them. You see, I'd thought that he was interested in me until then. I was rather surprised when you turned up. But of course, I can understand why he'd be attracted to such a good-looking man as yourself. What boy wouldn't be interested?"

"Um..."

Peter stumbled through his memories, finding it unable to deny the other man's claim. Shayne did 'send signals'. He had sent signals that first day in the park. It was the way he smiled, or demurely lowered his eyes, or squatted with his knees wide apart to show off the one thing that really interested Peter. That afternoon, Peter had not seen anything of interest except pale thin thighs in the constricted recesses of Shayne's shorts. However he had the distinct impression that the boy was not wearing underpants, and that he wanted the man to know it.

"So?"

"I think you'll agree with me that he's a rather special boy, and not just because of his good looks. He attracts men such as yourself," the priest explained. He smiled gratuitously, for it was obvious that the statement equally applied to him. He nodded thoughtfully. "When you didn't appear this week, I actually thought he'd found someone else. Do you suppose that's a possibility?"

"Someone else?" Peter choked on the words. He had worried about that for weeks, until they had exchanged 'I love you'. Then, there was no doubt in his mind that Shayne would be his to love forever.

The priest shrugged ambivalently. "It's none of my business. However, since he's missing, I think I'd better tell you. Since Monday, there was another man here, watching him just as you do. Shayne seemed to ignore him, but..." The priest paused and gestured absently. "One never knows with boys. They tend to be...well, some of them are at least...if they're not promiscuous, then they're unfaithful. It's all one big adventure. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about?"

"Shayne's not like that."

"Perhaps not, but that doesn't stop other men from being lured to him. He certainly not what you'd call coy, now is he?"

"True," Peter agreed. "Who was this person?"

He disliked how men looked at the boy he loved, begrudging them even the slightest chance to feast their eyes. Despite how proud he was of Shayne, he was also possessive. It was hard not to be with a boy like Shayne.

"He hasn't been here before this week. I'm certain of that. The man...he was an Arab, I believe. He was very uncomfortable sitting in here. Hmm...let me see if I can remember. Well, he was about your age. Tall with dark hair. Oh, and of course, the thing that was very strange, he was a Moslem without a beard. You don't see that very often, do you?"

"Really?" Peter wasn't greatly concerned, but it extended enough to make him think. His concern for Shayne increased for a reason that he did not understand.

The priest nodded. "A very strange one he was. No doubt it was a one-way street at least as far as his interest in your boy went. He was handsome in a foreign sort of way, but he was hardly the sort of man who would attract a boy like Shayne. But of course, you know him better than I do, don't you?"

"In what way?"

"He drove a rental van. I would have thought that something a bit sportier would be desirable if he was trying to pick up a cutie like Shayne. Boys do like their cars, don't they?"

"A rental van?"

"Yes, a rental van. I didn't tell the police, of course."

"Why not?"

"For the same reason that I didn't tell them the truth about you." The priest half closed his eyes. "If you must know, I thought Shayne might have gone off somewhere with him. It was one of those U-Haul vans with the price on the back doors." He scratched the back of his head. "$29.95. That was it."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

34534505428 12-24-03
---Air Italia Flt 23 Dec 24th 20 kg. Excess Baggage L. 53,000
56873434394 12-24-03
---Cosimo Roma Airport L 36,300

Peter Hamilton tracked down the first clue within an hour. It was remarkably easy. The Yellow Pages listed truck and van rental companies. It took two phone calls to find the office that had leased the van. Needless to say the U-Haul desk clerk would not give out the lessee's name, but did provide the date of the contract. That was all that was needed for Peter Hamilton to be able to do what he was trained to do. He began by connecting his computer to a service account at First Data, the leading processor of credit card transactions in the region. Hacking the system was easy for him. The hard part would be finding the right record without spiking the host computer's security functions with too many queries. There were ways of limiting the search and he used every one of them. He found the transaction within ten minutes and recorded the Visa credit card number in pencil by writing on the plastic surface of his laptop. '4356-4368-2454-1289'. He stared at the screen, still not believing, but there it was.

'23485373202 Three day rental Dec 22-24 Ryder Co, St. Paul $93.49'

The name of the credit card holder made little sense to him. Jeffrey Alvin Dalton. He had been expecting to see an Arab name because of what the priest had told him. Perhaps he had the wrong person after all. Perhaps another man was involved. Perhaps Dalton was an alias.

Still, he continued his search, now made much simpler because he could search using the credit card number. There were twelve transactions, from December 20 to that very afternoon, stretching from Atlanta to Minneapolis, to Rome, to Cairo. Again, he tried to reason with himself that he was wasting his time. There were any number of explanations, all of them logical. He went so far as to conjecture that Dalton had flown to Atlanta to see his family, used the Ryder to empty his apartment in St. Paul, then flown to Cairo for some sort of employment position. It all made sense. It was a dead end.

Peter Hamilton seldom drank, and certainly not during the last few months, not since he'd met Shayne. Shayne made his life so enjoyable that alcohol was unnecessary. That night, alone and angry at the world, he drank Jim Beam Bourbon, straight. Half a bottle of Black Label. He was nearly fall-down drunk when he called Shayne's mother and told her what her son meant to him. She said she understood. Peter cried. She cried. He almost told her that he was in love with Shayne. He said he would never give up the search until he found him. He put the telephone down and sobbed until he sobered up.

His conjecture was certainly an intuitively appealing explanation, but Peter's intuition didn't like it. There was something wrong. And then it struck him that unlike his credit card, Dalton's credit card had not been used for most of that month, not until December 20th. It was probably a coincidence. It was entirely possible that Dalton had acquired the card because of the overseas trip, so Peter logically initiated yet another search of the database. 'Jeffrey Alvin Dalton' turned up only one credit card issued, and that was applied for from an address in Houston almost one year earlier. With nervous fingers he searched the transaction record for the entire year. Nothing. He captured the transaction details for December, filed them away, and logged off. Only then did he put one and one together. One was Father Joseph's description of the man in the cathedral as being an Arab. One was Dalton's destination of Cairo.

It was early morning when he was sober again. Then, almost in a dream, the epiphany came, when he realized what had been staring him in the face from the printed list of credit card purchases. The excess baggage charges! An extra 45 pounds at Minneapolis-St. Paul and 20 kilograms at Rome. They were almost the same weight, and if added to the usual 40 pound baggage allowance...suddenly, another item on the list of purchases made a lot more sense to him:

'23542525213 12-21-03 Lug-it Co. Samsonite World Proof 30 Hardside $159.99'

He used his computer to access the web. The Samsonite World Proof 30 measured 28.6 x 22 x 13.2 inches. It came with large ball-bearing wheels, both combination and key locks, a super hard ABS shell and magnesium frame, and rubber bumper surrounds. He held his hands apart, trying to judge the dimensions, particularly the crucial dimension of 13.2 inches. Shayne was narrow in the hips and shoulders. Shayne was skinny. It was one of the things he liked about him, how he could hold him between his hands and almost, but not quite enclose his waist. Instinctively, he realized it was more than large enough. His heart began to beat faster and faster. What did the suitcase weigh? What did Shayne weigh? He wasn't very heavy. Just the week before, Peter had flipped him head over heels. He couldn't have weighed more than 75 pounds. That was when.... He blotted out the thought, enjoyable though it was. Somewhere between eighty and ninety pounds for a boy and a suitcase combined. It was the only explanation that he could think of for 85 pounds. He always traveled light.

Yet for several minutes, he still rejected the possibility. It simply wasn't possible to put a boy in a suitcase and carry him out of the country. That sort of thing happened only in cheap novels. He had to get a tape measure to prove it to himself. A minute later he accepted that it was physically possible, at least, for a boy of Shayne's size to be positioned inside it, but how? He would have to be drugged. How long did it take to go from Minneapolis to Rome? Ten hours? What if he woke up? The thought chilled him. It sickened him even more than the idea of Shayne being a prisoner, tied to a bed....

There was a time, only a very brief time, when he considered calling Detective White. Instead, he called Shayne's mother again, catching her on the way out the door. He knew where she was going. To the same place that she'd gone every morning since he had met Shayne. Nothing had changed since he had disappeared. Her prayers were still for him. He explained his theory, incredulous as it was, not really believing himself. She did, but she was clutching at straws. There was nothing else to go on.

"Alicia...he's in Cairo by now then," Peter said hopefully. "If he was inside the suitcase that is. I don't know. Maybe. I don't why someone would want to do that. Yes, I suppose they might want to adopt him."

She was distraught. So was Peter, yet he understood a lot more than he let on.

"I think it would be a waste of time. They probably still think I did it. I don't know. I suppose the FBI. After what's happened for the last few days, I don't trust any of them. Besides they'll probably say I'm crazy. Carrying him in a suitcase is kind of hard to believe."

So, Peter Hamilton took the matter into his own hands. However, instead of rushing off to Egypt, he spent the rest of the day with Shayne's mother making inquiries. They visited the same stores in St. Paul, following in Dalton's footsteps. They did so with the growing realization that the man who they sought was already half a world away and there was little they could do about it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

46372292002 12-24-04
---El Ur Din Rental Co. Cairo Int. Deluxe 5-day, mileage 200/20c,

Abdul Al Ghiran drove his rented Mercedes Benz G320 east into the darkness of night, headed towards Suez. He followed the railway line for a distance, then veered away. His destination was but fifty kilometers from the airport. Medinet was a small village on the very edge of the desert. After stopping for dinner, it was nearly midnight when he arrived. He stopped outside a small inn, which would have been a logical place for him to stop for the night, except that he did not go inside. The suitcase was sitting upright on the rear seat. It had been difficult to put in the car because of its weight and size, yet he was glad he had done so. After a day and a half, the intravenous solution had been used up so the boy would likely have regained consciousness. He assumed, rightly, that by sitting upright, the boy's terror would be lessened. He hurried across the dusty street to a telephone that was attached to a brick wall. Sand and time had eroded the mortar from the joints, but the gaps had been filled, at least around the telephone by gobs of hardened chewing gum. He did not insert coins. He simply called a number, letting it ring twice. The second time, it rang three times. After a minute he returned to the car, started the engine, and slowly drove on, looking for the road towards Tacqit.

The farmhouse was typical of the region. A low-roofed dwelling of indeterminate age, with crates stacked high around, parting only to reveal windows. The lights were off when he came to a stop, but within seconds a flashlight beam appeared, directing him onwards. He drove past a shed, arousing chickens. He stopped with the front of the car under a lime tree. It offered little shade, but in the heat of the day, some shade was better than no shade at all.

The man who opened the car door was his uncle, Abubakar al Sid. They embraced quickly and without emotion.

"You have him Abdul?"

"Yes." Abdul Al Ghiran pointed to the suitcase. "Wait until you see this one, Abu. He's a pretty little thing. He sings like a bird."

"Ah. He'll sing even better after he's felt a man's cock inside his bowels."

Abdul Al Ghiran laughed and clapped his uncle on the shoulders. "You haven't changed a bit in all the years I've known you. Let's get him inside."

Together they dragged the suitcase from behind the front seats. It was easier with two people.

"He's not as heavy as the others," the old man grunted. His back was stiff. So was his cock. He had a passing thought of another boy who was asleep inside the hut.

"Remember the little one last year? His hair was so white it was almost silver"

"Yes, of course. A delightful boy. Very beautiful? He recovered quickly."

"This one is even better looking."

"That's hard to believe. You have a buyer for him?"

Abdul Al Ghiran laughed. "I do indeed. He's not for you, old man. Not unless you'd like to explain to the Lion."

The old man was humbled. He nodded his head to show respect. "He'll be safe with me, if not with him."

Abdul smiled. "You say that now, uncle, but I have a favor to ask of you. There is a reason why I brought him here besides the gelding. He still has his skin."

They exchanged glances. "You'll want him done like you, I expect nephew?" the old man asked.

"Of course. Take the inside skin down as far as you can."

"And tight as well?"

"The tighter the better. It will only add to his charm. Some shine even when he's soft would be good."

"That tight?"

"The Lion prefers it. It's not as if the boy will want to play with it again."

The old man snorted. "Of course you're right. Once he heals, he won't be a virgin for more than a day. And what of the child's balls, Abdul? You'll want them gone for the Lion, I expect."

"To become the bride of Allah, that is essential, but unless you want to anger the Lion, I suggest you do him just as his other boys have been prepared. The last time we talked, he spoke admiringly of your work."

"Ah, but I've developed a way that's even better, Abdul. It's neater and there's far less chance of him getting an infection."

"Do you have everything you need to do it?"

"Yes, Abdul. No, I remember now. We will need more antiseptic."

"I'll bring some back with me when I go to Cairo."

Abdul extended the handle and pulled the suitcase behind him, not bothering to lift it over the threshold but giving it a hard jerk instead. Inside, in total darkness, Shayne Santorini woke up for the first time in nearly two days.

He had never been scared, truly scared with fear that is overwhelming and the mind freezes. However, when he heard the suitcase locks being opened, felt the chunks of foam being pulled away from where they had been wedged between his body and the sides of the suitcase, the sudden flow of air against his bare back, his fear became even worse. His bowels contracted and then released, again squirting abdominal fluids into the already squishy rectal bag. He felt hands touch him through the layer of plastic and duct tape and then he was lifted bodily, groggily, from the suitcase and placed on the table, a shocking parody of a statue.

"Pass me the scissors Abdul!" The voice was guttural and very foreign, strangely familiar.

He heard the snipping before he felt the hard edge of metal pressing into his skin.

"Be careful."

"Don't pull the catheter yet. He's pissing himself again."

"He's small."

"Small but perfect. Wait until you see all of him."

The plastic wrap was peeled away slowly, exposing bare pallid skin, first his face, then legs, then arms. With exposure came soreness. Shayne stayed hunched up in a fetal ball, protectively blocking out the awful world around him.

"Yes, you're right, he's very pretty indeed. The Lion will be pleased with this one."

"I hope so."

A hand pushed between Shayne's knees and head and grabbed his lower jaw. His head was forced up. He kept his eyes closed, tightly shut, hoping, yet knowing it wasn't a nightmare. His head was spinning. If was if someone had suctioned out his brain and his head was hollow. Nothing! The urge to cough grew stronger. His nose, inside his nose, hurt terribly. It hurt everywhere, aching awful pain. And it hurt in his penis too, as if a white-hot rod had been driven into it, right up into his body. He gagged, spitting out bile that had found its way into his mouth. He felt the pain in his penis increase suddenly, a tearing agony that finally produced a scream as the catheter was dragged out of the urethra. Even after it was out, it didn't feel any better. It felt as if he was on fire between his legs. He dared not look.

"He's bleeding."

"Of course he's bleeding. It will stop soon enough. It bleeds because it's torn inside. You should have used something to make it slide."

"I put the oil inside him, like you said Abu."

"Put it on this too, next time. It'll go in easier as well. Let's lay him down."

Shayne's body was rearranged, his legs straightened out, his feet, with barely any feeling in them, reached to the edge of the table. His head was pushed onto the hard wood and held still by a single hand that covered the top half of his face. Between the spread fingers he could see a single light bulb suspended overhead. It swung like a pendulum.

"A pretty one indeed." That voice seemed older.

"As I told you, Abu. I have never seen a prettier one, I think."

"Ah. You've chosen well. He's a little small, but you say he sings nephew?"

"Like a bird, Abu, but he'll sing like a nightingale when you are done with him."

"The Lion will enjoy this one when he's recovered."

"I'm sure he will. When will you do it? Tonight?"

"Would you have me kill the boy? No, I thought not. Perhaps tomorrow. We'll see what the morning brings. He needs to gain some strength. It's not difficult to do, at least not for one so small, but the gelding still drains them."

Shayne did not understand what they were talking about. Fingers pulled at the end of his penis. He barely felt the cloth that came over his mouth. He recognized the odor, but unlike the other two times, this time there was no struggle. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs. It offered relief from the pain. He did not feel one of the men's cocks being placed in his hand or the laughter that followed when copious squirts of semen were ejaculated over his arm.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

44484443434 12-25-03
---Cairo Int. Airport. Coffee Shop $3.20

"What about this one?" Peter asked. He pointed to the next transaction on the paper:

'43551233129 12-21-03 St. Paul Medical Supply Co. Miscellaneous $154.84'

"It looks important," he added.

"It could be nothing at all."

He nodded thoughtfully. The last place they had visited was Warner's Restaurant, where Dalton had gone to eat no fewer than four times. With over a thousand customers a day, no one remembered anyone, especially that close to Christmas. It was frustrating, if understandable.

"$150 bucks is a lot of money for nothing at all. It's worth a try."

She went in by herself, using the ploy that Peter had suggested. She was Dalton's secretary and she was trying to process his petty cash claim, but she lost the receipt. It worked. In ten minutes she was back in Peter's car. She frowned and handed over the copy of what had been purchased by 'Dr. Dalton'. Peter read aloud.

"No. 2 catheter 15 inch. No. 6 catheter 12 inch. It says there were two of them. Intravenous package, size 4. Rectal kit, medium child. 2 collection bags." He thought, then read again to himself. "It doesn't make a damn bit of sense."

She agreed with him, although both of them realized that it probably made a lot of sense. They simply didn't understand how the pieces fitted together.

They tried the same approach at Walmart. It didn't work. The visit to the Home Depot was similarly unrewarding. No one remembered seeing anyone or anything. Both of them feeling depressed when they went into Lucy's Upholstery Store on Beckett Street. It wasn't often that they sold a 4 foot by 8 foot by 4" thick piece of cushion foam. The gray haired lady at the counter remembered Dalton very well.

"At first I thought he'd come up from Florida, though, it's hardly the season for them to come up north. He was much too young to be retired."

"Why there?"

"Well, I could tell from his suntan that he wasn't from around here, of course. He was quite a handsome man too. He had thick dark hair. He looked very well off. Properly dressed. Not jeans like most men wear nowadays."

Peter smiled and nodded reassuringly. He was wearing jeans that he had purchased to match Shayne's favorite jeans. There was leather edging on the pockets. She probably hadn't noticed what he was wearing. Like young boys, old ladies also tended to like him.

"Did he say what he needed the foam for?"

"No, not really. Oh, I expect he needed it for packing something valuable. A lot of people do that, you know, when they're transporting a family heirloom or expensive china."

"What makes you think he was going something like that?"

"The van he was driving. It was one of those moving vans. It was parked right there," she added. Her gesture to the window indicated that the van had been park directly outside the store.

"Could you describe him?"

"Only what I've already told you. I thought he might have been from the university."

"Why?"

"His accent. It wasn't American. Some of them come in here, the students I mean, to buy mattresses, or pillows. I've told the manager that we should stock bed linen, but..."

"I'm sure they'd sell very well," Peter agreed.

Outside, with cups of luke-warm coffee, they tried again to put the pieces into coherent order. It was like connecting the dots, except the dots weren't numbered and some of the dots were missing. Peter said so.

"But it doesn't matter," she responded. "We have a theory."

"Yes, a dumb theory," Peter rebuked. "It doesn't make sense, ."

"Put yourself in his position."

"Shayne's?"

"No. This Dalton person. What would he do?"

"I don't think that's his name," Peter remarked sullenly.

"It doesn't matter, Peter." She tapped the sheet of paper listing the credit card transactions impatiently. "Let's start by imagining your theory is right."

"It's not."

"What if it is? You're going to put a little boy inside a suitcase for a long trip. How would you do it?" she asked bravely.

Peter gave an uncomfortable shrug. What she was asking, he didn't want to think about. She wanted him to make sense out of the things that Dalton had purchased.

"I guess...you'd want to pack foam around him so he wouldn't slide around inside."

She nodded encouragingly, even though it pained both of them to think about it.

"He'd have to be unable to move a muscle so he could make a noise, or he might be drugged." He paused, swallowing. "The duct tape? Oh God! They taped him up. That has to be it." He pulled the sheet of paper from her hand, nearly ripping it. "And the medical crap. God! I guess it all makes sense in a way. If it involved a day or so, you'd have to give him fluids or run the risk of dehydration. That explains it. But there's no drugs! Maybe they didn't use drugs."

He was immediately relieved, because he couldn't think of any way of taking Shayne on board an airplane without drugging him first. Shayne had never been on a plane but he still hated the idea of flying. Maybe it was all coincidence. There was still the motel to check out. Maybe they'd find him there, in a room at the St. Paul Motor Inn.

"There's a pharmacy at Walmart," she reminded him. Her voice wavered, barely keeping back tears. "They probably sell them."

"Not without a prescription."

"I guess not. But if you bought over-the-counter pills for adults and gave them to him..."

"That's true. I suppose...but they x-ray baggage on planes, don't they? Someone would have to see him inside."

Peter thought of his own method of hiding things, most notably photographs of Shayne. The best way to hide something was where everyone could see it. A suitcase more or less fell in that definition.

"I don't know. I don't fly nearly as much as you do, but I know they x-ray whatever you hand carry on board a plane."

They sat in awkward silence for nearly a minute.

"Peter, there was that story a few months ago about someone who shipped himself by air, remember?"

Peter nodded.

"Maybe they don't inspect very closely."

"After 9/11?" Peter asked abruptly.

"They'll be looking for explosives in suitcases, not a person. You said it wasn't even a very large case. That's what's happened," she said flatly. "Oh Peter! He's...he's...they've taken him to Cairo," she cried.

"Then I'll go to Cairo," Peter said determinedly.

"You?"

"Yes, me. I'm beginning tot think it's the only chance. Maybe I'm wrong, but it seems like we have to do something because no one else it. The police probably still think that I did it," he said angrily.

She dried her eyes. "You're very fond him aren't you?"

"Funny, that's the second time someone has said that since...."

"You are though. Shayne's...Peter, I don't know...he's...he talks so much about you...he's very fond of you as well."

Peter choked, He wanted to tell her how very much he loved her son. How Shayne loved him back. How happy there were when they were together. 'Fond'? It was more than 'fond'. It was love for the two of them. It had always been love.

"You love him, don't you Peter?"

He looked up suddenly. He sighed and nodded. "I...."

"You don't have to say it Peter. I think I already know."

"I do...I do love him. I have to find him," Peter sobbed. "I have to! God, I'm so worried something bad has happened to him."

"I'm worried about him too. Peter...Peter, please try to find him."

Peter nodded. He wanted to reassure her, yet he could not find the words. He was too troubled by the thoughts that plagued his mind. Images of Shayne being subjected to terror, the awful fear of being locked inside the suitcase. Then, even worse, he imagined him hurt, even dying, because he knew that whoever Dalton was, he was a pedophile.

"I'll try."

"If you need money...."

"It's not a problem. I've been saving to buy a house." He did not add that he harbored dreams of living in it with Shayne.

She smiled. "Me too. That's why I've been working the extra shifts." She sighed. "I was doing it for Shayne."

While she used his cell phone to book a seat on the next flight to Rome, he drove home quickly. With only a few hours to spare before departure he took just enough time to collect an overnight bag which was primarily occupied by his laptop computer, and his passport. What ever he needed, he would buy. Most of the time was spent collecting the dog's things and getting her into the car. It would have been much easier if Shayne was there to help.

There was still one more stop to make. The St. Paul Motor Inn was one of the most important items on the list of charges, but there was no time to do it and get Peter to the airport on time. They had gone there first. It was only logical to do so, both of them half expecting to find Shayne staying in one of the rooms. They couldn't let themselves think of anything else. Instead, the desk clerk told them to come back after lunch when the manager came on duty.

Shayne's mother went to the motel by herself. The manager was less than helpful at first, but after she became aware of the situation, she quickly led the way to the room where Dalton was registered. No one had been into the room since his check-out for the simple reason that the motel was not that busy and several of the cleaning staff had been given time off for the Christmas in lieu of a bonus.

They walked inside the room and immediately both women sensed that something was wrong, very, very wrong. The smell of vomit was strong, and the bedspread was splattered with dried stains. A child's clothes, white trousers and shirt were tossed to the side. There was a towel on top of a snow jacket in the far corner. Shayne's shoes and socks lay discarded on the floor beside the bed. In the bathroom, the smell was worse. The tiled floor and the bottom of the bathtub were still wet. There were gobs of feces, vomit, mess everywhere. Lying on the vanity were a partially used roll of plastic wrap and a roll of duct tape. Shayne's mother was barely able to stop from crying as she called Peter at the airport and described what she was looking at. She didn't mention the empty boxes that had contained the catheters. From the yellow urine that streaked the vanity, she understood what one of them had been used for. There was no point in upsetting Peter further when he was about to board the flight to Rome.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

23232343694 12-25-03
---Telecon Egypt. 10 min 034 324 38 to 015 54 324 2322 2 $7.34
38595405435 12-25-03
---Flt 34 Cairo-Paris, Paris to Cairo Dec. 26th. $1,245.00

Shayne woke up with the morning sun of December 25th in his face. His captors had taken the precaution of securing a metal cable to his wrist. It could be removed only by cutting the cable with a pair of heavy-duty pliers, and even then it would take several minutes to cut through the wires. Not surprisingly, his first thought was of his mother. It was quickly followed by Peter. His Peter. He pulled at the cable, not realizing that it had been attached to the bed. The rusty bed springs squeaked loudly. He heard movement, the soft pad feet on a packed earth floor. He quickly closed his eyes and feigned sleep.

"He still sleeps." The words were incomprehensible, yet the boy's voice was not much different to his own.

"Wake him up."

A hand, wiry and grimy, pushed urgently at his shoulder. "Wake up! WAKE UP!"

Language wasn't important when words were shouted in the ear. Shayne shoved at the hand. His head throbbed mercilessly.

"Ameri-kano pig! DOG FUCKER!"

That much hatred, even Shayne understood. The threadbare blanket that covered him was abruptly yanked away. He raised his right arm, expecting to shield off a blow. It never came. Instead, the boy laughed. Slowly, nervously, Shayne opened his eyes to slits. The wall in front of him was flecked with fly dirt, cobwebs, stains whose origin was indeterminate, what might have been spots of blood. The boy kept laughing, leaning over him.

"He still has skin on his prick, see Abu! It's disgusting!" he observed to the old man who was sitting next to the fireplace.

"Not for long, Maareq. Not for long," the old man answered cheerlessly.

"You will cut his prick today, Abu?"

"Perhaps. We will see. He needs to eat first. He must get his strength back."

"You will take his balls too?"

"Yes."

"Can I have them?"

"Perhaps. Abdul did not say if they were needed."

Maareq smirked and promptly left Shayne's side. He heard the boy's cross the floor again. Something smacked. Someone giggled. Another smack. It sounded the same as when Peter playfully slapped his bottom. It was never intended to hurt. It was fun. The sound of flesh on flesh was reassuring. There was another giggle. It sounded as if the boy liked getting his bottom smacked as much as he did. He tensed when he heard the sound of footsteps again. This time, a strong, rough hand gripped his bare hip and turned him over onto his back. Shayne stared up at a withered old man and brown-skinned black-haired boy who was naked as he was.

"He's a pretty one, isn't he Maareq?"

The boy smirked, his eyes staring straight at Shayne's middle. He nodded eagerly. "You have a fuck with him?"

"No! Definitely not. This one belongs to the Lion."

The boy's eyes widened. The smirk began to change, becoming a grin. "He's the Lion's boy?"

"Not yet, but he soon will be, Maareq. He will be taken to the Lion when he recovers from the gelding."

"But I still get his balls like the others?"

"Perhaps. Maybe the Lion will take them. You eat too many Ameri-kano eggs anyway, my sweet. Perhaps you will turn into an Ameri-kano dog fucker."

The boy laughed. Shayne didn't understand a word, but the boy seemed pleased by whatever the man had said to him.

They spoon fed him a watery gruel, dark brown in color that tasted bitter. It was followed by a grain mush. Shayne managed to get down a few spoonfuls before he groaned and began to dry retch. After he recovered, his body became very flushed. As his face was wiped clean he had a terrible thought that he was going to die, alone and without Peter. He forced himself to think of something that offered hope. He thought of Peter, imagining his face. It helped but he was so exhausted that he was almost catatonic.

He drifted back to sleep, dreaming of something that seemed very long ago....

It had been entirely his idea, although it had been Peter who first told him how a man and a boy made love, how they would both be virgins until they did that. It sounded both fun and funny, improbable even if it was possible. Peter assured him that losing their virginity wasn't going to be easy, if the stories he had read had any grain of truth to them. One rainy Saturday afternoon in late November they even read one of those stories together, lying side by side on the couch. They read the part about anal penetration several times and talked about it at length, until it was time for Shayne to go home. By then, his mind was made up.

He hadn't talked to Peter again about it. Instead, he waited until the time was right. It took several weeks before an opportunity arose, before his mother was scheduled to work the night shift at the hospital. It was a simple matter for him to get her to agree to him staying overnight at Peter's house. She said that staying the night at Peter's apartment was 'habit forming', and he agreed.

That night he made Peter go to bed earlier than usual. It was a simple matter of pretending to be tired. Perhaps Peter suspected something, but he still carried Shayne upstairs and into his bedroom. It was fun as they romped naked and shameless on Peter's bed. Then, they lay down together and cuddled. Taking the initiative, Shayne began to kiss the man he loved. They kissed and kissed, kissed until their cocks hardened and were pointed up, one ever so much larger than the other. Then, Shayne lay down on his back and draped his widespread legs over Peter while he lay on his side. Like that, he could guide Peter's cock to his crack merely by pointing it downwards. He rubbed the head up and down his crack, grinning with happiness because it felt wonderful for both of them. They had done that several times before, but never more than that. It became very slippery between them, both his crack and Peter's cock covered with the shiny slime that leaked out of the latter. It was all very sexy.

Because he didn't know any better, he tried to force it in too early and it hurt. It hurt worse than when he was constipated and trying to poop out hard lumps, and it hadn't even penetrated. Peter immediately stopped him from trying again. They talked again, back and forth between them until Peter yielded. He agreed that they could try it for a while, but they weren't going to hurt him again. It was obvious that Peter didn't expect it to go in.

Then, they did it together, rubbing the big spongy head up and down his crack, at times sharing Peter's cock with one hand each, concentrating their attention on the opening with gentle pushes. His hole stretched gradually, glowing with heat and tingling with delicious feelings until the knob could actually fit into what had become a much larger depression. But it was still too small. And so they kept on, oblivious to the time, intent only on enjoying it. He would never forget the slippery juice that oozed continuously from Peter's cock, the rubbery firm but delicately soft swollen head, the way that Peter's eyes half-closed, the way his body trembled when the head of his cock bulged into his tight boy's body.

After an hour, his opening had become so dilated that the head of Peter's cock suddenly slipped inside him.

It hadn't hurt at all. All it had taken was patience. They gazed at each other in disbelief. It had happened without either of them really trying. Peter hadn't really pushed. He'd just squeezed up against Shayne and Shayne had squeezed back, playing a game whose only goal was to make each other feel good. One moment Peter's huge cock was outside, the next, more than an inch was buried inside Shayne's body. The rim of Shayne's anus tightened quickly, pulling back against the flared ridge of Peter's cock, holding it tightly. Despite the seriousness of the situation, they both giggled. Peter said he wasn't a virgin any more, that neither of them were, but Shayne knew it had to take more that just the head of Peter's cock. He used his legs to pull himself closer. He felt something expanding inside his body, filling him with joy....

It was the middle of the day before Shayne managed to hold some food down. More gruel and mush, and creamy goat's milk that tasted very unlike any milk he'd ever had. It settled his stomach even though he thought it tasted sour.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peter Hamilton spent Christmas Day in a hotel room near the Rome Airport. There were no flights to Cairo until the following day. He sent a brief note to Shayne's Yahoo account in the vain hope that he had access to a computer, and then a longer note to his mother at the hospital. Both notes wished them a Merry Christmas. It was all that he could do without sinking into a beckoning chasm that promised nothing except misery. Until the last few days he had never been so happy. Now, his unhappiness had no equal. It seemed insurmountable. He had always lonely, and depressed too, because he had always been attracted to young boys, but after falling in love with Shayne, his entire world changed. Now, it was falling apart.

After reviewing the most recent transactions for Jeffrey Alvin Dalton's Visa credit card, Peter was very worried. Not only was Dalton in Paris, but the two-way airfare from Cairo to Paris took him by surprise.

He had expected Dalton to stay in Cairo, or within the region. It was a logical assumption given that Father Joseph had described the man as 'Arab'. But Paris? Why would he take Shayne to Rome, then Cairo, and then to Paris, only to return to Cairo. Perhaps he was trying to mislead someone in pursuit? Then, why use the same credit card, Peter reasoned. Maybe he was delivering Shayne to someone in Paris, then returning to home. That made sense, except there was no excess baggage charge on the trip to Paris. Of course, the only explanation was that Shayne was still in Cairo. That was it. He breathed a sigh of relief. With luck he might even get to Cairo before Dalton returned. He wished he had a sketch of Dalton. He spent an hour trying to find an email address for Father Joseph, but without a last name, it was bound to be fruitless. Finally, he tried to call St. Paul's Cathedral. The phone rang and rang. He tried to call Shayne's mother. No answer there either.

He checked his email several times. He expected no response immediately to the notes...not on Christmas Day...although he wanted badly to hear some news of the police investigation once they had visited the St. Paul Motor Inn. Until late in the afternoon, he ate nothing except some stale candy bars from the vending machine on his floor. Finally, there was an email from Shayne's mother.

> 'Peter,

> No word. I'm so worried for him, but I'm glad you're
> there. I know you'll bring him back to me.

> That detective White came to the motel about two
> hours after we called the police. She was very
> angry about you leaving. She said I should have
> called her and told her you were at the airport. She
> still thinks you kidnapped Shayne and the story
> about the credit card is a lie. I pointed out that
> Dee, the motel manger, rented the room to an
> Arab-looking person, she said it didn't clear you,
> because you were probably in it together. She gave
> Dee your photo and asked if you had been there.
> Dee said no of course. Then, we went into the
> room next door and she asked a lot of questions
> about you. She wanted to know about your
> relationship with him and the same as last time. I
> told her you were close to him. She said she didn't
> that was all, and she implied that you and
> Shayne were more than friends. Then she asked me
> if I thought you'd been having sex with him. She
> knows that he stays at your place, and was
> supposed to be there over Christmas.

> What you said yesterday about loving Shayne has
> given me a lot to think about. Perhaps you have
> been having sex with him. I don't know. All I
> know that he's never been as happy as he's been
> for the last few months. That's what I told her.

> Please find him Peter.

> Alicia'

Peter closed his eyes and tried to block out the pictures that wanted to gain entry to his mind. He was like being torn apart, tormented by images of Shayne that were of happy times, when the only worry they had was how to prevent sore lips, and others that pictured his mutilated abused body. He couldn't sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

59345345553 12-26-03
---EGO Petroleum 30 liters.

Abdul Al Ghiran returned to Cairo just as Shayne was waking up. Christmas had come and gone in a hazy memory that drifted between sleep and being awake. The drug had passed through the boy's system and he woke up restless and alert. He glanced around the dusty dingy hut, squinting in the dim light of early dawn. Where was he? The smell alone was unlike anything he'd ever known, yet not unpleasant. The smell of goats and chickens wafted through the open windows. It was mixed with the aroma of dried grasses, and of the arid desert, the first ridge of sand hills less than a kilometer to the south. It was cold. He pulled the green-gray army blanket about him and tried to sleep.

Only minutes passed before the adjacent bed began squeaking. It was quick and forceful, rattling the wooden frame against the wall. He stared into the gloom, listening intently. Shayne fondled his small cock. It was already hard. Had he been dreaming of Peter again? That was usually the cause. His fingers glided slowly up and down, extracting every morsel of pleasure that he was capable of providing to himself without actually masturbating. Of course there were times when he jerked off by himself. He was a boy after all, and boys were supposed to do that, but he far preferred that Peter do it to him instead. It was much nicer that way. Peter liked the way the skin moved beneath his fingers. It was different for Peter, because he had been circumcised, but Shayne enjoyed the difference. It looked smoother, sportier...he smiled, remembering when he had said much the same to Peter. 'The sporty model' compared to 'the natural model'. How they had laughed over that. He closed his eyes dreamily. Peter's hand was so strong and large, yet his fingers were always gentle. Jerking off was always a lot more fun when Peter did it to him and he did it to Peter. However, it fell a long way short of being sucked, or sucking Peter's cock. It was all he could do to fit half of Peter's cock inside his mouth. Peter could take everything of his, his cock and both balls.

His hand moved faster under the blankets, pulling the skin up and over the head of his cock. He liked the elasticity, the free movement, the way his body tingled and grew hot. At ten years old, he really didn't enjoy it as much when the skin was pushed back and the head was exposed. It was much too sensitive for him to do it for more than a minute at a time. His hand began to flutter along his cock. Doing it quickly with a feathery touch was what made it feel the best.

"Hey Ameri-kano?" Abubakar called out. He was agitated, close to breathless. "Come here."

Nervously, Shayne crawled from his bed, aware that he was as naked as the day he was born, but unable to do anything about it short of removing the blanket from his bed. He padded across the floor, stopping when he could go no further. Abubakar turned back, looking over his shoulder. For a few seconds, Shayne didn't understand. The old man was kneeling on the bed. The boy, whose name he thought was Mark, was lying on his back. His hands grapped his ankles and held them next to his ears.

"You Ameri-kano. You know what I'm doing?" Abubakar asked crudely. Awkwardly, Shayne shook his head, denying what his eyes and logic told him.

Abubakar grunted, slamming his pelvis forward and against Maareq's buttocks. The boy grunted back at him. The bed jolted, the springs bouncing, complaining. Another thrust, then another. Shayne stared in shock. The sheer force of it was dreadful enough, but the euphoric expression on the boy's face left him stunned. Bewildered, he tried to look away. Yet, his eyes were drawn back again. The boy looked happy enough. He was making whimpering sounds, gasping every time that the old man jerked back, grunting when he pushed forward again. He tried to see between them. There wasn't a lot that he could see, just the dark skins of a man and boy who were pressed very close together, slapping wet and slippery flesh.

As if Abubakar understood, he pulled away. His cock withdrew from Maareq's small behind, slowly suctioning, stretching until it emerged. It was dark and livid, jutting outward and throbbing menacingly, poised and pointed straight at the small round hole that it had just been inside. It was wet and slimy and the veins were bulging. It looked a lot like Peter's cock, but his had never been so menacing. Peter's cock was fun to play with, not quite a toy, but somehow just as essential to him. And when they had finally put Peter's cock inside him, it had been anything but threatening. It had been so natural and fun, that Shayne could not help wondering why it had taken them so long to do it.

"Well boy?"

Shayne gulped. "You're...."

"Yes? Tell me Ameri-kano! What am I doing to him?" Abubakar wanted the boy to say it.

"You're...fucking him," Shayne whispered shamefully.

Abubakar laughed and pumped harder, hard enough to slam Maareq further up the bed.

"Yes, my precious virgin boy," he gasped. "I'm fucking him. You should watch and learn, because you too will be taking a man's cock inside your pretty little rump. You won't have to wait much longer."

Shayne backed away. He had already taken a man's cock and it was nothing like what he was watching on the bed before him. What he did with Peter was all about making love. It was gentle and sweet. What they were doing, well, it looked like they were trying to hurt each other. But despite how hard and fast the man was thrusting, Maareq wasn't crying or carrying on. In fact, he looked elated, his eyes half-closed in bliss. In shock, Shayne shuffled away, still disputing the evidence of his eyes, until he reached his bed. There, he lay down and tried to make sense out of it. The hammering of the bed against the wall kept on. The sound of two bodies moving together, a man fucking a boy not more than a few paces from where he lay. It was strange and unsettling, yet it was also very familiar. He heard gasps, a boy's soft whining cry of pleasure, then groans. Muffled voices, the slap of wet skin, an attenuated moan. Then, a sudden increase in pace, shaking the bed, bumping erratically against the wall. More groans. Then, silence. Except for the silence, that was how it had been with Peter at the end.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

44546943535 12-26-03
---Cairo Supply ¿ case Hedia-baby food 12.32 D
45953005353 12-26-03
---Kqwik Mart 100 ml Betadyne Antiseptic Sol. 4.32 D

Abdul Al Ghiran drove through the village of Medinet just as breakfast was being finished off. Shayne had managed to eat most of a bowl of grapes. That was how Abdul found him when he came into the hut, sitting up on the small bed with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The boy cringed, recognizing his kidnapper as soon as he stepped through the doorway. Abdul chuckled.

"I think the Ameri-kano brat knows what is in store for him today," he said in a guttural voice that made Shayne even more afraid of him.

Abubakar al Sid laughed and slapped the table with his hand, "Indeed he does. He watched me fuck Maareq this morning. He seemed quite interested in it. I hope he'll be as enthusiastic when he meets the Lion in two weeks."

That provoked a laugh from both men.

"There is a problem," Abdul said abruptly, "we do not have two weeks. I'm told that the Lion wants him as soon as possible. A week at most."

Abubakar nodded thoughtfully, "he's such a pretty boy, I'm not surprised."

"It's more than that, although I'm sure that seeing the photos that I took two days ago have gotten his attention," Abdul explained, "the Lion's plans have been disrupted."

"The Ameri-kano pigs?"

"Yes! I don't know all the details, but apparently the CIA managed to intercept some important messages."

"How long do we have?" Abubakar asked cautiously.

"As I said, a week for him to recover. No more than that. You have to do it today, whether he's ready or not. We must leave here in a few hours for Port Said."

"You're taking a ship?"

"It's better that you don't know, uncle," Abdul replied arrogantly, "how soon can you do it?"

"Immediately, if that's what you want. You're saying that he must be healed with a week?"

"Or sooner."

Abubakar rubbed his chin. He lifted his small coffee cup and drank liquid that was of the color and consistency of pitch.

"It could be done. I've seen boys heal within a few days if the pouch is left intact. If not completely healed then at least enough to take a man's cock between their cheeks."

They tied him down to the table. Not that Shayne had much strength to resist with, but they were taking no chances. His legs were bent down at the knees. His thighs were pulled wide apart so that each leg could be secured to a table leg. That alone left his genitals very exposed. To make matters worse, his outstretched arms were placed over his head and cords were tied from his hands to the opposite legs of the table. He was effectively immobilized, completely displayed before them. Despite the snot that streaked his face, he was a very beautiful boy.

Abubakar began by examining the Shayne's penis thoroughly. The old man, who had no less that 40 years of experience in the art of circumcision, retracted the little foreskin from the pink head with a quick flick of his fingers in order to tear any remaining adhesion. Like Abdul before him, he noted the ease with which it came down. There was definitely a lack of adhesion, which was unusual for boys who were not yet sexually active. He commented on the fact to Abdul.

"Perhaps he's already learned to pleasure himself by playing with it?" Abdul suggested lightheartedly. He had all but forgotten about the gold ring until then.

The old man laughed, continuing his inspection. Maareq, who had attended numerous circumcisions, brought sesame oil for the old man to swab the head and inside the foreskin. Its purpose was to facilitate movement of the foreskin over the tender head. For most boys the retraction would have been painful. Instead, Shayne tolerated the manipulation with clenched teeth and closed eyes. With expert fingers, Abubakar soon had a good idea of the size of Shayne's erection and the amount of skin that he would remove. Abdul watched over his shoulder, giving instructions that went largely unheeded.

"Such a perfect little zabb. And the nozzle is so long that there is still enough skin left to completely cover the head when it's standing up," Abubakar observed with relief .

It was a comment that was made as much for himself as it was directed to reassure Abdul. He was becoming tired of the interruptions and the procedure had barely begun. Indeed, perhaps he should not have waited the extra day until his nephew returned, and now it had to be hurried because the Lion wanted the boy brought to him as quickly as possible.

"Then surely the foreskin can go all the way down. I would like the ring of Allah to be right at the base?" Abdul asked hopefully, "it makes not only for a more tender organ, but one whose stiffness is unyielding."

"Have no worry regarding that, Abdul. Even you will find the hardness agreeable I think. This boy's cock is short and his foreskin is as long as yours was before I cut you," he observed, tugging at the boy's unwavering cock so that the foreskin pulled back again to conceal the little acorn head, "there's plenty here to work with. It should end just where you want."

"It had better."

"You must trust me to do what must be done. I know best how to make a good job of the Lion's boy, Abdul."

The old man flicked Shayne's stiff little cock with cruel pleasure. A second flick was needed before the stiffness began to diminish. For good measure, and all but oblivious to the boy's whimpering, he added a third and fourth flick. Shayne's eyes teared up. He gritted his teeth. He squealed with the fifth and final flick, harder than the rest. Then, the old man picked up a small brass ring that he selected from among several others. Only one was smaller in diameter. It was rounded and polished smooth with a central groove that ran all the way around. He pinched the boy's foreskin, pulling it outwards so that he could slip the ring over the puckered tip. He twisted it and pushed down, sliding the ring down the boy's now limp cock until it reached the base.

"And now my nephew, I think we are ready for Allah to leave his mark," the old man chuckled. He winked at Maareq, "be glad that I preferred the traditional look for you my darling. For your circumcision I put the ring just inside the sheath instead of all the way down on the outside like this."

Maareq grinned back at him. He had been circumcised two years earlier when his parents had delivered him to Abubakar. All Moslem boys in that part of Egypt were circumcised before they turned eight years old. Dimly, he could still remember the pain that attended the ritual of becoming a 'man'. His pleasant memories of the presents he received and the festivities afterwards were far stronger, almost as memorable as being deflowered by the old man just a few days later. However, there would be no such celebration for the boy on the table. He almost felt sad for the boy. There was no one to hold his hand or wipe the tears from his cheeks and encourage him to be brave. His pity was quickly consumed by boyish brashness.

"He's small," he snickered, pointing between the boy's slender pale legs, at the one thing that all boys had in common.

Abubakar looked up. "And he will be even smaller when my job is done," he remarked.

"Why?"

Abdul stifled a laugh, "a capon is always small. You know what a capon is, Maareq?"

Maareq smirked and nodded. He pointed at the boy on the table.

"Not yet, dear boy, but he'll be gelded soon enough. He will be a little man for a while longer," Abubakar said callously.

"But why will he be smaller?"

"Ah, without eggs, a boy's zabb will always stay small, as with the rest of his body, though sometimes his arms and legs will be longer," Abubakar answered, "and with nothing left within to stretch his pouch, it will soon shrivel to a prune."

"If I eat his eggs, mine will become large like yours," Maareq announced gleefully.

Abubakar laughed. "Perhaps. It's often said that the vigor of a male comes from the balls. However, you'll have to be patient for your snack, Maareq."

Abdul growled impatiently. Abubakar was never one to hurry.

"Regretfully, the Lion has asked for the eggs from this one."

Maareq scowled with discontent, but he was ignored.

"Then that is as it should be." Abubakar nodded. Tradition was important in the making of a eunuch, and the man who paid for the eggs to be removed had every right to claim possession.

Abubakar's fingers began to ease the skin through the ring, pulling it down a fraction at a time. At first the oiled skin moved easily under the ring. The foreskin retracted smoothly just as it was supposed to, again exposing the pink head. Then, as the once-puckered rim edged downward, the inner skin came into view. It was pinker than the skin that normally covered Shayne's cock, and moister too. Another fraction of an inch caused the head to be levered downward slightly, but not unattractively so.

"If you want it down all the way, the lip will have to be cut completely off on this one," Abubakar stated without compassion.

His finger pointed to the underside of Shayne's cock, then came closer until the fingernail scratched the frenulum where it was close to being taut even before the foreskin was fully retracted. Abdul nodded disinterestedly. It was not unusual. A lot of boys had the same problem. It wasn't that hard to fix. Just painful. Abubakar picked up the traditional bone-handled knife of the circumciser. The blade was small but disproportionately long and thin, rather like a filleting knife. Only that morning it had been honed on an oilstone to the necessary razor sharpness. His hand moved slightly, expertly making an incision right below the head. It was as deep as possible so that the transition from the flared head to the shaft would be very smooth. Better that than to have the skin tear of its own accord and leave an open wound. The boy's sharp cry echoed around the dingy room. He managed to lift his head far enough from the table to be able to see what had been done to him, the source of a searing pain where before he had known only pleasure. There was blood trickling down his cock. His tear-filled eyes opened wide with fear and shock. It was a time of utter disbelief.

Abubakar spit on his fingers and rubbed across the open gash. It was deep enough to sever a tiny artery but not so deep that the erectile tissue was damaged. The blood welled out, dripping constantly.

"Bring the iron," he instructed Maareq.

The iron was in reality a screwdriver whose slotted blade had be ground away to form a small knob. It had been heated in the fire until it was white hot. Gingerly, Maareq handed it to him. It touched twice, staying a moment longer in the groove beneath the boy's glans since definition of the acorn shape was the intended goal rather than preserving sensitivity. Satisfied that the cauterized depression was sufficiently deep to emphasize the ridges came to form the tiny slit opening, Abubakar used the iron to sear the other side of the incision. There, the goal was to minimize the scar. A surgeon would have used stitches but the quick touch of sizzling metal had much the same effect.

Even as Shayne's appalling shriek ended Abubakar's fingers took hold of the collar of skin that had formed close to the base of the boy's cock. He began to drag it back over the ring, pulling swiftly. Freed of the restrictive frenulum, the oily skin continued to ease down the boy's now blood-covered cock, eventually reappearing on the underside of the ring. There was a distinct difference between the pink moist inner skin of the foreskin and the almond-colored outer skin. Increasingly, there was more of the former and less of the latter. Over two months, the opening in the foreskin, which had been sufficiently exercised both by Shayne and Peter, to be able to comfortably retract past the small rounded head. Despite the boy's agony, it was slowly being pulled down the middle of his shaft. The opening was still narrow enough that the little cock was noticeably contracted inward, changing the color of the upper portion from pale pink to a darker shade. When erect, the opening would be even tighter, the natural constricting band that it was intended to be, but even limp it looked painful. From Shayne's increasingly terrified expression, the pain from being cauterized, the realization of his impending circumcision, all of what had happened to him, was quickly becoming unbearable.

Abubakar nodded his head and turned to meet Abdul's glance of approval. Even though Shayne's cock was contracted, the skin had still become taut. It occurred just as the constricted band reached the brass ring barely a quarter on an inch from the boy's smooth mounded pubis. The effect was not unlike a cock ring, but one of flesh as well as metal. The flow of blood from the seared gash on the tip had ceased, but not for that reason.

"It will loosen somewhat when the ring comes off, and a little because the skin stretches, Abdul," Abubakar suggested.

"I told you that I wanted it done tightly."

"It will be tight. Trust me, nephew, it will be much tighter than yours," Abubakar replied less than confidently.

"It had better be."

A cock could never be tight enough for Abdul, or for the Lion either for that matter. His own cock had almost no movement at all between the skin and the thick shaft underneath, but even that was too much for him.

"It will be," Abubakar laughed, pinching the cocklet just above the ring. It had the effect of pulling another quarter of an inch under and over the ring. "The Lion will savor this one for years to come."

Abdul smiled. "I hope so. The last one didn't last very long at all."

"Wait until you see it healed, nephew. I always give you what you want. It will be very tight, Abdul. It's not as if his prick will grow much bigger so it must be tighter than any boy I've done for you."

"The American pigs call it Wysiwyg, you know," Abdul joked in a moment of uncharacteristic levity, "what you see for the boy, is what you get for the eunuch."

Abubakar did not appreciate the humor much more than offer a world-weary smile. Although his experience of the effects of castration was largely with sheep it was common knowledge that a boy would be similarly affected. That part of the boy's body would never grow much beyond its current size. However, his knowledge of computers was close to non-existent.

Instead, of using the knife as he had always done in the past, he picked up a piece of nylon fishing line. He made a quick double loop around the boy's cock at the base and formed a knot. Using both hands, he jerked the two ends of the fishing line, causing the knot to take up the slack before it tightened. It compressed the skin into the groove of the brass ring, pulling the skin even further down the shaft. Then satisfied that no more skin could be removed without tearing the boy's flesh when he became erect, Abubakar jerked the ends of the cord as hard as he could. Several seconds passed before Shayne let out a horrified scream. His pelvis lifted completely off the table as he writhed in agony. It felt as if his cock was on fire, as if it had been severed from his body. Abubakar looped the nylon around the ring once again, formed yet another knot but on the opposite side, kept pulling the cord tighter and tighter, until it all but disappeared into the flesh. Shayne flailed, screamed, bucked frantically, but to no avail. With his legs firmly secured to the legs of the table and his hands tied behind his head, there was nothing that he could do. His head shook from side to side. It was his only means of resisting. The color of the band of flesh that had been pulled back over the ring began to change color immediately. Within seconds it was purple. A fine line of bright red blood appeared where the nylon cut into the skin.

Abubakar nodded in satisfaction, "there...it's done."

"You're not going to cut if off?" Abdul asked impatiently.

Abubakar shook his head as he applied a powder made from crushed paracetamol tablets to the small cock. It would stop the bleeding and help to reduce the pain. Shayne's eyes stayed shut, his face contorted as the pain grew even stronger, exceeding his threshold, becoming agony. But even as the pain throbbed through his body, the crushed nerves were losing their sensitivity. The gray flesh that was on the wrong side of the knotted line was becoming numb. A part of Shayne's body was dying and there was nothing that he could do to stop it.

"The cord will do the cutting just as well as the knife. It's better this way, Abdul," Abubakar said flatly. "This way it will heal faster and have less chance of infection. Anyway, it's not as if he's a Muslim."

"You don't have to cut the excess off?"

"No. I will leave the skin to die by itself."

"How long before he's ready?"

"You said a week. He'll be ready for the Lion in a week. No more than that."

"Even with the gelding?"

"A week will be sufficient. This is how I did that boy last month, Abdul. The one you brought for the Prince," Abubakar said, observing with relief that the boy's struggles were already fading. "It's a pity you had to leave so soon. He was horny after a day or two."

There had been some boys who had laid on his table and lost consciousness just from the circumcision. From his experience he wasn't at all certain that the boy on the table could survive prolonged pain. It did little to stem his anxiety.

"A week will please the Lion."

"You like the look of this one now, don't you Abdul?"

Abdul nodded thoughtfully. At first glance, the boy's cock appeared quite strange. It was as if the foreskin had been relocated from the head to the base. Only the exposed and reddened inner skin that covered the little finger-sized shaft indicated how it had been achieved.

Abubakar said, "and now that this boy has to travel before he heals, there's the added benefit of it not needing to be bandaged. Besides, this way the scar will be minimal."

Abdul reflected for a moment. He appreciated the appearance of a pink skinned shaft that would end abruptly. There was usually an unsightly band of scar tissue that resulted from the making of Allah's ring.

What could be seen of the skin that covered Shayne's cock was now of a very different appearance to what had been there before. It had taken on a sheen that was shiny and moist rather than soft and dry. It would always be very sensitive. The delicate inner skin was easily damaged, particularly when the cock was erect, but that was of little concern to the two men. In the erect state, the skin would be so stretched that it would appear polished. Yet, when all was said and done it would not matter very much. Boys who were castrated prior to puberty usually had problems both in achieving and maintaining erections.

For good reason, the priests of Ancient Egypt considered the method of circumcision that was later to be referred to as the Ring of Allah, to be a sacrifice, for it was a forsaking of "sinful pleasures". A boy seldom masturbated when he was circumcised in the manner that Shayne had been circumcised. It had become an organ whose primary function was to be sucked or abused in the act of sodomy.

"As you can see, Abdul, I have taken as much as possible of the outer skin," Abubakar indicated. Indeed, there was nothing left of the almond colored outer skin except a thin strip where the cock and balls were joined.

"There should be absolutely no movement of skin along the shaft."

Abubakar nodded in agreement. "It is as tight as it can be without shortening the shaft."

"Then, the Ring of Allah will be just as the Lion prefers," Abdul said breathily, recalling his own boyhood as the Lion's catamite.

"Let me show you, nephew," Abubakar suggested proudly.

His fingers gently fondled the now very exposed head of Shayne's cock, carefully avoiding the scorched flesh. The flared rim had become very pronounced, unnaturally so. What been done had the effect of making the little head stand out from the rest of the shaft, but it would soon become even more so. The boy winced, but not in pain. The sensitive flesh, so seldom touched in the past, began to tingle, sending tremors through his body. He tensed as the rough fingers massaged the swelling knob.

Abubakar grinned at Abdul, showing a mouth of yellowing and missing teeth. His thumb raked back and forth over the delicate crown, agitating, stimulating barely known sensations that easily overwhelmed the foreign boy's lingering pain. The bloodstained organ began to slowly lengthen. Abubakar spit onto his fingers, transferring thick slimy saliva to the shaft of the small cock, sliding his fingers up and down and squeezing against the bulging head. Shayne whimpered as pleasure burned in his throbbing child-sized cock. He shook his head and gritted his teeth, fighting against it. How different it was compared to Peter's confident gentle stroking. This was torture, but it was also intensely pleasurable, a pleasure that he had never really appreciated before. He dared not look down, but it felt as if his cock was becoming very stiff. It hurt almost as much as it felt good.

Abdul stared. The gray flap of outer skin concealed about a quarter of the boy's erection, but what he could see had become glossy as the delicate skin was stretched to painful tightness. The color changed from pink to shiny crimson-purple. It was a joy to behold.

His hand groped between his thighs, finding his zipper in the way. He opened it hurriedly, shamelessly exposing his own cock. Although very much larger than Shayne's cock, there was a remarkable similarity between the two. Like the boy on the table, the skin on the man's cock was pulled as tight as a drum. The head of the man's cock resembled a plum that was exaggerated in importance. It was both threatening and exposed, yet strangely arousing.

Shayne, barely cognizant of what was happening, was stunned as much as what he was feeling as by what he was observing next to him. Abubakar had followed Abdul by exposing his own withered organ to view. It seemed smaller than it had been early that morning when it pulled free of Maareq's bottom, but seeing the man's hand stroking back and forth was no less distressing to him than when the old man had been embedded inside Maareq's rectum. And Maareq too was affected by witnessing the circumcision. His hand was in his pocket, rubbing vigorously. Every man and boy in that hut, with the exception of the boy lying on the table, was pumping on his erection, either openly or under his gelaba (Egyptian caftan). They seemed to have no cultural taboo about doing it in public.

The situation around the table was one of such powerful sexual excitation that surely Shayne would have been brought quickly to orgasm had Abubakar continued to manipulate his cock, but he moved closer to Maareq, encouraging him to lift his robe before Abdul. There was no lessening of Shayne's erection despite the lack of attention. The band at the bottom of his cock would not allow the blood pressure to diminish even if he wasn't highly aroused.

Had he not been sobbing with the residue of pain, he would have noticed Abdul coming closer, grasping his engorged shiny cock with both hands and pummeling it vigorously. The man ejaculated without more warning than a sudden gasp, shooting copiously over the boy's narrow chest and belly. Thick strands of creamy-white cum came out in gushing spurts and splattered over equally creamy white skin while the man groaned in ecstasy. Only when he felt the man's hands smearing the slimy mess into his skin, did Shayne turn his head to look.

For a second or two he did not understand. Then, he stared, aghast. It wasn't that he hadn't seen semen before, or even that Peter had never discharged over him. That had happened often enough over the last two months that he had lost count after a while. It was either that way or in his mouth. It was the expression on the man's face that he did not understand. When Peter shared his semen with him, his face was glowing with happiness and pride, of knowing that they had become as close as two people could be without actually penetrating his bottom and putting the semen there. Abdul's expression revealed nothing pleasurable. It was nothing short of hatred.

Even as Abdul stuffed his shrinking organ behind his trousers and closed the zipper again, he glared at Abubakar. To any other man, it would have brought fear. Instead, Abubakar left Maareq's side and approached the table.

"Finish Allah's work so that we may leave," Abdul instructed impatiently.

"And so I will." Abubakar gestured to Maareq to bring the bowl that had been warming by the fire. He leaned over Shayne's blanched face, enjoying his fear.

"I fear my precious boy, that it's time for you to lose your precious eggs. I will take from you the things that make a boy become a man so that you may serve the Lion of Islam," he announced harshly.

He dipped his fingers into the warm dark-as-tannin antiseptic. The color quickly spread over Shayne's scrotum, onto his perineum, streaking the insides of his thighs. He continued to massage the boy's small pouch, all over his groin until the antiseptic reached to where the cord was knotted. The scrotal pouch, which until then had been as wrinkled and small as an unshelled walnut, relaxed and loosened. Abubakar continued to fondle the skin, tugging, squeezing on the immature eggs contained within the delicate folds.

Although he was very familiar with its function, or perhaps because of it, Maareq smirked knowingly and callously handed the old man a leather cord with a loop in one end. The cord was only a year old, but it had been used a thousand times. One end of it was dark and stiff with blood. As part of his apprenticeship, Maareq had used it on a dozen sheep only a few days earlier, his inexperienced hands gradually learning the old man's skills. He had never used it on a boy, but he had watched Abubakar use the cord several times and it always gave him an intense thrill. He stayed close to get a good view yet out of the way.

Abubakar expertly placed the cord around the boy's pouch and firmly pulled on the free end after making sure that only a single testicle was captured behind the loop. Castrating a boy like Shayne was no different to castrating a sheep. It was possible to take both at the same time, but then the incision needed to be much larger. It was far better, if a little slower to make two small cuts with his knife. It would also be more painful, at least if the boy's screams were any indication.

"Hold the Ameri-kano down, nephew," Abubakar ordered heartlessly.

Shayne didn't understand, but he struggled to get off the table. He felt something pulling against his pouch, almost tearing it off. The ropes didn't budge. He slumped back, his strength easily exhausted, shaking with fear. He dared not look down. He had to look. He strained to lift his head. He saw his scrotum stretched away from his body, the cord pulled so tight that the little egg shape that was captured by the loop was turning dark and shiny. He shook his head, begging incoherently, pleading in a foreign language that went unheeded. If anything his frantic beseeching increased Abubakar's resolve. There was no mercy allowed for Americans, not even for ten-year-old boys.

Shayne watched as the knife came closer. In amazement he saw the pointed blade like an oversized needle sticking into his scrotum where the skin was stretched around the captured egg. At first, he felt nothing more than a pin prick. It was only a small cut, not even a half-inch long. He shrieked loudly, even though the pain wasn't that great. It was the sight of blood oozing from the narrow gash, of realizing what was going to happen to him and being unable to do anything to stop it. Abubakar smirked. There was a special pleasure in it for him, unmanning the little dark-haired American boy.

His fingers closed on the skin pulled taut around the boy's testicle, pinching hard. Then, the pain multiplied a hundred fold. Shayne lurched, lifting his body up to meet Abubakar's squeezing fingers. There was no sound at first. His mouth opened wide, but nothing came out. Finally, when the compression had become so great that the egg was about to burst, it popped through the tiny opening. Only then did Shayne's scream begin. He dropped back onto to the table with a loud thud. He screamed again, gaining strength as shock became agony, shuddering uncontrollably as the realization struck hard. He had seen his own testicle. It wasn't where it was supposed to be. Instead, a small whitish mass that was variegated with fine red lines was caught between the old man's blood-smeared fingers.

"Hold him down," Abubakar commanded.

He waited until Abdul had a firm grip of the boy's shoulders. Maareq assisted by putting his hands on the boy's slender thighs. Abubakar placed his free hand on the boy's belly to hold his hips down. A doctor performing a bilateral orchiectomy would have closely incised the spermatic cords, or opened the enclosing sheath or tunica and left it within the scrotum after the testis were removed. In the tradition of Islamic eunuchs, Abubakar's fingers clamped on the testicle. He paused, meeting the boy's frantic eyes for a moment or two, and then he savagely jerked his hand up. The cords gave way when the testicle was several inches away from Shayne's scrotum. It came away cleanly, breaking at the root where it was supposed to occur. Shayne choked, gagging on the fluids that heaved from his stomach. It felt as if a branding iron had been rammed into his abdomen.

"There is the first one!" Abubakar said pitilessly.

He dropped the egg and the attached cords onto the boy's belly where they could all see it. Maareq leaned on the table between Shayne's thighs to get a better view. The size of a boy's eggs fascinated him. They were always smaller than they appeared when they were still inside the pouch. This ball was noticeably smaller than the others that he'd seen. It was little different to what he took from the lambs.

"His cock is even harder now," he pointed out, much to Abdul's amusement.

Shayne's cock throbbed relentlessly. It did not discriminate between pain and pleasure. It needed the release of orgasm, and it was close, so very close that the boy strained to get it out. He heard himself, gasping, imploring, moaning as the pain abated temporarily. Relief seemed only moments away. If only someone would rub his cock. Little did he know that there would be an almost unbearable ache in his groin for days to come.

"Get the iron," Abubakar said as he wiped his bloody fingers on a towel.

He fingered the scrotal skin, removing the leather cord and easily finding the cut. Then, he pinched the sides together to stem the bleeding. He took the reheated iron and touched it briefly to the incision. Shayne screamed once more as his tender flesh was seared. There seemed to be no end to it.

There was a brief pause in the otherwise well-rehearsed procedure as Abubakar moved to the other side of the table. Shayne's remaining testicle was quickly captured by the looped leather cord. Again, the cord was pulled tight. Again, Shayne begged, but as before, his pleas were unheeded. Tradition ruled every aspect of life in that part of the world. The Lion preferred his catamites to be eunuchs as much because it made them compliant and less aggressive than preventing the physical changes of puberty.

It took only a few seconds for Abubakar to complete the gelding. The boy screamed for much longer the second time that the cauterizing iron was used to close the incision in his pouch. Perhaps he achieved orgasm before the gelding was completed. Given his wild bucking and frenzied struggles it was impossible to tell. Perhaps it was merely the frenzied throes of agony, of knowing that his scrotum had been emptied, that he would never become a man.

Maareq certainly made up for whatever the boy on the table lacked. He shuddered, clutching the two severed testicles in one hand and rubbing frantically at his cock with the other, his thighs jerking wildly in a fruitless effort to release his seed. The two men shared a knowing glance. The unmanning of another male always had a powerful effect on anyone who saw it, even a boy.

Finally, unable to withstand the pain, the crying boy on the table lost consciousness. He would never know that castrating a sheep was actually more difficult than what had been done to him, that his testicles were already in a small glass jar that had once been used for baby food, soaking in a mixture of brine and vinegar.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

95696464646 12-27-03
---Port Said Fem-Boutique. Veil 7.98D

Peter Hamilton was only a few hours away from where the boy he loved was emasculated. Perhaps it was being so close to Shayne that caused the feeling, perhaps it was being in a foreign country surrounded by people jabbering in a language he did not understand, but he knew that something bad was happening. He felt it in his stomach. He felt it as a queasiness that seemed to get worse as the day progressed. Everything that he tried to do became a struggle against ineptitude and couldn't-care-less attitudes that reflected contempt for Americans.

Tracking down the company where Abdul had rented a car was relatively easy. Less easy was finding out what model of car had been rented. Only when he rented a car for himself did the arrogant clerk provide the information. A Mercedes G320, two-door, in white, for Dalton. He rented a Fiat 1500 for himself for a week.

His second stop was at the headquarters office of Telecom-Egypt. There, the language barrier prevented further progress. It did no good at all to raise his voice, or point to the telephone number that Dalton had called from. His frustration grew steadily. He even considered contacting the American Embassy and asking for their assistance, until he realized that the police might have issued a warrant for his arrest. He had not heard anything more from Shayne's mother. The last thing he wanted was to be sent back to Minneapolis on the next flight out of Cairo. So he struggled on trying to make himself understood.

Only when he placed a fifty-dollar bill on the counter did he receive a meaningful response. A hand reached out and pushed the bill back to him. Yet, the hand stayed there, fingers extended almost to the money. More was needed. Peter used the only money that he had. He emptied his wallet and placed $76 on the counter. He folded his wallet back to show that there was nothing left. This time the hand closed around the money. He waited with bated breath as the money was put out of sight. Then, the man left, disappearing behind the wall. He waited nearly ten minutes, imagining the worst.

"You have a question?" The voice was English and educated.

Peter spun around. The man was young, perhaps mid twenties. He smiled warmly.

"Yes. I'm trying to find out where a phone number is located."

The man examined the page of credit card information that Peter had written out long hand during the flight from Rome.

"This one?" he ascertained, pointing at the charge.

"Yes, that one. I need to know where it was made from."

"It's not from Cairo."

"I know that," Peter said dryly. He had checked the first telephone book he found as soon as he was through customs and immigration. He felt on firm ground. "It's very important that I find out where it is."

"Why?"

Peter breathed out. He took a risk. "The man who made this call raped my son," he said bluntly. "Now he has AIDS."

It was remarkably easy to say and it had exactly the effect he wanted. The other man's shocked expression lasted for a long while. Then, he turned and went behind the wall. He returned with a roll, a map which he spread out on the table. Colored zones differentiated the country like counties. A legend on the side displayed different prefixes for colors.

"Here," he said, stabbing his finger on the eastern side of Cairo. It didn't look that far away.

Remarkably, his fingernail stopped directly above Medinet, but it would take several minutes before Peter was handed a sheet of paper that listed the telephone number and an address.

Less than an hour later, Peter was driving down the main street of Medinet looking for the inn just as another car turned left in front of him. Unlike the other shabby and neglected vehicles he passed, the car was in very good shape. It was covered with a thin layer of dust much like his own car. It went past so quickly that he didn't recognize the Mercedes G320. Not that he would have paid it any attention. He was looking for a white sedan, not a box on wheels. Indeed, it was many hours later when Peter realized how close he had come to the boy he loved. At the time, Shayne was drugged and lying on the rear seat. Had he been conscious, he might have thought he was wrapped in a blanket. Instead, he wore Maareq's gelaba, with nothing underneath so that the air could reach what remained of his genitals.

Peter swiftly located the telephone where Dalton called Paris from, yet it did him little good. It was but another piece of the puzzle. He tried to find out whether Dalton had stayed at the inn, but gave up because he could not make himself understood. It took several hours of fruitless searching and asking questions before he managed to find an interpreter and guide. Despite a thick muslin veil and a strong accent, the schoolteacher was more than happy to spend her lunchtime with someone with whom she could practice her limited English. Fortunately, she wanted nothing in payment, and other than his credit cards, Peter had nothing to give her except his thanks.

He became increasingly worried. He was close to Shayne, that much was certain. There had to be a reason why Dalton called Paris from the tiny desert village. Indeed, there had to be a reason why he had gone there in the first place. A logical explanation eluded him, yet he instinctively realized that it somehow involved Shayne. And then there were the other charges on Dalton's credit card that had occurred when he returned from Paris. It was likely that one or two of them provided additional clues as well, but what? Where was Shayne? It was winter, but that close to the equator, it might as well have been summer. He sweated and swatted at a perpetual cloud of gnats and flies.

Peter could think of only two reasons why Dalton had purchased a bottle of antiseptic on the outskirts of Cairo, one of which he liked, and the other that chilled his spine. The obvious explanation was that Shayne had been injured in some way. For that reason, he breathed a sign of relief when the teacher confirmed that there was no doctor in Medinet. However, there was a midwife who provided some first aid to the villagers when the need arose. There was also an old man who lived on a farm on the outskirts of the village who sometimes took care of sick and injured animals. Peter dismissed both of them with a shrug. It was just coincidence that Dalton had purchased the antiseptic on the way out of Cairo that very day. There was nothing to be learned from the purchase of a bottle of antiseptic, and even if there was, it made more sense that Dalton was treating himself, or was taking care of Shayne without going to someone else for assistance. Still, he followed the schoolteacher's directions to find the midwife, grateful to be doing something else besides sitting in an airport.

As soon as they stopped outside the midwife's house he knew he was wasting his time. The house was deserted and had been for some time. Angry, he stumped back to his car.

"She's not there," he said bitterly.

The schoolteacher nodded understandingly as she climbed into the passenger seat. It was as if she had known all along that the midwife was gone. Peter shook his head in frustration. He was tired even though he had managed to sleep for a while on the flight from Rome. What was it about these people? They were arrogant and conveyed the impression that they wanted him dead. The heat was affecting him badly. He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead.

"Now you go to see the circumciser?" the woman next to him asked.

"To see the what?" Peter asked, not quite believing what he had heard her say.

"The cir-cum-ciser," the teacher repeated as if Peter was hard of hearing.

"Yes, I heard you. What do you mean by that?"

The woman smiled and pulled her veil closer to her face. She didn't answer for a while. Some things were not supposed to be shared with outsiders. Eventually, her higher level of education intervened.

"The village boys are taken to him, so that they can become men."

Peter nodded vaguely. It did not make much sense. Cutting off a boy's foreskin did not make him a man.

"I thought you said he took care of animals?"

"Yes, mostly he does do that."

"Why not the midwife?" Peter asked.

The woman snickered softly. "It is forbidden by Allah for a woman to touch a boy between his legs. It must be a man who cuts the skin from a boy to make him pure."

"Oh. Yes, I suppose so. What else does he do?" Peter asked. It didn't sound right, yet he accepted the logic of it. For the moment he was fascinated by the local culture.

"Here. You turn here," the woman directed. "He who wields the knife for Allah has many skills. When sheep will not become rams, or horses are to be gelded, they always go to Abubakar."

"Abubakar? The circumciser?"

She nodded and repeated the directions. Without knowing why, Peter, began to drive faster. The car came to a sudden stop outside the farmhouse. There was no reason why Peter felt a strange sense of déjà vu. Not really. The ramshackle farmhouse had never occurred in any of his dreams, yet, it was very unsettling. A plume of smoke drifted lazily from the stone chimney. The door was closed. Like the midwife's house, it too appeared deserted. And then he stopped and stared at the two lines that continued from the chicken coop all the way up the dusty footpath. Two lines made by wheels not quite two feet apart. His heart began to beat faster. He started to walk, following the two lines to the front door. Perhaps the woman sensed that something was wrong. She stayed behind saying something to the effect that she was not allowed to enter the hut.

Peter opened the front door without knocking. He looked inside, half expecting to see Shayne, wanting more than he could stand, to find him safe. During the days and nights since Shayne had disappeared, one thing had become very clear. He loved Shayne more than he had ever imagined it was possible to love another person. It sounded hokey, even to Peter, but Shayne was the only beautiful thing in his otherwise dull existence. He lived for Shayne's happiness.

Instead of finding Shayne as he so desperately wanted, he found an old man having sex with a boy. He stared in disbelief with the door still open behind him. The boy was young, no older or larger than Shayne. He was dark skinned with straight black hair. He squatted over the man's thighs. No, higher up than that. Right over the man's groin. It was obvious what he was doing, what the man was doing to him. Peter had never seen it done like that, although many of the stories that he had read, described the position as ideal for giving a boy a less submissive role.

The boy's head rocked back and forth as he pumped his hindquarters up and down against the man lying underneath him. He was anything but submissive. He seemed to be a very different boy to Shayne who lay on his back with his legs draped over Peter. Perhaps it was all a matter of experience. The sound they made reminded Peter of when he made love to Shayne. It was slippery, wet, loose, sucking, slapping. Gasping together, grunting when their bodies came together too hard and the cock was forced in deeply, working towards the inevitable climax that made life worth living. At the very end, he and Shayne had made the same sounds. He had never imagined that Shayne's body could become so loose, so sloppy, succulently loose that his cock glided effortlessly back and forth inside the boy's rectum.

"Abu, oh Abu...put your seed in me," the boy pleaded in words that Peter could not understand, yet his tone, the urgency of his downward thrusts was enough to express his desire.

"I'm close," the man gasped. "Ride me faster, Maareq. Faster, boy!"

Peter pushed the door closed behind him and coughed, and then he watched with amusement as the boy jumped. It took a few more seconds before the old man became aware of his visitor.

"Ameri-kano," the old man grunted.

He shoved at the boy, pushing his light weight off. His slimy cock popped free, loudly slapping against his belly. Peter took a step closer and picked up a red-stained knife from the table without thinking about it. There were other things lying on the table as well, but he did not realize their purpose, not until much later. There was a piece of leather cord. A screwdriver without a blade. A bowl of dark brown liquid that gave off an odor like strong disinfectant. There were streaks and spots of red and brown on the unpainted wood planks of the table. It looked as if someone had beheaded a chicken.

"You speak English?" he asked awkwardly.

The old man scowled. He didn't answer. The last Peter wanted to do was to open the door and bring the schoolteacher from the car in order to have her translate what was said.

"Do you?" he demanded. "English? Do you speak English?"

"Some he speak," the old man mumbled, gesturing absently to the boy who had crawled to the far corner of the bed. He glared back at the man who had interrupted them.

"Don't be afraid. I'm not going tot hurt you," Peter explained. The knife felt very strange in his hand. He realized he was never going to be able to use it. It was only for show.

"I not fear you. You Ameri-kano dog--" The boy stopped himself in time.

Peter smiled. "You must be a smart boy. You're English is very good," he complimented the young boy.

The boy was looking at him curiously. He was handsome, not beautiful like Shayne. His body was brown all over, unlike Shayne whose summer tan was long since gone.

"We learn at school. She teach us."

Peter nodded. Of course, it made sense. The teacher who was standing outside the hut was the boy's teacher. What would she think of her little truant if she knew what he had been doing that morning instead of sitting in the classroom?

"Your teacher is waiting outside."

"How? How you know her?"

Peter smiled slightly. The boy's demeanor had instantly become less aggressive, almost respectable.

"She said you would answer some questions for me," Peter said in a quietly authoritative voice. "If you do, I won't tell her about this," he gestured towards the bed where the boy was lying with the old man.

The boy scowled. He nodded slowly. "Maybe." He moved away a few inches.

"I want to know about a man," Peter began. "His name might be Dalton?"

"I don't know him," the boy answered quickly.

Perhaps he didn't know him. Peter looked around the squalid hut. It was almost impossible to conceive of Shayne being in that room, yet instinct said otherwise. He thought for a few seconds, wondering once again why Shayne had been brought there. He put the knife down again. It didn't belong in his hand.

"Maybe not by that name. This man came to Medinet two days ago? He had a little boy with him. He was about your age."

"I know no one like that," the boy snarled.

"Yes you do. I know you do. Tell me about him."

"Who?" the boy replied, glaring back.

"The man. The boy if you prefer. You can pick which one you want to tell me about."

The boy shook his head abruptly. His expression changed. "The boy? He's sexy. You do it with him, Ameri-kano? Do you put your cock inside his butt?" he asked with a bold smirk.

Peter had not expected that and his face showed it. He remembered the look on Shayne's face when he'd asked Peter to have sex with him. Shayne had been so nervous, but he had still shocked Peter when he'd asked him to put his cock inside his butt. The boy before him kept smirking, reading whatever he wanted to read. Knowing the boy had the answer to his question made Peter even more uncomfortable.

"I don't think that's any of your business," he sputtered. "Now...will you tell me about the man? Where did he go?"

The boy shrugged indifferently. The old man moved very slowly. Peter didn't notice the pistol until it was too late. It came from underneath the pillow. It pointed directly at his chest. Peter didn't know anything about firearms. All he knew was that he wasn't going to leave the hut alive. He swallowed his fear.

"Tell your friend that I have someone waiting outside for me," he said as calmly as he could to the boy.

Without being told to do so, he stepped back from the knife on the table. It would have been foolhardy to make a grab for it. Only then, when he saw the red and brown marks again did he realize that while most of the stains were old, the most recent ones were very recent. It was Shayne's blood. It had to be. He groaned inside, feeling as if the air rushed out of him. His shoulders slumped.

"Tell me. Please."

The boy jabbered in Arabic. The old man laughed suddenly and shook his head.

"Ameri-kano, you ask Maareq to tell about Abdul and the boy? If I tell you..." he snorted in derision, "...I have to kill you."

Peter glowered in response. Apparently, American jokes had reached Egypt.

"He is very sexy, that pretty Ameri-kano boy is. He has an ass just like a girl, that one," the old man snickered. "So we fuck him. First is my boy, Maareq. Of course, he barely stretch the hole. When he is done, your boy is very hungry for a man to fuck him, so I take him. I do him hard and your boy squeals and begs for more. So does Abdul. We fuck him good. Your boy, he says he likes big cocks."

"I...I-I don't believe you," Peter muttered.

For some reason it did not sound true, although it was obvious that something had happened to Shayne in the hut. The fresh blood and the knife on the table worried him a great deal. There was no blood on the floor, just two short pieces of rope. Peter glanced back at Maareq. The boy regarded him curiously.

"Where is he? What happened to the boy?" Peter asked quietly.

"Abdul leave two hours ago with your boy. They went to Port Said," Maareq answered before the old man could intervene.

"Why?"

"They go to meet the Lion," Maareq's pride was very evident.

"Who's the Lion?" Peter asked uncertainly.

"Enough talk, Maareq," the old man roared. "You should know better."

His finger tightened on the pistol's trigger. Was it Peter's imagination that he heard something click? It made no sense at all to tense his body, certainly not against the impact of a bullet, yet he still did so. He waited for the noise of the gun being fired, vaguely wondering whether he would even hear it given the speed of the bullet, or what it would feel like to be shot. The face behind the pistol smiled slightly, relishing the other man's terror.

Only a second or two saved Peter from certain death, that and a coughing fit that distracted the old man's attention. The pistol wavered as the old man began to hack. Peter sprang back with surprising agility, yanking open the door behind him. For a moment he thought about turning, then running as fast as he could towards the car. Instead, in that fraction of a second that is the difference between life and death, he picked up the knife and threw it. He had never thrown a knife before, yet luck intervened on his behalf. The knife struck hard and deep, its thin sharp blade penetrating between the man's ribs and skewering the heart. He might have survived for a few minutes had Maareq not tried and succeeded in wrenching the knife free. By then, Peter was long gone.

He dropped the teacher off at the school and after a few minutes of hurried conversation, he headed towards the west on a path that would hopefully bring him to Port Said before Shayne arrived.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

84534505428 12-27-03
---Telecom Ship-shore 2032-28292 to 010-292-23-2499 3.50D

For the first time since Shayne had been kidnapped in Minneapolis, Peter did something other than respond. For the first time, he planned. Driving in pursuit yielded him no advantage. Instead, he examined a map of the eastern region of Egypt. The road from Cairo to Port Said was probably no worse than most of the roads in the country, but from what he'd experienced just getting to Medinet suggested that it would take most if not all of what was left of the day to reach Port Said. Perhaps he was clutching at proverbial straws, but he chose to return to Cairo, reasoning that there had to be regularly scheduled flights to Port Said, and if there were not, then he could charter a plane.

He drove back the way that he had come only a few hours earlier. His hands gripped the steering wheel as he used more than a judicious application of accelerator. The car's speed crept over seventy, then eighty, then a hundred, kilometers per hour of course, but the road was terrible. As soon as he built up any speed at all, there was always a slow moving truck, of a flock of sheep, or goats that seemed to appear from nowhere. His average speed was close to forty kilometers, but there was still time to get to Port Said before Shayne. The shimmering haze scorched his eyes and stole his concentration. He almost collided with a cart full of straw. And always, Peter's thoughts were of Shayne, and the blood that streaked the table top.

Only one time had he seen Shayne's blood and he had nightmares for the next two nights. It had been an accident. A stupid thing to happen really, or for him to have allowed, but boys will be boys and they have to be allowed to take risks. The ravine at the far side of the park beckoned to both boy and dog, offering the perfect place for them to explore together. There were rocks and fallen trees, mossy ledges, and a dribble of a creek. The truly strange thing was that Peter's intuition sensed the injury even before he heard Shayne's cry. The dog hadn't barked either, not like it usually did when something was wrong. Yet, Peter had known that Shayne was hurt long before he saw the actual injury. The two of them had simply appeared from among the trees where they'd been playing. By then, Peter was halfway across the soccer field and running. Shayne limped because he had fallen onto his knee, not badly, but the cut was deep enough that there was blood trickling down his leg. It was bright red against the boy's pale skin, and it stayed vividly in his memory for days. Shayne's mother treated it as the minor scrape that it was.

After dropping off his rental car at Cairo International Airport, Peter rushed to buy a ticket on the next available flight to Port Said. He had a few minutes before it departed, just enough time to visit one of the many coffee shops with Internet access. The first thing he did was to look for more credit card transactions for Dalton. There were none. Then, he checked his email. There was an email from Shayne's mother. He read quickly because the first call for his flight was already on the loudspeakers.

> 'Peter,

> Still no word about Shayne? I know you will tell
> me as soon as you find out something. I pray
> for the both of you. I met with the police again
> yesterday. That detective had someone with
> her from the FBI. They don't believe that you
> are really pursuing Shayne and not trying to
> escape. I showed them your emails, the ones
> that Shayne printed off. I expect you know the
> ones I am talking about. I found them hidden
> in his bedroom, although why he went to so
> much trouble, I can't understand. However, I
> can see why he is so fond of you. You are a
> very good friend to him. I didn't know that he
> was being bullied at school. Thank you for
> helping him out. I hope that showing them to
> the police was okay. I want them to know that
> you would never do something that isn't in
> Shayne's best interest.

> Father Joseph has been very helpful. We talked
> yesterday evening for several hours. He
> understands far more than I ever imagined. He gave
> me a lot to think about.

> Your dog has an underpants fetish. Did you know
> that? I let her sleep in Shayne's bedroom last
> night because that's where she happiest. This
> morning I found that she'd emptied the clothes
> hamper, although the only clothes that she was
> interested in were Shayne's underpants. I
> suppose his smell is strongest there. She didn't tear
> them up or anything. She's carrying them
> around the house right now, sniffing at them.

> I want you to come back with Shayne so badly,
> but please be careful.

> Alicia'

Peter typed a quick response, promising to write more later. He omitted to mention the bloodstains he had seen, saying only that he had reason to believe that Shayne had been taken to a small village about an hour from Cairo. From there, it was likely that he was being taken to Port Said.

Peter was the last person to board. After the plane pulled away from the gate, they waited on the tarmac for an hour. Any advantage that he might have gained by flying to Port Said was lost in futile anger.

Port Said lay at the northern end of the Suez Canal overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. The plane circled low over the water as it made its final approach across the bay. Peter gazed out the porthole at palm trees and a rocky foreshore, at the busy grimy seaport that constricted the entrance to the canal, at dozens of ships at anchor, wondering where Shayne was. The plane straightened, grinding beneath him as flaps were adjusted, as wheels were lowered into place. The ground rushed up to meet him. He always closed his eyes at the moment of touching, silently hoping. Then, the bitter screech, the rushing forward, the whine of propellers being adjusted, the jerking grab of brakes. The plane stopped outside the terminal, a low concrete building with a rusty metal roof that could have belonged any airport in that part of the world. Only the faded sign gave any indication of where he was. Someone jabbered instructions about being careful leaving the plane, but Peter was already moving down the aisle. He was the first person off the plane.

He smelled sea air, hot and dry yet invigorating after the cramped smoky flight from Cairo. He rushed into the terminal and after a difficult discussion with an overly prudent clerk, rented the car of his dreams, a 1992 Renault with 230,000 kilometers. With car keys and a local map in hand, he set out to find Shayne.

Just about the time that Peter left the airport and headed down the road that led to Suez and Cairo, the car that Shayne was traveling turned off into a parking area and stopped. Abdul turned in his seat and shook the boy's leg.

"Wake up capon!"

Shayne stirred. The sun beat down onto his head. The hand came down hard upon his rump. The rough cotton cloth covered him offered little or no protection. There would be a welt for days, the first of many if he did not behave and do what he was told.

"Wake American brat!"

Again, Shayne moved. His eyes opened wearily. He groaned. He was not even close to being fully conscious, yet he could feel it, an emptiness inside him. It was as if his body had been drained of life. It took all his strength to move even in the slightest way. His eyes closed to blot out the bright light. The man's voice was distant, yet insistent. He knew he had to listen to what was being said to him. He wanted to go back to sleep. The pain would go away then. He shook his bedraggled head. His hair had not been brushed in days. It was matted and tangled.

"Wake!"

"Am-wake," Shayne slurred.

Why did his tongue feel like it had fur on it? And his voice? What was making it sound so raspy? He could never sing like this. He was supposed to sing at the church today. Today? It was Christmas Eve, wasn't it? Where was Peter? Why wasn't he there at practice yesterday? Why did it hurt between his legs? His head spun.

The car door opened next to him. The man's breath was bad. Stale. It smelled like...what was the smell? Licorice? He hated licorice. Shayne looked up. The face...he had seen the face before somewhere. His eyes watered. Hands moved around him, securing something over his face. It was warm. Not very soft. Bristles like a beard, but not that. A cloth? Yes, that was it. The man was wrapping it around his head. His eyes closed, making what was already a dark gloom, completely black.

"Get out of the car." The man's voice was anything but calming or soothing.

The hands dragged at him, pulling him to the side, lifting him out of the seat and onto to his feet. He staggered, finding it almost impossible to stand, let alone stay still. The man left him tottering by himself and went to get something from the car's trunk. Shayne swayed like a reed. His head spun. He shook his head listlessly. There was a monotonous sound. Like metal hitting metal, loud and close. He was hot. Sweating, sticky, prickly heat. It felt as if something was draped over him, all around his body from his fingers to his toes, yet not really touching him, at least other than on his shoulders. The hands pushed at him, pulled at him, made him take a few awkward steps. He stumbled once when his bare feet struck something hard, then again. It was hot and sharp, not like nails, like broken glass, or stones. That was it. He was walking across crushed gravel. The suitcase bounced around and knocked against his leg as it was dragged along.

He couldn't see where he was going. Everything before him was a dim haze when he dared to open his eyes. Hands led him on. He was scared. He murmured 'Peter' before one of the hands gripped his shoulder and squeezed. He wasn't supposed to talk. Words were whispered into his ear with venom that he'd never heard before.

"Not a word, boy. I don't want to hear a sound out of you, not if you want to keep what's left between your legs. Do exactly what I tell you and you'll still have your cock to piss with, although in truth, it's of no other use to you. Speak a single word and I'll cut it off before the sun sets. You'll bleed to death before the sharks eat you."

Then, the boy remembered the voice. Amid the pain between his legs, the pain that seemed to reach right up into his lower abdomen, it all came back. The shame, the shock, the horror of the table they'd made him lie on, and he knew that the man meant every word of it. They started to walk. Each step he took sent a sharp stab through his body. If that was not bad enough, the cloth that rubbed against his exposed cock was like rough sandpaper. What he couldn't understand was why it suddenly hurt so much when it usually felt so nice not to be wearing underpants. The last time he'd done was when Peter took him to see Lord of the Rings, when Peter had given him the ring to rule all rings. Peter's hand had rested on his inner thigh and surreptitiously stroked the swollen bulge between his legs. Only the denim of his jeans separated them. Peter wouldn't let him open the zipper in the movie theater.

Voices jabbered in languages that he'd never heard before. Gruff men's voices, laughing, even an isolated catcall from some remote locale. The sound echoed around him. He felt embarrassed for the was no doubt in his mind that the hoot had been directed at him. Then, he heard a man's voice close by, in heavily accented English that sounded vaguely like the Crocodile Hunter. A few more steps brought the man face to face with Abdul. Shayne cowered behind, accepting that if he dared to utter a single sound, he would not survive the punishment.

"'cuse me mate. Do you speak English by any chance?"

"I know enough to get what I want. What is it?" Abdul answered coldly.

"I'm sorry to bother you, mate, but I'm trying to find out when this ship's leaving."

"Just as soon as we're on board," Abdul replied impatiently.

"Then you're the man I'm supposed to ask. I heard it was going south all the way to Djibouti this trip?"

There was no point in contradicting something that the man had so obviously gleaned from a member of the crew. Did no one understand the importance of security? The CIA and the various British intelligence organizations had spies everywhere. They had become very active following 9/11. Abdul glared at him. The man sounded South African, perhaps Kenyan.

"That's correct."

"I'd like to get to--"

Abdul did not allow him to finish. "There are no passengers on this trip. You're wasting your time."

"Oh, sorry. I just thought, well...with you and the young lady going aboard...see I have to get to Djibouti in a hurry. They told me you were the man to ask. I'll keep out of the way. I won't be a bother to anyone."

"Get out of the way," Abdul said. He pushed past the man, nearly hitting him with the suitcase, and giving Shayne a hard shove in the process that almost knocked him down. He stumbled, groaning, barely able to stop from sobbing as pain ricocheted inside his lower abdomen.

"Hey, take it easy on the girl, mate."

With the man's objection left in silence behind him, Abdul started up the gangway, all but dragging Shayne after him. The rusted metal stairs scorched Shayne's shuffling bare feet until he reached a shaded area. He sighed with relief, but it was only temporary. He sobbed, gasping as he struggled on. Trying to inhale through thick muslin veil was next to impossible. There were many more steps on the clanging, swaying gangway before they reached the ship's deck.

He was taken below to a small cabin without windows, pushed inside, and locked in. He pushed at the veil, forcing it away from his face. At last he could breath. It was noticeably cooler than outside, but the air was stale. It had an oily smell that was a lot like the bus he rode to school.

Shayne could both hear and feel the rumble of the ship. It was beginning to move, but which way it was moving was impossible to tell. He became aware of a constant high-pitched whirring, a multitude of sounds that he could not identify. He shuffled over to a small bunk and eased down. He sat very still, because the slightest movement was agony. He made a fruitless effort to focus his thoughts, trying to stop crying. It seemed as if he'd been crying non-stop for as long as he could remember. He wiped his eyes. His eyes hurt. No, he wasn't crying. His eyes were watering. He closed them tightly. It didn't help.

Finally, he could not stand the pain any longer. Cautiously, he lifted up the frayed hem of the gelaba. He moved his knees further apart.. He didn't want to look. Panic surged up inside him. He had to look. He had to know. How bad could it be? He closed his eyes, silently begging for the pain to go away. He could still smell the filthy hut. The old man's stale breath. His teeth were tobacco stained. How he longed for the throbbing to stop, but it wasn't that easy. It was far worse than any bee sting. Awful pain. Finally, he opened his eyes.

Several seconds passed before he recognized that part of his body. It had become so familiar to him during the last few months, so important to his life because it was the part that gave pleasure to Peter. It wasn't at all the way that he remembered it. His cock was different, very different. There was a collar of pasty-gray skin hanging from the base. The rest of his cock was pink and oily, no not oily. It glistened like someone had polished it. It looked very sore. And the head that Peter loved to kiss and lick, it was just like a little cherry. It had never been so exposed, not even when they'd pulled the skin all the way back. Nervously, and resisting the impulse to itch, he cautiously lifted it up. His cock was pink on the other side as well, except for two red swollen blotches that burned just below the head. Only then did he realize why there wasn't any skin to cover the head of his cock. The skin wasn't loose on the shaft the way it was supposed to be. It was pulled tight even though his penis was hanging down. That was because the excess skin was pulled down to the base. There was no other explanation. He prodded at the small fold of skin that formed at his pubis, but felt nothing. He tugged at it. Again, there was no feeling. He pinched it. It should have stung, but it didn't.

Tentatively and with a growing sense of dread because his memory was beginning to return, his fingers felt beneath him, touching where the pain was worse. His pouch felt surprisingly large and flabby, not loose and silky soft or wrinkled up into a lump the way it usually was when he was with Peter. He winced and uttered a restrained whimper. His fingers felt around carefully, finding two places where it was very sore, burning sore. However, those weren't the places where the pain began. The pain was inside him. His fingers pressed into his pouch with a sudden urgency. He remembered lying on the bed, the old man with the yellow teeth leaning over him, holding the long thin knife. The pain of being cut was followed by another far more awful pain as something was ripped from inside him. His head throbbed. He remembered everything in a rush, the terrible agony, the horrid dark faces laughing at him, the other man and the young boy, both of them leering, masturbating shamelessly, the feelings that he could not stop, feelings that until then he had experienced only with Peter. His body hand been on the very brink, shuddering uncontrollably, then looking up to see the strange little bloodied egg dangling from a white cord. It was his egg, but he really hadn't cared at the time. All he wanted was to reach orgasm.

He felt his pouch again, anxiously, frantically, then in alarm, discovering what was missing. Both eggs were gone forever. He coughed and started to choke as bile rose from his stomach. He groaned and slumped weakly back on the bed. He shuddered as he fought the impulse to empty his stomach. Why had they done this terrible thing to him? He hadn't hurt them. He didn't know them. Where was Peter? He sobbed with his head forced deep into the comfort of a pillow. Within minutes he was sound asleep.

Peter arrived at the dock entirely by accident, or rather by the simple act of avoiding an accident. He barely managed to avoid a truck carrying a container when it swerved into his lane to go around a stopped bus. With his heart pounding frantically, he swerved off the road and into a parking lot. He cut the engine and took a deep breath. Only moments earlier he had come very close, if not to death, then to serious injury. His clammy hands trembled on the wheel. He was suddenly very tired. He closed his eyes and dozed in the afternoon heat, dreaming of Shayne.

Shayne, beautiful Shayne with his every-ready grin and innate need to be constantly on the move that caused Peter to give him nickname of Energizer Bunny, or E-B for short. His Shayne. His boy. His lover-boy. Peter called him 'lover-boy' as well, but it was only when Shayne was at his apartment. It was too dangerous otherwise.

They'd been making love, having sex for two months, in one form or another, so the 'lover-boy' nickname was entirely justified. Meeting Shayne was the best thing that had ever happened to Peter. Until the previous weekend, their favorite activity was sucking each other. Shayne had taken to sucking and getting sucked like a duck takes to water. Together, they'd taken the sixty-nine to a high art. For Peter, the best part of all was sucking on the very end of Shayne's little cock after he'd pulled the skin back. There was no way of describing that wonderful taste, except as the taste of a boy's cock. It was truly unique. It was an aphrodisiac for both of them.

When Peter opened his eyes, he saw the car parked next to a nondescript wall that could have belonged to a warehouse or a factory. Unlike his vehicle with its threadbare seats and touched-up-by-hand paint job, the Mercedes was in excellent shape. Indeed, it was in such good shape it clearly did not belong in the dockside parking lot. Peter stumbled from his Renault, not daring to believe his eyes. He had been told to look for a white two-door Mercedes Benz. The vehicle was white but it wasn't a car. It was a G 320 according to the badge on the rear, a box on wheels of a style that he had never seen before. It had two doors. The doors were unlocked, which made as much sense as leaving the car unattended in the parking lot in the first place. There was nothing inside the car, nothing except a few sheets of stained newspaper on the back seat and a feeling that made Peter cringe. He couldn't tell what the stains were from, but it wasn't blood.

He wandered around the car, trying to put the pieces into some semblance of order that could answer the most important question of all. Where was Shayne? He was certain that this was the car that Dalton, or whoever he really was, had rented from Cairo. He opened the trunk, not really expecting to find anything. The trunk was empty. He smiled vaguely when he realized that he had been able to do that because he held the car keys in his hand. Dalton had been in such a hurry to leave that he'd left the keys in the trunk. Either that, or he'd intended that the car be stolen.

Still trying to figure out which one it was, Peter walked across the parking lot to the wood planked wharf. He came to the edge, resting one foot on an over-sized cast iron cleat. The mooring line that went around it must have been as thick as his leg. The water swirled around the wood pilings far below. It was oily and dark. Plastic bottles bobbed back and forth. There was a dead sea gull. His depression began to build. Where was Shayne? He asked himself that question again and again.

He stared out to deeper water. There had to be a reason why Shayne had been brought here. Perhaps Dalton had met someone and left in another car. Finally, his mind reached the obvious conclusion. There had been a ship docked at the wharf when Shayne arrived. It was equally obvious where it had gone. The problem was that there were ships scattered across the horizon. It could be any one of them. How long ago had it been at the dock? An hour ago? It was two hours at the most. How far could it have gone? He had to find the harbormaster's office. He started back to the Renault.

"Hey!"

Peter turned quickly. The voice seemed disembodied, until the man stood up. He'd been sitting or lying behind a pile of ropes.

"Yes?"

"You're American."

Peter nodded. From the accent, the other man was foreign, but he couldn't be sure where he had come from. In fact, he wondered for a few seconds whether the man's name might even be Dalton. After all, there was sufficient similarity given that Father Joseph had described the man at St. Paul's Cathedral as being an Arab, of about the same age at Peter, and without a beard. And the woman at the upholstery store had implied much the same thing, that he was suntanned with dark hair. However, she'd also said that he was well dressed, which certainly didn't apply to this man in old cut-off jeans and a tee shirt that had seen better days.

"If you're looking for the Equator Express, you're about an hour too late," the man remarked flippantly, "she left on time for once."

"The what?"

The man laughed. "The ship that was just docked here. I'm told they call it the Equator Express, around here. It runs down the east coast, stopping off at towns along the way. It's supposed to go all the way to the Red Sea before it turns back, but I figure it depends on what's being traded."

Peter's heart rate picked up immediately. The timing was about right even if he didn't understand why Shayne would be taken aboard a coastal trader. The problem was that he remembered very little geography from school. He wished Shayne was with him. Shayne destroyed him in that category whenever they played Trivial Pursuit. All he remembered about the eastern region of Africa was that next to Egypt, there was Sudan, and somewhere to the east was Etrieia, and then it was only because one evening about a week earlier he and Shayne had watched a pre-Christmas television special about ancient forms of Christianity and Christian relics.

"Are you from around here?" he asked suspiciously.

"Me, around here?" the man laughed. Hell no. I'm up from Cape Town. I hitched up here to set some parts for my yacht. She's back in Djibouti."

Peter nodded. He had no idea what or where Djibouti was. "Tell, me have you been here for a while?"

"Too damned long. I finally found the parts I needed late yesterday. Talk about living a nightmare. No one gives a shit if things break. I've spent the last eight hours trying to get a ride back to Djibouti. I was hoping to go on the Express, but it turns out they weren't taking passengers this trip. It doesn't make a damned bit of sense, but that's the way these people are. Fucking inconsistent, and lazy? Christ, they make my ex-wife look like a coolie."

Peter smiled weakly and wondered what a coolie was. However, based on his experience so far in Egypt, he had to agree with the man's sentiments.

"Did you happen to see a man with a young boy? They came here in that car, say about hour before the ship left?" Peter asked. He gestured towards the Mercedes.

His excitement flared as the man seemed to consider his question in a positive manner.

"Well now. I don't know about that. There was a man who got out of the Merc."

"There wasn't a boy with him?" Peter asked anxiously. "About this high?" he added hopefully.

He held his hand on his chest, about where Shayne's head came up to when they stood face to face. When they kissed, Shayne had to stand on tiptoes and he had to bend low down. It had taken him quite by surprise that Shayne liked to be kissed, even more that he liked kissing back. Sometimes it seemed as if that was all they did.

He pushed the thought away with a sinking awareness that it was entirely possible that Shayne had been left somewhere between Medinet and Port Said. Or even in Port Said itself? He could be anywhere. Anywhere at all.

"There was girl," the man said confidently. "She was about that height. I suppose it might have been a boy. I didn't get much of a look at her. She had one of those thick veils on, like what those Bedouins wear. I didn't really see much of her face. Just her red eyes, like she'd been bawling for a while. She had dark hair, I do know that, because some was sticking out the side, but it looked like it was full of knots. She was a real mess."

"But it could have been a boy?" Peter asked eagerly.

"Hell, it could have been a boy, I suppose. She, well maybe it was a he, anyway whatever it was, the kid was in pretty bad shape," the man added.

"How?"

"Limping, you know, like your feet are too heavy to move. She was dragging along behind the man like she was too tired to walk. It's the way I am after a hard day at work. Exhausted. Sometimes I'm so exhausted I can't lift my beer."

Anxiously, Peter waited for him to finish. "And they didn't come off the ship before it left?"

"Not while I was here. And I was here all the time, fuming because the bastards wouldn't take me aboard. I didn't see the kid again. Now that man, I did see him again." He pointed towards the right. "Right down there, he was, when she left the dock. He was looking out for someone I expect."

"So they both left on this Equator Express then?" Peter thought aloud.

"That isn't it's real name, but yes. I pity that poor kid. The man was a cruel bastard."

Peter was becoming increasingly worried. There would be no reason for Dalton to use his credit card on board a coastal trader. It seemed as if the search for Shayne had run into a blockade, and if not that, then finding him had become much more difficult. He quickly explained the situation. The man didn't ask very many questions. He listened attentively, not disbelieving because he had lived long enough to know better. The story was too far fetched not to be true.

"And the ship is headed to God only knows where..." Peter finished. It was futile. He shook his head.

"Well, she'll go to Suez. That'll take a day or two because she has to transit with a dozen other ships. After that..." the man took a moment to think, "...unless she stops to trade, she'll run down the coast all the way to Djibouti."

Peter did the right thing and offered Stan a lift. With his advice and encouragement, they took the Mercedes since there seemed to be no point in leaving it there to be stolen. Peter returned the Renault to the rental agency. They headed due south along a road that had been constructed more than a century earlier as part of the Suez Canal project.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

84534505428 12-27-03
---Telecom Ship-shore 2032-28292 to 010-292-23-2499 3.50D

It was late in the night when the steel door to the cabin was finally unlocked and thrust open. Abdul stepped through the narrow opening and slammed the door closed behind him. Shayne turned face up groggily, awaken abruptly from sleep. He rubbed at his eyes. They were still red and sore, but they were not hurting as much. The agony in his abdomen had also faded to a gnawing ache that was almost bearable. He blinked and started to sit up. The man carried a tray which he set down with a loud bang on the small metal table. They glared at each other just as they had when Abdul had left him earlier.

"Take it off," Abdul ordered brusquely.

"Huh?"

"The gelaba! The robe, brat! Take it off!"

Abdul smirked at the boy's obvious embarrassment. Shayne's head moved slightly in denial. The man smiled, enjoying the boy's fear, the last remnant of resistance. His spirit was all but broken. He wasn't surprised. It was another reason why a boy's owner wanted to castrate him.

"Now you're a eunuch, there's nothing left down there for you to hide. Besides, with what your future holds, you might as well start getting used to being naked," he snickered. "Take if off!"

"I...I don't want to," Shayne said meekly. He cowered before the man. He almost said that he wanted his mother, but he could not get the words out. He also wanted Peter.

"What you want isn't important," Abdul said gruffly. "From now on you have a single task. A eunuch's role is to serve the man who owns him, and for you, that means a very important man. You have been chosen for a great honor, my capon. Do it properly and you will live longer. You never know, you might even enjoy being fucked after you're used to it. You wouldn't be the first boy to like a man's cock in his ass," he added with mirth at the boy's sudden change of expression. He was obviously shocked, but not the way that Abdul expected.

Shayne shook his head slowly, not really believing what he'd heard, yet appreciating the truth of at least part of it. He knew of one boy who liked having 'a man's cock in his ass' more than anything else. That was what he had done with Peter only the week before, and he had enjoyed every wonderful second of it. However, he couldn't imagine doing that with anyone else. It was how Peter made love to him and how he showed his love in return. They had joined their bodies together only one time, but it was enough. Peter said it was really two times, although it was hard to tell when the first time ended and the second began. They hadn't stopped moving. Peter's cock had merely slowed down for a while as if taking a much-needed rest. From then on it felt loose and slippery and hot inside him, eventually becoming slushy as Peter's cock churned back and forth through the fluids inside him. He wasn't sure how long it stayed in after the second time. They had both fallen asleep and Peter's cock pulled out sometime during the night. In the morning they discovered just how messy sex could be. A lot of what Peter had put inside him leaked onto the sheets. There were yellow spots and smears all over the middle of the bed.

"I'm not serving you or anyone else. Not now! Not ever. I want to go home." Shayne managed to say it without crying. He breathed out in a rush.

"You don't know what's going to happen to you once you leave here, do you?" Abdul teased. "Don't worry, my pretty little capon, I'm perfectly willing to teach you everything you need to know before you meet him. It's entirely up to you."

Shayne shook his head defiantly. "I'm not doing anything, not with you or him, whoever he is."

Abdul shrugged. Perhaps his first assessment was incorrect. Some boys resisted even after their scrotums were sheared off. Sometimes it even made them angrier and harder to handle as a result. However, he knew how to fully break a boy's spirit without resorting to violence. It took skill and patience, but he had almost a week. Without saying a word, he unfastened his belt buckle. With one pull, he pulled his belt free of his trousers and wound the buckle end around his hand. Shayne cringed, waiting for him to strike. He had never been whipped before and the thought of what was about to happen sent a cold chill through him.

"Like all Americans, you're weak, boy. You have no spine. You'll do what you're told or you'll be even sorrier than you are now. Now, take off your clothes."

Shayne glared at him, yet he realized the battle was over even before it started. He would do whatever he was told. It was impossible not to. Being disobedient was pointless, especially knowing what his punishment would be. His determination faltered. He nodded imperceptibly. If the man wanted him naked, then he would be naked. His arms lifted up feebly, trying to pull the rough cloth over his head. Abdul reached down and gave a hard yank, ripping the gelaba from underneath the boy. Shayne was suddenly left bare and his hands automatically moved to cover his groin. His sullen eyes met Abdul's, felt them looking over his bare body, studying him with the same intense appreciation that Peter showed whenever he was naked. Awkwardly, he turned away, not willing to look up at the man. Peter wasn't at all like this man, yet for some reason they had something in common. They were both attracted to him. The man smiled knowingly.

"You know what a eunuch is, don't you?"

Shayne nodded in response. His eyes dropped down. It was only a quick glance, but it was enough. His cock looked very strange with its reddened head and pinkish shaft. It was almost as if it didn't belong to him. He didn't want it to belong to him. He didn't like the look of it at all. And the worst thing of all was that he hadn't seen anything beneath his cock. He remembered why a second or two later. It was because there was nothing left to see. His balls had been placed in a little jar.

"That's right. You don't have balls any more, do you?" Abdul said flatly, observing the boy's shock. "I had them cut off. You remember Abu doing that to you, don't you?"

Shayne nodded awkwardly, blinking to stop himself from crying. It was all there, temporarily hidden in the recesses of his mind. Some of it came rushing back. The other man had a knife that was very similar to the knife that Peter used when they went fishing. He felt nauseous. The knife had been used on him. He had watched it coming closer and closer to his groin. He swallowed bile, recoiling at the thought.

"Yes, that's right, brat? You remember him cutting off your balls. Now, all you're good for is to be fucked by a man."

Shayne tried to block out the man's voice. "Why?" he managed to ask in a squeak that might well have heralded the change to come, or rather the change that would never come.

"Why? Because you're American! Because you're an infidel! Because it's what your kind deserves," Abdul snarled.

He turned to leave. However, instead of going to the door, he walked over to the television that was hinged from the wall. He stabbed at the 'on' button and waited for the blue screen to appear.

"In a few minutes a video will start playing, so eat your dinner quickly, boy. If you know what's good for you, you'll watch it and pay attention. With Allah's help and some practice you might even be able to do what's required of you without screaming your pretty head off," he said sarcastically. He didn't wait for Shayne to respond before he left the room. He needed to get back to his computer.

Again the door slammed and locked, leaving Shayne alone and afraid. He didn't look up at the television for several minutes. It buzzed relentlessly. He stared at his groin, at the pitiful reddened thing that had once been his cock. Peter said it was beautiful, but it wasn't any more. It was ugly, and horrible, and he wanted to die. It wasn't his. It didn't belong to him. Still, curiosity won over disinclination and he touched the shaft tenderly. It felt different, somehow more sensitive, almost too sensitive to touch. It felt moist, not dry and soft the way it used to feel.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

84534505444 12-28-03
---Telecom Ship-shore 2032-28292 to 010-292-23-2499 3.50D

They drove through most of the next day, taking turns at the wheel. Whenever the road came close to the coast, Peter scanned the horizon. There had been only a single glimpse of the rust-colored hull and that was as the ship cleared the southern end of the canal at Suez. They had arrived at Suez, hoping to convince the authorities to stop the ship. They were only thirty minutes late, but by then the ship was seven nautical miles away. After leaving Suez, the road quickly deteriorated. At times the road had been washed out, or it had been nearly obliterated by going for years without maintenance. They had to crawl along in four wheel drive.

"So what's he like?"

Peter looked up quickly. He had been dreaming of Shayne, imagining spending his life together with the boy he loved. It was one of his favorite fantasies. He couldn't be Shayne's father, but he enjoyed thinking about the possibility of being with him all the time instead of occasional dates and sleepovers that were limited to the weekends.

"Who?"

"This Sean, you're always talking about."

"It's not Sean," Peter explained. "It's Shayne. It's spelled S-H-A-Y-N-E. He's one cool kid," he said wistfully. "His nickname is Energizer Bunny. I call him E-B sometimes." When Stan didn't respond, Peter continued. "He's very active."

"I figured he might be," Stan remarked. "With a name like that, he's probably on that drug, what's it called?"

"Ritalin?" Peter suggested. Stan nodded. "He's not. It's a silly name I suppose, but he likes me calling him that. He's not hyperactive or anything like that. Actually, his attention span is better than mine. He just has a lot of energy to burn, but once he wears himself out," Peter smiled, reflecting yet again on what had happened during the previous weekend, "then he sleeps like a log."

Stan laughed. "He sounds a bit like me. I slept though a earthquake once. It was 5.6 on the Richter scale."

He slowed the car down at the crest of a hill, letting Peter scan the horizon. As he expected, there was no sighting. More than likely the ship was well out to sea, following a direct line from Suez to its next port of call. The next largest town on the map, with anything even remotely the size of the dock needed for a coastal freighter was Ras Gharib. They still had a long way to go.

"I just hope he's okay," Peter lamented. "It's really my fault. I should have been there to pick him up."

"You can't be everywhere," Stan said.

"You know these people...you live in Africa, so you'd know them better than I do," Peter began. "Why would they kidnap him and bring him all the way here?"

Stan shrugged ambivalently. "I don't know. There could be any number of reasons. They're strange fellows, these A-rabs. They were the brain behind much of our civilization. Their culture goes back for thousands of years."

"To the ancient Egyptians?" Peter asked, doubting that what he had observed so far of modern Egypt could have anything to do with civilization in any constructive sense of the word.

"Partly. Actually it goes back even further, mostly to the Semitic civilizations in Mesopotamia of 4,000 BC. A lot of the Arab culture comes from Persia, the Abyssinians and Sumerians. The Tigres and Euphrates region was a very interesting part of the world back then," Stan explained.

"How come you know so much?" Peter asked jokingly. "You must be awesome at Trivial Pursuit."

"I spent most of my adult life teaching history to high school students in South Africa. Once control passed from white to black, there wasn't much of a need for people like me, so I left."

"For teachers?" Peter asked curiously.

"No, for whites. Damned blacks are a lot like the A-rabs. They can be well educated, but sometimes you wouldn't know them from animals. Some of the things they do, well it's part of the traditional culture, but it doesn't make it acceptable."

"Like what?"

"Like raping children. My niece was raped when she was four. They think it's a cure for AIDS."

"My God!" Peter exclaimed.

The implication was too horrifying for him to say more. The obvious question loomed in his mind. Stan breathed out heavily.

"It gets worse. They'll do thing like cutting off a little girl's clit so she'll never feel sexual pleasure, or making their women wear chadors. The excuse is that they would be defiled if they were seen by another man, but I think it's really an excuse. A-rabs treat their women like garbage. I swear most of them are latent queers, but Allah forbids men from fucking each other, so they're frustrated as hell."

Stan accelerated down a less-damaged section of road. Only a few hundred yards went by before he had to brake and engage low gear.

"Fucking roads!" he cursed. "Where was I?"

"The A-rabs," Peter answered with more than a touch of scorn. Given his experience since arriving in Egypt, his usually very open mind was becoming very biased.

"A-rabs! They're God's curse on the world. Like I said, the men have a real problem with women. They'd disagree vehemently, of course, but I'm sure most of the men would rather screw a boy in the ass than fuck one of their women. Do you know what they do to their girls in this part of Africa? In the Middle East too. I'm not talking about the educated ones, although I've met a few of them who are so into maintaining their traditions that they'll do things that would sicken you. They stitch the vagina up so it's tighter, probably so it's more like a boy's ass. Bastards! It must be hell giving birth. They claim to have invented civilization and they do things like that!"

"I suppose they think the same of America," Peter said thoughtfully.

"You don't know how bad it can get. Wait until one of them offers you lamb balls to eat."

"Lamb balls?" Peter ascertained.

"Yeah, lamb balls. They're considered a delicacy in this part of the world. Lamb balls, minced up with pine nuts and herbs for an appetizer, or they'll cook them with figs and dates and serve them for dessert. I guess we ought to be glad they're not still eating boy balls."

"Boy balls?" Peter asked in shock.

"Gelded slave boys used to be a major export from this part of the world," Stan said with disdain, "Sudanese and Ethiopian eunuchs were particularly popular. The Caliph of Baghdad alone had a collection of around 7,000 of them. Every one of them was nipped in the bud."

"Seven thousand guys with nothing to do but stand around," Peter quipped. It wasn't funny.

"That's one way of putting it, but it's the tip of the iceberg. At the height of the trade there were probably a couple of hundred thousand boys done each year. They'd castrate men too, but prepubescent boys were always in hot demand. You have to remember that the price of a slave boy who was castrated before he reached puberty was six or seven times that of other slaves."

"A couple of hundred thousand a year? That's an awful lot of balls."

"Yes, it was. The balls were soaked in salt and vinegar until they were eaten."

"You're not joking, are you?"

"I've seen the jars they used to store them in," Stan answered. "It turns your stomach once you know what they were used for. Rows and rows of them. They used to put lead seals on them once they were full, you know, to stop people from substituting lamb balls for the real thing."

"They were valuable?"

"More so for boys before puberty. They were probably more tender, or less size made for more taste," Stan laughed abruptly. "I don't know what a pair was worth in the market in Baghdad, but they probably paid for the cost of cutting them off in the first place."

"It always comes down to demand and supply," Peter said cynically.

"That's true, even with government intervention. It must have gotten out of hand at some time. When it became against Islamic law to castrate someone in Islam, the boys were done elsewhere. There are rumors it's still going on."

"Really?"

"Actually, we'll see some fortresses further down the coast in Ethiopia where the boys were taken to have it done. The A-rabs probably had it down to a fine art by the time those were built. Had to, I supposed, given how many they were doing each day. Each fortress was probably doing twenty or thirty boys an hour, I figured once. It has to be one of the first examples of a production line."

Peter found it impossible not to smile at the thought of that many boys standing in line, waiting their turn. It wasn't that the idea excited him. It was almost too far fetched to be believable. He was curious at a time when he should have been disgusted.

"That many. How on earth did they manage?" he asked, thinking of doctors and nurses around operating tables.

"It wasn't that difficult to do."

"But they'd still need a lot of doctors?" Peter asked.

"Not at all. Probably none were even around in area I'm talking about in fact. Well, they might have used the occasional doctor for the valuable boys, but the rest wouldn't have needed much skill, especially for young boys."

"Why's that?"

"For them, as far as I can find out anyway, it's the pretty much the same method that farmers in this part of the world still use for sheep and goats. I used to do it on my parent's farm in Jo'burg. All you do is nick the back of the lamb's scrotum and yank the balls out by the roots. If the cut is small enough you don't even have to sew it up. The hardest part is keeping the animal's legs out of the way and so they're can't move around."

"Gross," Peter muttered. "When was this? The Arabs, I mean."

"Oh, around AD 900 for the Caliph I'm talking about, but it's been going on for thousands of years. It wasn't just black boys either."

"Huh?" Peter asked. His curiosity had not abated. If anything it was becoming worse.

"White eunuchs have always been particularly popular with A-rabs. They used to fill ships with them. A lot came through Constantinople or Port Said."

Stan slowed down at an unmarked road, hoping to check his bearings. They had been driving for more than an hour without seeing more than farms.

"Most of them were slaves captured from Christian villages in western Europe, mostly from Yugoslavia, or Greece, but the A-rabs would also send people out to kidnap boys from further afield. Sometimes their ships would go all the way to Spain and Italy. Only a few came from northern Europe so blonds were very rare. They were the lucky ones."

"How so?" Peter asked.

It was getting stuffy in the car and he wound his window down a few inches. The sun had barely risen and already it was becoming hot again.

"Well, for one thing, white boys were treated differently because they were worth a lot more. They were mostly used for sex needless to say. Black boys, well they were the slaves and guards. Often both their cocks and balls were cut off. Supposedly, they were more lustful than whites, but more likely it was envy," Stan winked at Peter, "Sudanese and Ethiopians are rather well hung."

"I've never seen one to know."

"Anyway, the most extreme version was called Sandati. It means 'clean shaven'. Mostly it was done to Christian boys who were captured after the Crusades, which gives you an idea of how much they hated us. Everything gone with a single stroke of a curved knife. It's called a jambiyah, by the way. Very decorative," he explained.

"Wouldn't they die from loss of blood?"

"Not the way the A-rabs did it. They inserted a wooden tube into the kid's urethra and used boiling oil to cauterize around it. I suppose skin eventually grew to cover the wound, but what a way to live, having to look like a woman so some damned A-rab can fuck you in the ass and not feel bad about it."

Peter shook his head in mute disbelief. And the same people who invented this barbaric practice also claimed to have invented civilization? It made no sense. No sense at all.

"You say it still goes on?"

"Of course it does. The A-rabs haven't stopped liking little boys that's for sure," Stan replied. He glanced at Peter awkwardly. He should have realized sooner. "I'm really sorry," he said apologetically.

"You don't really think..." Peter couldn't say it.

"Hell, I don't know. Who knows what goes on in this part of the world? What happened in the past doesn't mean that much. They probably haven't done anything to him."

Peter didn't answer. He was thinking of the blood on the table, and the two ropes that had been lying on the floor. He hadn't thought much about it before. In fact, he had all but forgotten the ropes that that had been lying next to the table legs. It made more sense than he wanted to think about.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

84534505489 12-29-03
---Telecom Ship-shore 2032-28292 to 010-292-23-2499 6.50D

Shayne watched the video again while he picked at the food on the tray. He wasn't very hungry. Tired. Sore. He was not interested in the food or the video. There were thin slices of bread that tasted like the bread from the Lebanese restaurant that Peter took him to a month ago. The tastes were familiar, if not something that he enjoyed. The same humus, even the same yogurt sauce, to put on the wedges of bread. There was no knife. He had to use a fork to spread it around. He had to watch while he ate. There was nothing else to do.

The video took Shayne's knowledge of sex to an even higher level, yet he wasn't at all surprised by what he saw. Parts of it were disgusting, yet there was also a kind of inevitability about it too that was vaguely reassuring. In a detached way, it was just another step in learning how to enjoy his own body, a process that had up to then been both ongoing and enlightening. He had done a lot of growing up during the few months since meeting Peter. Once he had realized that he was attracted to Peter, and Peter to him, his life changed quickly.

It began pragmatically rather than being driven by emotion, with Peter answering his questions about his body, but mostly about his feelings for his own sex. Once it was out in the open why Peter had never married, it became very easy for them to talk. He clearly remembered the first time they had talked openly about sex, not 'birds and the bees' sex, gay sex. He was frightened, but Peter was very reassuring, providing information that his mother was incapable of simply because she was a woman.

They were lying on the couch in the usual position with Peter behind him, one arm around his chest so he wouldn't fall off. His head was nestled under Peter's chin. He liked to feel Peter's breath in his hair, his reassuring embrace, the warmth of his arm, and another much more interesting warmth that always seemed to be molded into his buttocks as if it belonged there. He got an erection. Of course, it wasn't his first one. It happened in the bathtub all the time, going from limp to erect in seconds whenever he played with his little boy-cock. It happened even more frequently when he was with Peter. Usually, all it took was a friendly hug, or for Peter to be holding his hand, or as was sometimes the case, at the most inopportune moments like when they were washing the dog. His cock didn't care whether he was eating dinner, or playing chess, or watching television like he was at that moment. However, this was the first time that he had the courage to ask about it. Peter said it happened by itself, but he knew there was more to it than that. He kept asking and Peter kept avoiding. Finally, he asked Peter if the reason why he wasn't married was because he was 'gay'.

Peter didn't answer, not for a long while. They lay side by side in silence. Shayne was scared. He worried whether Peter hated him, even though a part of him was insistent in its rejection of that possibility. His feelings for Peter were becoming increasingly confusing. He wanted to spend every moment of every day with Peter, and if he wasn't with Peter, all he did was think about Peter. He went so far as to sketch Peter's face in his schoolbooks, a caricature really, but there was enough likeness that Shayne quickly scribbled through the drawings to obliterate the evidence. He wrote his name and Peter's name entwined together using a make-believe alphabet, added hearts and squiggles that were supposed to be plants but which looked vaguely like long penises. He created daydreams that featured Peter as his hero, his companion, his best friend, as someone who he would spend his life.

"Yes, I'm gay," Peter finally muttered. He eased away from Shayne's back, lessening the pressure of his arm around Shayne's slim frame, taking away the bulging mass that was trying to get between the boy's buttocks. "I'm sorry I should have told you already. I guess I thought you knew."

And Shayne thought about it again. Already, he had thought about it a lot, but he didn't understand more than he enjoyed Peter's company more than any other person's, even his mother. Still, he didn't say anything. He was afraid of what Peter might think of him if he knew how he felt. He became tense and he inched further away from Peter's warmth.

"You don't have to worry."

"Why?"

"Because you can trust me. I won't do anything to you," Peter said bitterly.

"Why not?"

"Because I love you, if you must know."

How easy it had been after that. They laughed about it later. It wasn't more than a minute after that when Peter kissed him for the first time. Then, they made out on the couch. It seemed as if they had known each other for a lot longer than a few weeks. Peter groped him, and he groped Peter in return. Before the hour was gone, they held each other's cocks and jerked off. Later on, Peter sucked his cock. Then, he sucked Peter's cock, well the top part of it anyway, and Peter warned him at the end otherwise it would have been in his mouth. He didn't know what 'it' was. The next time, not much more than an hour later, 'it' went in his mouth and he discovered that the slimy taste was awful, but also intensely satisfying in its own way.

After the first day, things settled down quickly. Peter answered all of his questions properly after that. They played with each other's cocks a lot, for hours at time when there was time. They always ended up sucking. Sometimes he swallowed so much that they joked about the nutritional value of Peter's cum and the likelihood of him getting fat on it.

Their relationship changed a lot when they became lovers, but then it stayed relatively constant for the next two months. He accepted his relationship with Peter as something that was so special that it had to be kept secret. Of course, he knew that they were breaking the law, that Peter could have been sent to jail because of what they did together, yet it was all so natural that it was easily put aside. Up to that point the worst thing he had done was to look at pictures of naked boys and the occasional man on the computer with Peter, both of them excited by what they saw and talking about what was happening in some of the images. Peter jokingly said he was getting 'hands-on sex education', because they always masturbated while they were doing it. He enjoyed those times as much as anything else they did. They sat side by side, both rubbing, taking turns, and learning. Both Peter and Shayne were barely able to restrain the urge to try out the things they saw in graphic detail on the monitor of Peter's laptop. Then, everything changed the day they read a story about a man and a boy having anal sex. The very next weekend they discovered what it really meant for a man and boy to be lovers.

The actors on the video, if they could be called that, consisted of a man and a boy. The man was as old as Peter and fairly dark skinned, not negro dark, but dark enough that he was obviously not white. He looked a lot like the man who had come so cruelly into Shayne's life. The boy was very pale, blond-headed and blue-eyed. He didn't say much and when he did, Shayne could not understand more than every other word even though he spoke English. It was obvious that he wasn't happy from the outset. He was red-cheeked and he never smiled, at least not in the way that someone smiled when he was enjoying himself. Through most of the video, the boy's eyes were teary, although there was only one time when he cried. That was when the man's large cock was finally forced into him. Perhaps it was his first time, there was no way of telling, but it was so very different to Shayne's first experience that he didn't understand the other boy's terror.

Unlike the boy in the video, Shayne had been eager to try anal sex. His boyish enthusiasm compensated for Peter's qualms. Eagerness finally won over reluctance. However, as willing as he was at the time, he was very glad that Peter had been patient and had not done to him was being done to the boy in the video.

The boy's face contorted, all but screaming in agony when the man's cock finally penetrated his sphincter. There had been a momentary discomfort, but mostly Shayne had been shocked when he felt Peter's cock reach the point where it was more in than out, when it was buried far enough inside his bowels that there was no doubt that they were joined together. He was shocked because they had finally done it, gotten it far enough inside him that he could feel the huge head displacing his insides. Making love to Peter, or being made love to, definitely had its serious side, but he was also incredibly happy. He couldn't help giggling as Peter began the task of putting even more of his cock inside him.

Despite his own sorry state Shayne watched the video with interest. Perhaps he was curious about what it was like for someone else, or because he wanted the boy to be as happy as he had been when Peter's cock slid so easily back and forth inside him. There were a few times during the next few minutes when the boy seemed to push back the way that Shayne had pushed back in order to get more of Peter's cock inside him. At those times, he felt a wave of relief. He focused on the close-ups of the boy's buttocks spread wide by the man's thick cock and he imagined that was how it looked when Peter's cock was inside him. Then, even though it ached inside his lower abdomen, he couldn't help but move his pelvis with undulating thrusts, imagining, pretending that Peter's cock was back inside him once again.

After a while, he ignored the lingering pain. It didn't get any worse. It was just there, like a reminder that he was no longer the same boy he had been. The discomfort was centered in his body, yet it seemed to move around, from his lower abdomen to between his thighs, to right below his penis. It almost felt as if everything was still there, even if it wasn't. It felt as if he'd been kicked hard. If he tried not to think about it, it was impossible. There was simply no way that he put aside hatred, fear, shame, and sadness, because by then he knew well and truly what had been taken from his body.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

84534505524 12-30-03
---Telecom Ship-shore 2032-28292 to 010-292-23-2499 3.50D

"So why the big interest in Arabs and eunuchs?" Peter asked. He still could not bring himself to say 'A-rab' again even after they had been traveling together for many hours by then. If the ship had stopped at Ras Gharib, it had been before they arrived, which was very unlikely.

"Ah, that! Well, I've been researching a book, you see," Stan explained. He glanced out the window, studying endless miles of rocky desert. "Are you sure you want to talk about this?"

Peter thought about it. "I don't know that I do or don't want to talk about it." He closed his eyes. Why did he want to talk about it? "I think I have to, that's all. What's the book about?"

"It's tentatively titled 'The Eunuch in History: From Caveman to Italian Castrato'."

"It sounds like a best seller."

Stan laughed. "I wish. I could use the money. Actually, I got the idea when I was sailing up the coast a few years ago. I stopped off at one of the fortresses I told you about."

"Where the slaves were castrated?"

Stan nodded. "The one I went to was not in use of course, but a lot of it was still intact. Apparently, they've even turned one or two of them into private hotels further along the coast. God only knows why someone would want to stay at one. The area is picturesque though. I suppose that's the reason. Anyway, the one I visited was pretty run down. The funny thing was that there were still rows and rows of the jars stored there."

It was Peter's turn to drive. He concentrated on the road, slowing the car to a crawl when the road threatened to diminish to a track in the sand. He worried about the Equator Express getting so far ahead of them that they would never catch up. They had to catch up before it docked otherwise they would never know if Shayne had been taken off short of going aboard and search from bow to stern.

"Once I found out what they were used for, it was so hard to believe that I started doing some research on the Internet. I read some of the history and decided it was worth spending some time on. It's still going on, you know. I told you that already, didn't I? They were still using the fortresses up to a century ago. That's stopped of course, but there are still people who make their living doing the same thing. For example, there are parts of India where boys are castrated so they can be used for sex."

"I guess I don't get it," Peter remarked. "Why would you want to do something like that to a boy? You can still have sex with him if he has his balls."

"I wouldn't know about that," Stan jibed. "Of course, one of the reasons why it was done to boys was so they kept their good looks."

"There's that, I suppose," Peter agreed.

"It was the main reason why the A-rabs did it, at least for white boys," Stan continued. "The motivation was different for blacks needless to say. They were almost always slaves. They didn't want them fucking their women, plus they wanted their slaves not to be aggressive."

"Cutting off a boy's nuts is guaranteed to keep him docile?" Peter asked.

"You got it! It's a bit like comparing a stallion with a gelding, I expect. They don't misbehave very much," Stan replied. "You getting hungry yet?"

"Me? I'm starving."

"We should have bought some food with us. No more stopping at roadside stalls. Sooner or later one of us will get sick if we're not careful," Stan lamented. He examined the map in his lap. "Oh well! There'll be another town in about 20 kilometers. Maybe there will be a supermarket," he said with cynicism.

"An hour, huh? I think I can wait that long."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

84534505535 12-31-03
---Telecom Ship-shore 2032-28292 to 010-292-23-2499 3.50D

The video was most definitely X-rated, or would have been if it was rated by one of those few countries in the world that still allowed such things as child pornography. However, only a few dozen people had ever seen the video that Shayne watched again and again over the next few days, and none of them cared whether it was legal, rated or not. It was sexually explicit, both in terms of what was seen and what was heard. It left nothing to the imagination. There were close-ups at every opportunity. There were so many views of the man's thick cock sliding back and forth through the boy's well-stretched anus, that it became repetitive after a while. There was only one camera being used, and it recorded the entire one hour and forty-seven minutes of the boy's supposed deflowering and the activity that followed. It was anything but boring to Shayne, because while he had done much the same thing with Peter, he had never actually seen it happen. After a while, it wasn't even disgusting. It was simply what happened when a boy had sex with a man.

By the end of the first half-hour, the boy's hole had become noticeably larger, so much larger that the man's cock moved in and out of him with ease. The increasing depth and the force that was used was familiar if slightly disturbing.

It had happened to Shayne too once his body had loosened up inside. His anus, which had once been so tiny, became big enough that Peter's cock could slip and slid around inside him. Then, he discovered that he could use the muscles inside him to squeeze down or tighten up on it to increase Peter's pleasure. Together they made squishy sounds and it was enough to make Peter ecstatic. Having first clamped down on Peter's cock because he thought he was going to fart, Shayne made certain to do it as often as possible because it felt wonderful for him as well.

Indeed, it was the process of compressing his body against Peter's cock that finally brought on Shayne's first anal orgasm. Squeezing down and pushing himself against Peter's cock not only increased the pressure inside him, but also encouraged Peter to lunge against him. Then, almost as if they couldn't control what they were doing, Peter's cock went deeper, harder and faster than either of them imagined possible. It was exactly what Shayne desired the most although he had not realized it until it happened. Hard and fast and so deep that Peter's cock pounded up against the thing inside his body that made him quake and shudder. Mere rubbing wasn't enough. It needed to be bruised.

Once started, the onward rush could not be interrupted. They had to keep going. It was inevitable. It was what both of them had always needed, but never experienced. For a while, Shayne wondered whether he would ever be the same. At the time, he was nearly delirious with pleasure, saying 'Peter, oh Peter' over and over again. It felt as if he was about to explode, as if all that was required was just one more of Peter's powerful thrusts and he would be finally, fully sated. But it wasn't one more thrust, or two more thrusts. It just kept on getting better and better and his squeezing became almost impossible to do even though Peter wanted him to keep doing it. It brought Shayne to the very brink of sanity and it kept him there, teetering at the edge until it seemed his body could take no more punishment. Neither Shayne nor Peter imagined making love would be so overwhelming, that they would lose control. They became oblivious to everything except the flesh they shared. His entire body was concentrated in a single place, a tender node that was deep inside his body where Peter's cock was stabbing.

Shayne could not remember much of his own orgasm except that it seemed as if he exploded. Had he really cried out? Peter said he did. When Peter orgasmed inside him, all Shayne had felt was the throbbing jerks of his huge cock, straining and thrusting, and pulverizing him. It hurt, but in a good way. He felt what might have been squirts. There was a sudden heat rushing through him that coincided with Peter's loud groans. Perhaps the best thing of all was that Peter didn't pull his cock out like the man in the video. He left it where it belonged, buried as deep as possible inside Shayne's exhausted body. It wasn't long before it became hard again.

The man in the video withdrew his cock as soon as he was finished. Shayne had not seen that part of his lovemaking with Peter either. He had felt it, of course, and heard it too after they did it for the second time. It sounded sloppy in a succulent slippery sort of way, not in a messy way. Peter's cock came out once. It was clean, but slimy-wet. They both laughed with relief when they saw it. Peter immediately slipped it back inside Shayne's body because that was what they both wanted.

Shayne stared at the television screen with his mouth open and his eyes wide. There was a gaping bloodied hole where the boy's anus should have been. Had his body been like that afterwards? He didn't know. There certainly wasn't any blood. Peter would have told if there was, and he hadn't seen any, although he had fallen asleep shortly after it was finished. He felt weak and sloppy inside, and sore too, but it was a nice feeling rather than hurting. The worst thing was that he felt so empty. It was like that for nearly two days.

The boy's pricklet looked more like a shriveled-up worm than a cock, Shayne thought. It was very similar in appearance to his own, certainly no larger. The main difference was that the collar of gray skin at the base of the boy's cock was gone. Instead, there was a thin brown band where the boy's cock was attached to his body. Was that how his would look after skin was gone? He examined himself nervously, even pulling the fold of skin back to discover the metal ring underneath. He wanted it removed, yet the knotted fishing line resisted his efforts.

Like Shayne's body, there wasn't much to be seen underneath the boy's penis, just a small crumpled remnant of skin to indicate an emptied scrotum. The boy was a eunuch too. Even as Shayne watched and realized that his body, at least that part of his body would end up looking very similar to the boy in the video, a trickle of yellow liquid dribbled out of the boy's anus. It ran down between his buttocks to join a large wet spot on the sheet beneath him. Shayne appreciated that it had it been like that underneath him. The next morning Peter changed the sheets on the bed because there were stains. Something had leaked out of Shayne's body during the night while they were asleep. Maybe they ought to use a towel under them the next time. He felt sleepy and rested his eyes on and off, dozing, only to be started awake for no reason.

However, sleep wasn't going to happen for the boy in the video. After the man's cock was removed from his bottom, the boy was shoved away with hard push. He got the message in broken English as well, although it took several attempts before he understood. He reluctantly crawled down the man's body. There were more close-ups of the boy's bottom, even of his cheeks being pulled apart by someone else on order to reveal the dilated opening for the camera. Shayne heard men speaking in a foreign language. The laughter wasn't foreign. It wasn't hard to guess what they were laughing about. He felt sorry for the boy. He was soon to feel even sorrier.

Yet, as Shayne watched the boy take hold of the man's glistening wet cock and bend down to bring his lips closer to it, he wondered for the third or fourth time that day whether he would be able to do the same to Peter's cock after it had been inside him. He had sucked Peter's cock many times over the last few months, mostly doing it in a mutual satisfying manner that Peter called a sixty-nine. He enjoyed doing it that way as much as Peter enjoyed doing it to him. He also enjoyed it when Peter sucked on his boy-cock and made him whimper and twitch until he could barely stand it. However, it was a nice feeling that Peter gave him. It was all about having fun. He wasn't so convinced about sucking Peter's cock after it had been in his butt. That was an entirely different question.

The boy wrinkled his nose and stopped short of actually putting the man's cock in his mouth. There were some angry words spoken followed by a command that should have brooked no hesitation on his part. The boy shook his head again. Shayne saw the blur of a hand and heard the boy's wail. The camera zoomed in and recorded the boy's lips touching the head of the man's cock. In the background, more instructions were given. The boy licked along the shaft hesitantly. After the next set of instructions he opened his mouth and took the head of the dark-skinned cock between his lips. It was shocking in its depravity. It was also exciting, so exciting that Shayne licked his lips and tried to imagine doing it himself.

When he became bored with the endlessly replaying video, Shayne engaged in a secret fantasy. It was a fantasy that he often entertained. He would spend the rest of his life with Peter. He pretended that the video showed them making love, not two people who were strangers to him. Unfortunately, it did not last very long. The boy's expression became pained as the man pushed the small blond head down on his erect cock. Shayne's incipient urge was squelched by a fear that, when all was said and done, would not go away. He tried to convince himself that he would be with Peter again, that he had to survive for Peter, but he was constantly nagged by the feeling that now, there was no Peter. There was no reason for him to live.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

84534505544 12-31-03
---Telecom Ship-shore 2032-28292 to 010-292-23-2499 3.50D

The Equator Express was not the ship's real name. That name was written in Arabic letters on the stern. There was another name below the Arabic, but Peter and Stan couldn't make it out from where they were. The paint was too faded. The profile of the ship gave little indication that it was the vessel they were looking for. There was a superstructure bridge in the center of the vessel, fore and aft cranes, a single funnel and a high bow. It could have been any one of a hundred coastal traders that plied the coasts of Africa and the Middle East. However, even before the ship passed the breakwater and entered the harbor, Stan was adamant that the rust-colored ship docked at the wharf in Hurghada was the one they sought. Loading and unloading took less than two hours. Crates came off and bags went on, loaded a dozen at a time in rope nets that swung precariously back and forth.

"That doesn't make much sense," Stan said absently.

"What doesn't make sense?" Peter's eyes were tired from staring, examining everything that moved on or off the ship, hoping to get just a single glimpse of Shayne.

"What they're doing."

"How so?"

"They're unloading crates of UN supplies and taking on fertilizer."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing...except...why would you ship fertilizer from here. It sure isn't made in these parts. The soil's so poor that they need fertilizer by the ton to grow anything at all. Most of it comes from Turkey."

"I don't know. I guess they need it somewhere else."

"Yeah, that must be it."

The last cargo net swung aboard and disappeared into the forward hold. About ten minutes later the bow of the ship swung away from the dock as the forward lines were let go. With the engines astern, the gap widened until the bow was pointing to the channel. The stern line was released and the vessel slowly pulled away.

"Well, that's that, I guess," Peter said morosely. "It's a waste of time. There's no sign of him."

"At least he's still on board," Stan said confidently.

"How can you be so sure?" Peter asked.

Stan smiled. "You didn't notice, huh? Usually, the locals swarm over these ships when they come in to dock, even when there aren't any passengers."

Peter looked up suddenly. "There weren't. I didn't see any other people going on board besides the crew."

"That's right. You saw the burly dude at the gangway, didn't you? He kept sending them away. I figure there's a reason why they don't want people on board."

Peter nodded. It was like clutching at straws.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

84534505576 12-31-03
---Telecom Ship-shore 2032-28292 to 010-292-23-2499 3.50D

The next time that Shayne awoke was when the vessel had been underway again for many hours. He could tell from the constant vibration under his bare feet when they touched the metal wall of the cabin, the persistent low humming sound. In the confined windowless cabin, he had no way of knowing whether it was dusk or dawn, or even if they were within sight of land. Time had lost all meaning for him. His stomach grumbled and he sat up. His lips were parched. There was still some water left in the glass. He drank it quickly. He was hungry. He ate the last two slices of bread before he realized that the pain in his lower abdomen had faded to a dull ache.

The video was still playing on the wall above his head, droning on as the images shifted, repeating again and again. Eventually, he glanced up at it. The scene was familiar. It was one of the few scenes where the boy seemed to be enjoying himself. The man was sucking on the small inflamed cock while pushing his forefinger back and forth inside the boy's anus. Not surprisingly, Shayne had really enjoyed it when Peter did that to him.

The first time they had done it was in the front seat of Peter's car after they returned from seeing the Lord of the Rings. They had gone on a date, as they called it when no one else could hear them. It was hardly their first. Even Shayne's mother made a joking reference to a 'date' when Peter arrived to take her son to dinner and a movie at the multiplex in St Paul. Had she know that her son was no wearing underpants under his jeans she might have not been so willing to bid them farewell.

There, parked outside the apartment building where Shayne lived, they sat in the darkness. The engine was idling, the heater pumping out barely enough heat to hold back the coldness of a Minnesota night. They both agreed that the movie was the best of the three. Then, Peter said jokingly that Shayne was lord of the ring as well. His comment, perhaps pretending that he was joking, provoked a somewhat interested response because Tolkien's trilogy was Shayne's favorite reading material. However, it was only when Peter explained that he was talking about 'Shayne's ring' that they both laughed for a long time. It was funny after all. Then, from his jacket pocket, Peter brought out a gold ring to celebrate the occasion, or so he said because there really wasn't an occasion to be celebrated except going to see the movie that Shayne most wanted to see on the day after it was released. There was another reason, that both Peter and Shayne were in love, and that the ring was a token of that love.

Shayne recognized the ring immediately because it had the same elaborate carving that was on the ring that Frodo carried. They tried it on, with Shayne giggling as he pretended that the ring was a symbol of their love rather than the 'one ring' that Frodo carried on a cord around his neck. The inscription on the outside of the ring said "One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them". After a few bashful blushes, his fantasy even went so far as to convince Peter that he should be the one who placed it on Shayne's finger. It was almost as if they were being married.

The problem was that it didn't fit on Shayne's finger. The ring was a size or two too big. Perhaps it had never been intended for his finger, because it was supplied with a leather cord which was supposed to go around the wearer's neck. Shayne was ready to have Peter put it around his neck when, Peter, in a moment of nervous excitement, suggested another ridiculous location where it could be worn. It would be their secret, as secret as the love they shared. With Shayne's zipper open, and without his underpants getting in the way, Peter tried putting it on the giggling boy's cock. It fit snugly once it was pushed down to where Shayne's cock was attached to his pubis. Then, Shayne got an erection and both of them realized that it was exactly where it was supposed to be. It made Shayne's penis stiffen even more than usual. It became much larger, or seemed to, and stiff enough that the veins became visibly swollen. The skin was definitely darker as was the head, which turned plum-purple. It was both disturbing and exciting.

Without thinking, Peter leaned between the seats, bending down. There were no preliminaries, even though he fully intended to take his time. However, the closer he came to Shayne's cock the greater was the urge to take it into his mouth. So instead of working up to it the way that he usually did, he opened his mouth and took it in. He always relished sucking on Shayne's cock, but that night would be different to the other times. Perhaps it was being in the car, the cloak of darkness and the cold night providing privacy from prying eyes. Perhaps it was imply the right time for their love to advance to the next stage. The boy's thin stalk was hot and as hard as it could be, a bursting stiffness, that apogee of hardness that could be attained only with something to constrain the blood flow. While Peter sucked hungrily on the little cock and balls, his index finger ventured underneath. The virgin opening was easily found. There was just enough moisture for his finger to penetrate inside until the fingernail was embedded in Shayne's luscious warmth.

Shayne wanted him to do it just as much as Peter did even though they had never really talked about it. The desire had been there for days, weeks, perhaps since the first time they met. He trembled, clinging to Peter's head while trying to acclimatize himself to the sensation of something going into his anus instead of coming out. Around and around, Peter's finger went, teasing the puckered rim, arousing desires in both of them that had been ready to surface for some time. Peter had never done anything like that before, yet his instinct was right. A boy needed to be relaxed in order to enjoy it. Shayne's tight anus burned with delight, grabbing onto the tip of Peter's finger whenever it ventured into the opening. Finally, Peter took the unprecedented step of licking his finger.

The burning sensation disappeared in an instant. Peter's wet and slippery finger glided through Shayne's anus. It stopped only when Peter had second thoughts. His finger was inside so far that the boy's anus was clamped around the second joint. It felt like his finger was buried inside Shayne. The heat was overwhelming, as was the firm pressure that gripped his finger. Of course, Peter knew something of the theory of anal sex. It certainly wasn't possible to do something like that with a boy of Shayne's age.

They conversed in muted whispers, sitting in near pitch darkness. Yes, it was tight but it didn't bother Shayne like it bothered Peter, who was very afraid of hurting the boy he loved. Minutes passed. They exchanged furtive kisses, not really 'making out', but still letting each other know that love was felt. 'Making out' was something they saved for the safety of Peter's apartment.

They took turns in putting saliva on Peter's finger, although Shayne was initially quite squeamish about putting his lips on something that had been inside his butt, as he put it. His anus gradually loosened the way that nature intended. Peter's finger inched deeper, finally reaching the point where knuckles prevented further penetration. It was just deep enough for Shayne to sense the possibilities. The finger wriggled around, probing, prodding, making him twitch erratically. Almost by accident, Peter's finger rotated inside the boy's rectum and began to rub at a small hard node. The delight was instantaneous. Within seconds, Shayne's body was straining down to increase the pressure that wanted to form there. His breathing changed to quick gasps. His eyes closed, his lips pressed together, only to break with breathy groans. Peter was more than happy to massage the tender spot. The joy he felt in seeing Shayne shuddering and writhing against his finger was enough to overcome any reluctance he might have had.

Peter brought Shayne right to very edge of orgasm before Shayne became frightened by the sheer intensity of it and begged Peter to stop. Only a few moments passed before Shayne pleaded once again, this time for Peter not to stop, to do it even harder, faster, if he could. They were confusing messages to say the least. They came even closer to that ultimate pleasure for a boy when the door to Shayne's apartment building opened. They saw the silhouette of Shayne's mother on the door step. The fun was ended for the night but not before both of man and boy had become addicted. Shayne was so tired that it was all he could do to walk up the path and climb the stairs. He slept in the next morning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Finally, you're awake."

Shayne rubbed sleep from his eyes and sat up woozily. The man was in his cabin again, standing a few feet from the bed. He remembered glimpses, like snapshots. He shook his head to clear the fog. He remembered falling. It was dark. Cold. The cloth under him had a strange smell. Water splashing over his body. Being sick. Again and again. The table. Lying on the table and not being able to move. The knife in the old man's hand. Something, something important, bloody, handing from the man's withered fingers. What was it?

"How long have I been asleep?" he murmured.

"Nearly two days," the man answered simply.

"That long? I missed Christmas?" Shayne asked fearfully. He had a special present for Peter.

"Christmas? The American brat wants to know about his precious Christmas. There's no Santa Claus for you this year. Today is January 2nd, boy."

Shayne looked up, startled. Not two days, but more than a week was gone from his memory.

"Where am I?" he mumbled.

Abdul Al Ghiran shrugged. "Not that it makes much difference to you, but you're on a ship."

"I know that," Shayne grumped. "Where is it going?"

The boy's antagonism took him by surprise. "We left Halaib a few hours ago. After Port Sudan, he next stop is Mits'iwa."

"Where's that?"

"Halaib and Port Sudan are in Northern Sudan. We're going to Ethiopia."

Shayne nodded. "I want to get off when we get there," he said nervously.

Abdul Al Ghiran laughed. He leaned over the boy and swatted his head. Shayne was slammed back against the wall on the other side of the bed. The sheet, half covering his legs was ripped back.

"Eunuch!" Abdul Al Ghiran shouted. "You are a fuck toy, boy."

Shayne shook his head slowly. There was still some fight left in him. The man ignored him.

"Good, the skin's finally come free."

Shayne risked looking down to where the man was staring. Nothing had changed. That part of his body was still disfigured. A few moments passed before he realized what the man was talking about. The withered fold of skin that had been around the base of his penis was now hanging loose at the head of his cock. It was caught behind the very pronounced glans. Even as Shayne looked, Abdul Al Ghiran reached down and plucked the useless flap of skin away.

There was a ring at the base of his penis, not unlike the ring that Peter had placed there except this ring was made of brass instead of gold. Instead of lettering incised in minute detail around the rim, the ring was hollowed in the center.

Shayne continued to stare as the man's fingers took hold of the ring and rotating slightly, began to lift the ring higher and higher. Had the boy's cock been erect, the ring would not have come off. As it was, the prominent if small acorn head had to be pushed through from the other side.

"It appears that Abubakar has done a good job on you," Abdul Al Ghiran said admiringly.

The little penis was completely sheathed in foreskin turned back upon itself. The almost-never-touched skin was very delicate, translucent pink with a network of tiny blue veins just below the surface. It merged into narrow band of pale skin that had previously been the very tip of the boy's foreskin. Where the ring had been was a thin brown ridge. There was no sign of the minimal scar that Abubakar had promised four days earlier. It had healed to form a perfect Ring of Allah.

Abdul Al Ghiran shoved Shayne to one side and sat down on the side of the bed. He took hold of the boy's small cock and moved his fingers up and down. There was very little movement in the skin.

"It's tight. Just the way it's supposed to be for a boy who serves the Lion of Allah," he observed with relief.

Even the slightest degree of stiffness would stretch the remaining skin completely. Fully erect, the skin would be impossibly tight. Painless rubbing of the cock could only be achieved using a liberal application of oil, and even then the boy would derive more discomfort than delight. He examined the underside, noting that the cauterizing wounds were still scabbed but would only be so for another day or two. The head was shaped like a barb, the two sides flaring out beyond the shaft before coming together in a well-defined groove.

The boy's pouch that had once cushioned his cock was reduced to a few folds of silky skin. In time, a few weeks usually, there would be a noticeable change. For most boys, the pouch would contract to a remnant, a small useless flap of skin. Some of Abdul Al Ghiran's clients required that the boy's pouch be cut away as well, the 'clean' look being preferred. Others appreciated that the skin retained its sensitivity and served to remind a boy of what he no longer had. He smoothed the skin out, checking on either side. On the left side, the scab was ready to fall away. On the other side, there was little to see beyond a pale thin line.

"It will please the Lion, indeed," Abdul Al Ghiran observed. He glanced up at the boy's face. He was envious, yet he was so hardened to inequity that he showed no sign of it. "Such a pretty thing you are. Sing for me."

Shayne shook his head resolutely.

"You will sing, if not now, then soon enough my pretty capon."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

84534505574 01-01-04
---Telecom Ship-shore 2032-28292 to 010-292-23-2499 3.50D

Peter and Stan arrived at Port Sudan in time to see the ship arrive. Again, it unloaded crates and boxes and took on sacks of fertilizer stacked high on wooden pallets. Again, Stan reflected on the strange cargo. It made no sense at all. After driving though so much territory that was in dire need of fertilizer and irrigation, Peter was beginning to agree with him. Leaving Stan to watch over the ship, Peter hurried to a nearby coffee shop whose sign advertised 'Internet Access'. It was frequented by sailors of a dozen nationalities. After buying a cup of thick black coffee and two honey cakes that he didn't want, he managed to plug his laptop into one of the four telephone ports, a 19.2K modem. He began the time consuming process of retrieving his email, mostly from Shayne's mother, and Dalton's credit card transactions. At least there were English and French language options. The Arabic script was meaningless to him

Much as he expected, there were few transactions recorded for Dalton's account. However, the list of ship-to-shore charges for Internet access, was particularly interesting. He had not expected those. Acting on impulse, Peter disconnected from the coffee shop's ISP provider and entered the telephone number that Dalton had been using from the ship. He added Dalton's credit card number to pay for the call. He hit return and waited for the call to go through, not knowing what to expect. As he expected, the computer wanted a username and password. He was prepared to the extent of having the window and drop down menus ready to go. The program was called 'Hotdog' and it was only supposed to be used for system administration. On his 3.0 gigahertz machine it usually took three minutes to find a username-password combination that worked. It took two minutes that day. There were some advantages to working for C.A.

"Jackpot," Peter mused quietly. His enthusiasm was tempered by his constant worrying about Shayne.

The home page that appeared on his screen could have been anyone of a hundred small Internet service providers in that part of the world. It was entirely in Arabic, not a single word of English. However, Peter was good, very good. He moved his mouse over the text, even as the home page continued to load. The background image began to appear. He was looking for html addresses to appear at the bottom of his browser while he waited. It was one of the things he liked about Netscape. Links. News. Future Plans. Chat. Email. No surprises. The background finished loading. He stared at the screen before him. There was no doubt what it was. The World Trade Center at the moment of impact. He couldn't tell which of the two buildings it was. It was a photograph that he had never seen before.

He tested the links. They all worked, but the language was still Arabic and the hieroglyphs meant nothing to him. Then, again, he acted on impulse. He used the mouse to grab a few lines of script from one of the windows and he copied it, saved it as a file, dum-1. Even as he hit the return key, a chat window popped up out of nowhere. He jerked the telephone jack out of the modem to sever the connection. He left the coffee shop in a hurry, leaving his food untouched. There would be time to read the emails from Shayne's mother when he was in the car again.

The road that followed the Ethiopian coast was almost impassable in places. Yet, just a few kilometers after Peter and Stan had to dig the car out for the fourth, or was it the fifth time, the gravel and sand track turned to a modern road of concrete and bitumen. The contrast was stark. On the surfaced road, they drove quickly to make up for lost time, but almost as soon as they gained on the ship, the road deteriorated again and they were back to crawling along in four-wheel drive. Fortunately, the ship was traveling within sight of the shore as if came closer to Mits'iwa. One glance at the map revealed why. Islands were scattered across the gulf, a fractured chain of rocky outcrops stretching to Saudia Arabia and Yemen.

While Stan drove, Peter used his laptop to read the email he had downloaded at the coffee ship in Port Sudan.

> 'Peter,

> The FBI has finally been called in to investigate
> Shayne's disappearance. There were six
> detectives here yesterday. They fingerprinted the
> apartment and wanted to know why your
> prints were all over it. I told them you were Shayne's
> best friend. They wanted to know if you had a
> sexual relationship with him. You are the
> prime suspect despite what was found in the motel
> room.

> Anyway, I told them everything I know again.
> Well, not quite everything, but more on that
> later. They are not convinced that they are
> looking for someone else although they did
> mention an Arab. They won't tell me his
> name. They might not know themselves, I suppose.
> Apparently this man may have kidnapped
> other boys. They won't ell me very much, but
> I think its five or six boys who are missing, and
> that's this year alone. There's been no sign of
> them. It's like they disappear off the face of the
> earth. God, I am so worried about Shayne.

> I have to go. I'll write again from work when
> there's a free moment.

> Please, please find Shayne and bring him back home.

> Alicia.'

The second email was sent the following day. It was much shorter.

> 'Dear Lord of the Ring,

> At first I didn't understand why Shayne would call
> you that. Then I read his email I don't know
> why I missed it among the others. You should
> die in Hell. How could you? I trusted you with him.'

Peter sweated. He remembered every word of Shayne's email. It had been written the morning after they had made love, when Shayne had returned to his apartment. He was supposed to be getting ready to go to Sunday school.

'Dear Lord of the Ring,

I think I'll call u that from now on. U are the Lord of my Ring, that's 4 sure : ) U rule! Oh Peter, I feel so empty without u. I want u inside me again so bad I can't stand it. I had to poop major when I got home. Yuk-oh smell too. I think it's all out now. It's a bit sore, but it's a nice feeling cos it makes me think about u doing it. When can we do it again? Mom's got the late shift again this Friday and Saturday : ) My butt wants to be your best friend.

Your sexy lover boy, energizer bunny,

Shayne'

The third email from Shayne's mother was long, but to the point.

> 'Peter,

> I don't know what to think any more. You are
> Shayne's only hope, I think. I met with the
> local FBI people today. I was going to tell
> them about you. They talked about the missing
> boys. One of them turned up a few months ago in a
> garbage dump in Turkey. He had been
> tortured before he died. They wouldn't say how
> except that it was sexual. He was only ten. They
> have no idea where to look. They've been
> trying to get access to the computer records that you
> used to find the credit card information.

> Peter, I'm frantic. My Shayne is with that man.
> Pete, you have to get him back for me. For us,
> if need be.

> I was angry yesterday. Now, I don't know what to
> think. You did a terrible thing, yet I think I've
> known that from the outset that something like
> that might happen because Shayne's gay.
> Maybe it's normal for him to seek out someone like
> yourself. Peter, I need time to think this
> through. Whatever happens, I want you to know
> that you made him happy. I guess that's what
> it all comes down to in the end. I could see it
> every time he was came home from being with
> you. It was like he was walking a foot off the ground.

> Alicia'

The fourth email was written only a few hours later.

> 'Peter,

> He's in love with you. I know he is. I expect you
> know it as well. He must have tried to tell me
> that a hundred times in his own way. After
> you left on Thanksgiving, he talked about how
> nice it would be if you could be his father.
> However, it's not a father that he wants from you, is
> it? I don't think I'm jealous because I know
> that he's always been lonely for a man's
> company. Then, you came along and his life was
> turned upside down. He needs you. Peter, I've
> been thinking a lot about everything the last
> few days, mostly about you and Shayne,
> needless to say.

> You talked about saving for a house when we were
> trying to track down those credit card bills.
> I've been saving as well, which is next to
> impossible being a single parent. Maybe I'm
> clutching at straws, but I thought that we could do it
> together. Buy a house. That way you'd be
> around Shayne. I don't know about the sex
> thing. At least you'd be together and he
> would be happy.

> Please find him.

> Alicia.'

The fifth and final email was sent only minutes later.

> 'Peter,

> I won't stand in the way. If you are what he
> wants, then so be it. Not for one moment do I think
> he's old enough to make his own choices in
> things like sex. That's up to us. Yes, I said us.
> Just know that I will take great pleasure in
> your death if you ever hurt him. Seriously, the
> house idea might work out. If not, he can visit
> you on weekends. Oh, Peter, am I really
> writing this? I don't know what to think. I want him
> home. I want him to be happy.

> I keep telling myself it isn't that bad despite
> everything in the news about pedophiles. His father
> is Greek and the Greeks did invent pederasty.
> It used to be an honor for a boy to have a man
> friend. I don't see why that can't continue so
> long as no one else knows.

> More later,

> Alicia.'

Peter smiled and closed his laptop. While he had been reading, the road had turned eastward and became even worse. It had changed from a dry line in the sand to a twisting track that zigzagged through rocky outcroppings. They passed the first of Stan's fortresses, but there was no time to stop. Yet Peter stared at the castle long and hard and tried to imagine the cruelty that had been performed within the rough stone walls. How many boys had passed through its gateway only to emerge again with scars to show where manhood once belonged. Again and again, he thought about Shayne, the blood spots on the table, the pieces of rope on the floor. It was all he could do not to cry.

"Where are we?" he asked.

He was trying hard to keep his mind from dwelling on what he had seen in the hut outside Cairo. Stan jerked his hand behind him to startle the flies away. With the car windows down the flies descended in hordes.

"So much for docking at Mits'iwa. She kept going. She's off the coast."

"Hmm...so the next port of call is Djibouti?"

"More than likely," Stan rubbed his nose, "and that's as far as the ship goes."

"So...either we've missed something, or they get off there?"

"That's my thinking. I was wondering for a while whether it might head over to Yemen or Saudi Arabia. If he's been kidnapped by an Arab that's where he'll probably end up. Only that's not on the cards."

"Why not?"

"For a couple of reasons, but the main one is that your navy has been keeping a close watch on the area," Stan sighed, "there's a chance the ship might be boarded. They'd...well they'd dump him overboard before that happened."

Peter shook his head sadly. The facts were unrelenting in their implication, but the last thing he would do was to entertain the possibility that Shayne was dead. He closed his eyes and hammered his head against his wrist in anger and frustration.

"What's up?"

"Nothing. I'm worried. The blood I told you about seeing in the hut...mostly I'm worried sick about him. I have this terrible feeling he's been hurt."

"Okay, I've been quiet, trying to be supportive, but I think you have to know. Peter. He probably has been hurt, but not the way you think. I shouldn't have told you all that stuff about castration."

"What should I know?" Peter asked anxiously.

Stan was quiet.

"For God's sake tell me."

"Okay. Look, I really don't want to say this. I don't know for certain, but I think you've already figured it out for yourself anyway. They're probably going to use him for sex." Stan glanced at Peter to see his response. Peter stared back. "They wouldn't have brought him all the way here otherwise. The thing is, you're right. They wouldn't need to castrate him for that. This isn't the fifteenth century."

Peter nodded, hopeful that his nightmare was just that. "What then? Why was the blood on the table."

"Because they circumcised him," Stan answered. "There's no way an Arab would have sex with an uncircumcised boy, particularly an Arab who would kidnap a boy."

"Why?"

"Because he'd be unclean," Stan explained. "He would defile himself by it."

"So you think they circumcised Shayne?" Peter asked nervously. "That would account for the blood and the knife I saw, I suppose."

"And the disinfectant," Stan added. "The last thing they would want if for him to get an infection."

Peter nodded, increasingly relieved. Circumcision wouldn't be as bad as the other thing. In fact, with his foreskin still intact, more than likely Shayne was a minority in his class at school.

"How about the screwdriver I told you about?" he asked.

Stan shrugged and slowed the car to a crawl as they approached a high promontory. He was getting very tired of driving on the narrow road.

"I don't know. Maybe it was used for something else."

"The leather cord?"

"I don't know, Peter. I wish I did. Usually all they do is pull the skin out from the boy's cock and snip it off. For most Muslims, there's a ceremony that goes along with it. It's done by the 'khitoum'. At least that's what they call the man who does the actual cutting in this part of the world. He's a sort of barber-surgeon."

"It doesn't sound that bad."

"It's no different to what the Jews or anyone else, except they do it when the boy is older. The worst thing that could happen to him is what the Bedouins do. What they call, 'es-selkh'. It translates as 'the flaying'. I'm sure they wouldn't do that, at least not in Egypt. In Saudi Arabia it's still done to boys, but not in Egypt I would think, at least not in the cities."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

84534505574 01-03-04
---Telecom Ship-shore 2032-28292 to 010-292-23-2499 4.50D

For the last few days there had been nothing for Shayne to do except eat, sleep, and watch the video. The video was boring. He had watched it so many times that he knew exactly what would happen at any given moment. He fancied that he even understood some of what the men were saying. The words were different but the meaning stayed the same.

He felt prickly dirty all over, constantly itching and uncomfortable, but when he asked his captor for some water and soap to wash with, he was greeted with a sarcastic comment about 'filthy Americans'. Instead, he used some of his drinking water to wipe his face and the places where the itching was worse. He tried to eat and drink as little as possible, because defecating and urinating was so unpleasant. Sometimes the mess stayed in the bucket for hours afterwards, until the small cabin stank. At least he had the benefit of a toothbrush. When boredom became unbearable he amused himself by biting his fingernails. He picked at the small scabs under his cock until they came away. The residual swelling in his scrotal pouch disappeared. At last relief, when the sharp stabs of pain were finally gone, even the soreness where his flesh had been scorched faded to a dim memory. There was freedom in that alone. In truth, he was beginning to adjust to what remained of his genitals. For hours at a time, he thought about his mother, and about the man he loved, and he cried.

Despite a steel door, Shayne heard footsteps in the corridor outside the cabin where he had been kept a prisoner for the best part of a week. He sat up, waiting for the door to be unlocked. It seemed that food was brought regularly, although not having a watch made it impossible for him to know that it occurred every eight hours to coincide with the three deck watches on board the ship. The door swung open and the man stepped inside. Shayne had taken to calling the man 'ass-hole', even if he didn't say it aloud. This time, unlike the other times, the door was left ajar.

"Come!" he gestured abruptly, in dictating that Shayne was to go in front and he would follow.

"I don't have clothes," Shayne said simply. It was a statement of fact. He had worn nothing since his gelaba had been ripped away. The words, quiet, nervous, anxious words, had come from the recesses of his mind. It was to be his final act of resistance.

The man's response was to grab his arm and jerk him to his feet. He shoved Shayne towards, then though the door, then hurried him along the narrow corridor until they reached the next door. He pushed Shayne inside and closed the door behind him. For a few seconds, he stood there, looking the boy's body up and down.

"You need a bath. You stink, you filthy American."

"Sir, I can't help it," Shayne whimpered.

"You smell worse than a dog, boy."

Shayne tried to take a deep breath. His hands trembled. He couldn't help it, let alone stop it. He couldn't even look at his tormenter. Forget meeting his eyes. His head lowered submissively. His spirits low, sinking lower as he tried to find the words.

"I've been trying to tell you that, Sir," he managed to say without sobbing. He swallowed. The man glared angrily at him. He was close to tears and nothing bad had happened. "I need... I know I need to shower, sir. Please...I'm sorry...I've been good for a couple of days now, haven't I?"

"In there," Abdul said. He ignored the boy's whining, pointing to the washroom. "Be quick. We will be docking soon."

Shayne hesitated. The man raised his hand. Instead of slapping the boy's face, which might have caused an unsightly bruise, he brought his hand down on the boy's head. Shayne grunted from the impact. He sniveled, fighting back the tears that threatened to burst out.

"I'm sorry...please...don't...Sir...I promise...."

"Then cease your wailing, you stupid boy or I'll really give you something to cry about," Abdul sneered. "Wash yourself properly or you'll be sorry you didn't."

Shayne hurried into the bathroom. For a instant, he almost closed the door behind him. He stopped. He had no right to expect privacy. He had learned that painful lesson during one of the man's frequent visits to his room. His body was to be seen by anyone who cared to look, even shown off. Other men, the ship's captain and a few of the seamen had come into his room as well at Abdul's invitation. They weren't allowed to touch, but they looked at him. They made comments too, speaking in another language, but whose intent was all too obvious. The men admired his little supposedly virgin bottom and made crude jokes about what would soon happen to it. The front of his body was ridiculed, for a boy without balls was not a boy at all. A eunuch boy was good for only one thing and Arab men knew it better than anyone else.

Shayne washed quickly and thoroughly, soaping every part of his body several times, not only because it felt good to be clean at last, but Abdul had made it perfectly clear what would happen to him if he was not clean. Finally, when Abdul called out for him to hurry, Shayne rinsed off the water. He dried. He went into the adjoining room. Abdul looked at him and smiled.

"Even if you don't have balls that must feel better. It does, doesn't it?"

He smiled, enjoying his torment of the pretty boy. His manner was constantly changing from anger to sinister solicitude so that the boy would not know what to expect.

"You want to look the best for the Lion, don't you my little capon?"

"Yes sir," Shayne muttered.

Nothing mattered. There was no reason for him to live, except to please the Lion. There was no love any more, just what he had to do to stay alive and he wasn't even certain of that. There had been times when he prayed to God that he might die in his sleep. He blinked rapidly, feeling tears building behind his eyes. He shuffled his feet, still standing fresh and clean and very naked before the man.

"You're a very pretty little thing now that you've been gelded. With such a tiny zabb you could easily be a girl," Abdul taunted.

His eyes lowered to Shayne's middle. The boy's cock dangled limply, its color that of a shy, blushing virgin. The thin tube of delicate burnished flesh was topped by a prominent yet tiny bluish head. The vacant pouch below was barely visible, just as it was supposed to be, although the little ridged ring that separated the cock from the scrotum tended to emphasize the changing skin texture. He reached down and lifted the tender pink morsel out of the way. He was pleased to see a single fold of skin that went from the base of the boy's cock down between his legs before it disappeared. For some boys, there were several folds that remained after the balls were taken out, a rather unsightly result, Abdul thought. Unity was as important as the concept of symmetry in the Muslim view of aesthetics.

The good news was that the boy had recovered completely. There were no unsightly scars to be seen. The only mark on the boy's body was the one mark that was supposed to be there. The brown, slightly raised line of Allah's Ring was surely the thinnest and highest that he had ever seen. It was the ultimate symbol of purity. And even better, the skin was tight even when the prick was soft and limp. He could not have asked for a better result. He smiled appreciatively. If Abubakar's handiwork was not enough, the boy was undeniably the most beautiful boy that he'd seen.

Suddenly, he turned away, unable to look upon such perfection. He held out a pair of flimsy white shorts.

"Put these on, boy."

Shayne took them nervously. Abdul seldom called him 'boy' or anything else except for 'capon'. Indeed, his name had never been used. It was as if Shayne Santorini no longer existed.

The shorts were almost transparently thin, glossy, delicate. He bent at the waist, putting his feet through the small openings hesitantly because the material seemed as if it could be very easily damaged. His coordination was also lacking. His strength was gone. He almost stumbled. He was scared. He drew the shorts up slowly, relishing the cool silk-like fabric against his inner thighs. It was like wearing nothing, nothing at all. The material clung to his body, even pulling into his crack to show off the two melon-halves of his behind.

"Turn around."

Shayne turned around completely, slowly, letting the man look at his bottom, because that was what men liked to look at. What he hadn't already known, the video had made perfectly clear.

"Now this," Abdul said, holding out the second and final piece of clothing.

It was a small very-short-sleeved shirt, like a blouse that a girl might wear in the middle of summer. It was of the same material as the shorts. There was a single button in the front. Nervously, Shayne slipped his arms through the sleeves. Again, the thin cool material clung to his body. It barely came down to his waist. Abdul nodded approvingly. Shayne fumbled with the tiny mother-of-pearl button until the man shook his head.

"It's better left undone, my little capon. You have a nice body and you must show it off when you meet the Lion. There is no reason why you should not whet his appetite before tonight"

Before they left the cabin, the boy was robed in a cotton gelaba and the veil was placed over his head once again. He was given a pair of leather sandals to wear, but it would not be long before the sandals would be exchanged for the soft satin slippers that eunuch boys traditionally wore.

The ride from the wharf where the ship was docked to the fortress took a few minutes in a golf cart up a twisting path made of scalloped squared flagstones. Tens of thousands of feet a year, millions of feet over the years, had made that pilgrimage to the Seventh Citadel of the Eunuchs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From their vantagepoint on an adjacent hill, Peter and Stan watched the small red vehicle wind up towards the huge wooden doors. The man and girl did not escape notice.

"That's him," Stan declared. "The kid is the same one I saw at Port Said I think."

"The other person could be Shayne, I suppose." Peter surveyed the fortress again.

"That's one of the fortresses I was you telling you about on the way down here," Stan explained. "The one they turned into a private hotel," he added.

"Where the castrations were done?" Peter asked absently. He had almost forgotten.

At the time, he was watching a figure on the top wall of the parapet. It was a gaunt man in a long white flowing robe. The man appeared to be focused on the activity on the dock. Peter held out his hand and Stan handed the binoculars back to Peter.

"Yes. Actually, I seem to remember hearing that the renovation was paid for by the U.S., from one of those third world support funds," Stan added.

Peter didn't answer. He held the 10x50 binoculars to his eyes, adjusting the focus for the range, then scanning until he located the man again. Even with binoculars, the face was familiar. What little could be seen of his face, at least, because the man wore a traditional Arab headdress and he had a long black beard. With the binoculars, there was no doubt.

"Jesus!"

"What's wrong?"

Peter's hands were trembling to much to hold the binoculars. "It's him," he said simply.

"You can see his face."

"Yes."

Peter turned away, still not believing the evidence of his own eyes. He blinked in the bright sunshine, resisting the urge to take another look. He wasn't sure he believed anything any more. It was impossible, utterly incomprehensible. It could not be happening.

"All you need to do is go down there and have a chat to the guards," Stan said sarcastically. "I'm sure they'll hand him over right away."

"Guards?" Peter looked up.

"Well they aren't hotel staff, that's for sure," Stan said dryly.

Peter hadn't noticed them until Stan drew his attention to them. There were at least a dozen guards alone that were gathered on the wharf where the ship had backed up to dock. There were even more, many more near the fortress. He could see them without using the binoculars. They wore the loose white robes that Muslims always seemed to be wearing in that part of the world. They carried what appeared to be stubby rifles. Peter had never seen a fully automatic Uzi xxxx.

"Jesus," Peter said again. "I can't believe it. This has got to be a nightmare."

"You better believe it," Stan chuckled. "I think you have your work cut out for you."

"Yeah. I'd say that was the understatement of the year."

"I think the best way would be to drive back to the last town we passed and tell the authorities he's here."

"What?" Peter exclaimed.

"The Ethiopians have a military force that could do the job, I expect."

Suddenly, Peter realized that they were talking at cross-purposes. He was too frightened to think rationally. He shook his head abruptly. It wasn't that hard to understand. He had to have a plan of action. Then, he remembered Stan's comment about the US naval force that was patrolling off the coast. Perhaps they weren't that far away.

"No! There's a better way. Besides, I bet they already know he's here," he said thoughtfully.

"Hardly. He only just arrived. There's no way."

Peter held the binoculars out for Stan to take. "I'm talking about someone else, Stan. Take a look at the man on the wall," he directed.

"What man?"

Peter glanced at the fortress. The man was gone from sight even as the huge wooden door closed behind the golf cart. His decision came quickly.

"Stan, I'm going to stay here in case there's some way of getting Shayne out. I need you to do something for me."

"Sure. What is it?"

"I need you to get a message to the nearest American consulate."

"Djibouti's probably the closest. It's a long way back to Port Sudan."

"I don't care where you go. I need you to take a message as quickly as possible,"

"I don't see why you just don't go to the authorities in that last town. You could be there and back and a few hours at most."

"Because..." Peter took a deep breath, "...because there's a lot more at stake than getting Shayne back. The man I just saw, I swear to God, it was him."

"Who?"

Peter leaned closer and whispered.

"You're joking. He's supposed to be in Pakistan."

"I'm not joking, Stan. I'm certain that's who it was. I've seen his ugly face on TV again and again over the last few years."

"Why would he be here?" Stan asked. "I mean of all the places for him to go, why would he be here?" He glanced around him, trying to make a point. "This is hardly the sort of place where you'd want to go to if you wanted to train terrorists. What with the road so close and all. You do that sort of thing in the desert."

It was several seconds later when Stan stopped turning. He ended up staring at the ship. Again, pallets of sacks were being loaded into both the fore and aft holds. Neither man needed to look at the loading manifest or see the signs stenciled on the bags to know that it was fertilizer.

"Man! Why didn't I think of it before?"

"Think of what before?"

"The damned fertilizer. We used to use it on the farm when I was a kid."

"So?"

"I know why they're collecting it, Peter. We used to use it to blow up rocks in the fields. You mix it with diesel fuel and it makes one hell of an explosive."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. It's not in the same league as dynamite, but it's cheap and easy to get. Hell, it's was what they used to blow up that building in Arkansas or wherever it was."

Peter stared at Stan. "So?" he asked simply. "So what?"

"Don't you get it? The ship's engines run on diesel fuel. There's probably thousands of gallons aboard. All you'd have to do is pump the fuel into the holds and ka-boom."

"I don't see what good it would do," Peter argued. "They'd never let a ship like that get close to a city like New York or London."

"True." Stan reflected for a few moments. "But they wouldn't need to. All they have to do is get it into the Suez Canal at the same time as the US is moving some of its ships through. You saw how crowded parts of it were when we were driving down from Port Said. A ship like that could carry thousands of tons of fertilizer. Hell, you could wipe out an entire fleet if you timed it right."

Peter thought that was probably an exaggeration. "The question is what do we do from here. We're miles from anywhere. I haven't seen a public telephone since we left Port Sudan."

"Well, I figure it this way, Peter. See, you're a Yank, so your consulate people would listen to you before they listened to me. You take the car and go to Djibouti. I'll stay here and keep an eye on things. If I get a chance to grab your kid, I will."

Peter shook his head. "No. I stay. You go. I'll write a letter or something."

"There's no way they'll take action without some sort of proof," Stan said quietly.

"Maybe."

Peter walked back to the car, opened the passenger door and picked up his laptop. He placed it on the hood of the car and booted it up. He typed quickly, speaking to Stan at the same time.

"Okay, where are we?"

"Rasa was the last village we passed through. Back there a few kilometers," Stan answered.

"What do you thing this place is called?" Peter asked thinking aloud. He described it as best he could. "What I really need is a digital camera. Okay, now, there were about a dozen guards on the dock." He kept typing, describing, entering the basic facts of his pursuit from the U.S. to Italy, to Cairo, and the car trip south as they pursued the ship. He added their speculations about the cargo of fertilizer.

"I don't know what else to say," Peter mused. "There's really no evidence except the credit card records."

He linked them to the document. Then, as a last resort, he linked the data that he had captured from the web page. It was in Arabic and he had no idea what it said. It turned out to be the one piece of information he should have included. Without it, his report would have been considered speculation. He watched Stan drive back the way they had come until the car was out of sight. Then, he walked back to where he could look over the fortress.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shayne was kept in a small windowless room until late afternoon. There was nothing for him to do except sit in the sole chair and wait. Wait and wait, and worry endlessly about why he was there. Inside, he knew why he was there. He was there to meet the Lion. The Lion would have sex with him. He tried not to think about it. Time passed very slowly. He was almost glad when the door opened and Abdul Al Ghiran entered. He grinned at the boy.

"Stand up, little capon. It's time to go. Put on the slippers. Now, take off the robe," he ordered brusquely.

Shayne did as he was ordered. The air-conditioning made him shiver as he stood there in thin silk shorts and chemise, his feet in the delicate satin slippers, feeling strangely exotic in the clothes of a eunuch. Abdul Al Ghiran took the plain cotton robe from him and folded it. He assessed the boy with discriminating eyes. He was ideal, a boy for whom only the great poets of Arabia could find words to describe. He thought of verses by Abu Nawas, the greatest of all the boy-lovers of ancient times. He had described boys of equal beauty, boys with sultry eyes and ebony hair, and skin the color of goat's milk. The boy's beauty would not be lost on the Lion even if his passion was not for boys.

From a deep pocket in the side of his gelaba, he took a hairbrush. Roughly, he pulled Shayne to him. He made a few quick passes, not caring if the hard plastic bristles scraped the boy's scalp. Satisfied, he pushed the boy ahead of him.

They hurried through the hallway, down a set of stairs, along a wider corridor, across a courtyard and into a small room. There, Shayne came face to face with the Lion for the first time. The man was not unappealing. His face had the ascetic look of a deeply religious man, haggard features, thin lips, somber eyes. Shayne stared. He recognized the man almost immediately. It was impossible not to. The face was unforgettable. After all, the man's photograph was on CNN every other day it seemed. Usually, he wore a simple Afghani robe, but not this time. The gaunt figure was attired in the traditional clothes of Saudi Arabia, the bisht or loose black robe, dishdasha, a white cotton shirt-dress underneath and a headdress, complete with tagiyah, ghutra, and agal.

The man studied the boy quietly. His eyes narrowed. His lips tightened, becoming cruel pale, very thin, barely visible behind the dark beard.

"How old is the child?" he demanded.

Abdul Al Ghiran moved from behind Shayne to beside him. "The boy is ten, Oh Blessed Master of the Desert."

"We will forgo the formalities, old friend, but know that there is no one who has that privilege." It was not true, but Abdul Al Ghiran felt special none the less.

"He's very pretty," the Lion mused as much to himself as to amuse Abdul Al Ghiran. "Even more so than the other boys you've brought for me to enjoy."

"Indeed he is. I thought his beauty would compensate for other things. Few blond boys would have his pretty face."

"It does indeed compensate. He can sing, can he not?"

"Yes. He sings like a nightingale. I heard him in a church. He's nothing less than the lead singer of the choir. I expect he's a good Catholic boy as well."

The Lion chuckled. "He is, I'm sure. It's a wonder the priests haven't been at him. Have they had you in confession, my little gelded boy?" he asked sarcastically, using the language of his birth.

Abdul Al Ghiran smiled and shook his head, although he realized suddenly, that he had never bothered to check the condition of the boy's anus. He remembered only then that it had not been difficult to insert the rectal tube. Usually, it had to be worked into the anus. Instead, it slipped in easily. He should have looked to see if there was bruising, just to be sure. It was the only way to be certain if a boy had indulged in anal pleasures.

"Take off your clothes, child," the Lion instructed softly.

When he spoke, it was more like the whisper of the wind across the sand. Harsh, yet quiet, and very threatening. Shayne obeyed, but only after he hesitated for a few seconds. His fingers fumbled nervously at the single button even though it was already undone. Abdul Al Ghiran pushed him from behind. Awkwardly, he slid the shirt back from his shoulders. Abdul Al Ghiran took it from him, leaving him dressed only in the insubstantial shorts. The thin cloth clung to him, revealing everything but bare skin.

"Very nice indeed," the Lion murmured in Arabic. "You've outdone yourself this time, Abdul."

Abdul Al Ghiran smiled. "Show him the rest," he said to Shayne.

"Have you named him yet?"

"No. I thought you should be the one."

"Ah...we'll call him Nightingale, then," the Lion suggested cheerfully. "A very pretty nightingale he is too, with a voice to match I hope."

"A good choice," Abdul Al Ghiran agreed wholeheartedly, although he would have shown the same enthusiasm for any name.

Shayne hesitated again, not feeling embarrassed, but a fear unlike anything else.

"Show yourself to your master, eunuch," Abdul Al Ghiran said impatiently.

Again, Shayne obeyed. There was no choice in the matter. If he didn't do it, one of the men would. His hands crept to his sides, took hold of the loose elastic waist and began to inch it down. Had he planned for a strip-show he could not have chosen a better way to expose himself. A frightened fearful boy revealing himself to men who despised his kind. The first thing to come into view was the thin ridge that marked the start of his cock. Indeed, it served to emphasize where it was attached to his body.

"The Ring of Allah is nicely made," the Lion said admiringly. He continued to watch the terrified boy as the flimsy shorts came hesitantly down.

Abdul Al Ghiran nodded in response. He had hoped that the Lion would comment favorably. It was good that he was appreciative. He would make sure to tell Abubakar. Finally, all of Shayne's small cock was revealed in its unnatural pink luster.

"The child's zabb will be tight I hope?"

"Yes. My uncle showed me the result before the gelding was done. I made certain that there's no movement left. Nothing at all. He'll have no interest in touching it. None at all, not unless he wants to hurt himself."

The Lion didn't answer. By then the remnant of Shayne's pouch was revealed and his interest was elsewhere. The boy's hands stopped pushing down when the shorts reached the middle of his slim pale thighs. Shayne's eyes widened, flickering nervously as he observed the man before him licking his lips.

"I see the pouch has been emptied as before."

"A week ago. But it's healed very nicely."

"As I can see. An excellent job. You should reward the man who held the knife."

"I will."

"You brought them with you as I requested?" the Lion asked.

Hurriedly, Abdul Al Ghiran delved into his pocket to bring forth the small glass jar. He held out what had once contained four ounces of baby food. It now held a milky fluid, a mixture of brine and vinegar. The Lion swilled the jar around, tilting it to one side so that he could see the contents. Shayne watched nervously, not realizing what it was that held the man's interest, not understanding a word of what was being said, but realizing that the conversation was about him.

"Such tiny balls," the Lion remarked with amusement. "All Americans are the same, Abdul. They have nothing between their legs worthy of a man."

From Abdul Al Ghiran's experience that wasn't true, but he did not comment. It was unwise to correct statements made the Lion.

"There is nothing left of your manhood except your pitiful prick. You are my eunuch now, Nightingale," the Lion said in well-educated English. "I shall have your two little eggs prepared in the manner that such a beautiful boy deserves. In honey with the oil of almonds to accentuate the taste." He ended with a smile, his tongue toying with his lips. "And after tonight, even those will be gone."

Shayne stared at him, not understanding more than the reference to his cock. Yet, his gaze was unwavering, his spirit still not completely broken despite his mental state. However much he wished for vengeance, he held his tongue. He knew better than to arouse the man's anger. Instead, he bowed submissively. The Lion snickered, again choosing the language of the boy.

"Take off the shorts, my Nightingale, so that we may see the site of Allah's most sacred treasure," he said sarcastically. Unlike Abdul, boys were but another option to give him satisfaction.

Shayne's hands pushed down slowly. Once freed from his hips, the silken shorts dropped to the floor, leaving him naked except for the white slippers he'd been told to wear. A slight push from the man beside him, and he turned around slowly. He stopped when his back was to the Lion.

"Like a melon ready to be split apart by the sword of my lust," the Lion commented with restrained amusement. "He's not been touched, I hope?"

Abdul Al Ghiran hesitated in his answer. He wasn't certain, not at all, not when he contemplated all he knew about the boy. It was said that the Lion could detect a lie from a hundred paces simply by smelling the air.

"Is he virgin?" the Lion demanded.

Abdul Al Ghiran tried to speak. No words came out. He gulped. Finally, he shrugged. "I think so."

"You didn't find out?"

The tone of impatience was already strong. The silence lingered while Abdul Al Ghiran tried to decide what he should say. It was unacceptable to lie to the Master of the Desert. It would be no different to lying to the Prophet, or to Allah himself.

"I...I forgot."

"You forgot?" the Lion roared.

Abdul Al Ghiran shrank back. He had seen other men cringe when the Lion's fury erupted. Shayne trembled with fear.

"I should have looked, I know, but there wasn't time," Abdul Al Ghiran apologized.

Suddenly, he remembered the ring that he had taken from the boy's cock in the motel bedroom. It was in the pocket of his trousers and they were in the hard-shelled suitcase in the adjoining room. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for what would follow. With luck, he might survive, but the boy's fate was sealed as soon as he opened his mouth.

"There was a ring I found on him. I thought nothing of it at the time. Perhaps...."

"A ring?" The voice was soft, almost mellow.

"A gold ring with strange marks. Almost like Arabic calligraphy, but they weren't. I didn't know what to think of it."

"And where was this ring?"

"On the boy's zabb. I didn't think it was important at the time. These American boys, they do strange things sometimes. I've seen some with diamonds in their ears, even with rings in their lips and noses."

"Where is this ring now?" the Lion inquired calmly.

"I have it with me. Let me fetch it," Abdul Al Ghiran explained. He hurried from the room, leaving the Lion glaring at the frightened boy.

In less than a minute, Abdul returned and handed the ring to rule all rings to the man who ruled the zealots of Islam. The Lion inspected it.

"You found this on his cock and you thought nothing of it, fool?"

Abdul nodded slightly. The Lion's gaze turned on the boy. He held out the ring.

"This was on your cock. Why was it there?" he asked in precise Oxford English.

"Because," Shayne squeaked.

His eyes teared up at seeing the ring that Peter had given to him. In a way it was the most important symbol of what had been taken from him. It meant love. His love. Peter's love. Peter was his entire life. Without Peter there was no reason for him to live.

"I'm sure it's very valuable. Why would you put it there of all places, where no one could see it?" The Lion's tone of voice brooked no hesitation, no lies.

Shayne shook his head. He tried to back away, but he was held firmly in place by the claw-like fingers that clamped around his wrist.

"Don't be afraid. Who gave this special ring to you?"

"Peter. His name is Peter. He's a friend of mine." And lover too, but Shayne held that back despite how much he wanted to tell the truth.

"A man?"

Shayne nodded slightly. The Lion didn't seem to be angry with him the way he was with the other man. His tone was almost reassuring. It sounded as if he was merely interested in where the ring had come from.

"Has someone fucked you, boy? This man perhaps. This man who thought you should have a ring?"

Shayne blinked once, just an instant before he looked away, down to his feet.

"Is that why he gave you the ring to wear?"

"No. He loves me and I love him. He gave me the ring before we did that," Shayne blurted out.

"Ah," the Lion deliberated. "And this man who gave you the ring to show how much he loves you? How many times has he fucked you, boy?"

Shayne held up one finger. Then, thinking he might as well tell the truth, added the second finger.

"Twice?"

Shayne nodded.

"You fool," the Lion said to Abdul Al Ghiran. "I should cut your throat with the same knife you used to cut the balls from him."

"Please Master, not that, although surely it's no less than I deserve for my stupidity," Abdul Al Ghiran said humbly.

He bowed his head. He had looked death in the face before. The suggestion before him was no worse.

"The boy has no interest for me now," the Lion said bitterly. "There is nothing left of Allah's treasure, not if another man has had him between his legs."

"I'm sorry," Abdul Al Ghiran mumbled. "I can easily find you another boy. It won't take long. Two weeks, or even less, and I will have him back here, gelded and ready to serve you. A Jewish boy perhaps?"

"Two weeks?" The Lion snorted and turned to the boy. His eyes were dark with hatred. "You have defiled yourself before Allah, boy. You want to wear this ring so badly, then you will wear it until you die, but not around your prick. Only Allah's Ring can be there."

He turned to Abdul Al Ghiran. "There is a metalworker in the workshop. Bring him here. Tell him that he'll need his tools to work with gold."

Abdul Al Ghiran hurried off, wondering what the Lion had in mind. The Lion left Shayne standing alone as he went over to a small brass brazier that sat on a stone ledge jutting out from the wall. He took a jeweled jambiyah from the sheath on his side. He stirred the embers with the thick curved metal blade, thoughtfully pushing the tip into the hottest part. He was all but oblivious to the beautiful naked boy. His fury had no bounds. The boy would die, not now but later on. He considered the possibilities. There were many men among those who served him who would take great pleasure in plundering the American boy's backside. That would do for a start. It might even kill the boy, especially if some of the Ethiopian soldiers were given the opportunity to use their massive cocks. Or white hot coals? One after the other, pushed inside his anus with a poker. Or the boy could bleed to death holding his severed prick between his hands? So many ways to inflict punishment on the beautiful American boy.

He turned back to Shayne, his decision made. It would not be pretty. All three, in the order his mind had come upon them.

"This man who gave you the ring, you really think he loves you?"

Shayne nodded uncertainly, although he was absolutely certain that Peter loved him.

"He'll come to get me," he answered boldly. "You'll see."

The Lion laughed, or uttered what passed for a laugh. He turned back to the brazier, to heating the metal blade. A few minutes passed before Abdul Al Ghiran returned with the shriveled metalworker in tow.

"Hold him," the Lion commanded. His eyes narrowed as he walked forward to stand before the boy. He smiled ingenuously. Shayne glared at him. The man did the last thing he expected. His hand extended and took hold of the boy's gleaming cock. He didn't rub, but caressed. His fingers were like feathers, tickling the tender morsel in a way that had never been done before, because it had always been too sensitive with the foreskin retracted back. He smiled as the boy struggled to hold back his body's natural response to such intense delight. It was useless. Shayne realized that even as his little cock began to thicken and grow longer. The blood rushed into it, quickly extending the limp cock into erection. The veins, already constricted at the very base because of the relocation of the opening in his foreskin, bulged out and became darker. Shayne closed his eyes, not believing what he was feeling. Within moments, his entire body had become concentrated in the few short hard inches that jutted out from his smooth groin. The man's fingers squeezed lightly on the bulbous pulpy tip and Shayne quivered from the thrill. His body had never felt so wonderful. It felt as he would achieve orgasm any second.

Yet, even as Shayne's hips began to tremble the Lion's hand released his cock. Shayne waited, hoping, eager for more, despite all that he had been through since being kidnapped. Finally, he opened his eyes again. Before him, he saw the man that everyone called the Lion. He was holding out the curved thick knife that had been in the brazier. The sight of it chilled him to his very core. Only at the end did the curve blade come to a sharp point. The tip glowed red. He stared into Shayne's eyes. There was nothing but hatred to be seen from both of them.

"This is for Israel, boy. This is for the American pigs who have destroyed Afghanistan. This is for that filthy Zionist-loving president of yours." He lifted the rod higher, pointing it at Shayne's face. For a few moments he considered driving it into one or both the boy's eyes.

Abdul Al Ghiran and the metal worker took a firm grip of Shayne's body, one holding the boy's thin pale arms, the other pulling his head and shoulders back so the small body was arched. They readied themselves for the boy's struggle to escape. Then, the Lion knelt down before Shayne almost as if paying homage. His fingers closed on the loose flap of skin that dangled uselessly beneath Shayne's small hard cock.

"W-w-what are y-you g-going to d-go?" Shayne stammered fearfully.

He could feel the man's fingers on his cock, stroking it, restoring his hardness. Then, satisfied, the fingers moved onto his scrotum, pulling on the empty folds, dragging the delicate skin down until it hurt. His cock ached to be rubbed, fondled, brought to fulfillment again, even if it meant being hurt. He was close, so awfully close to the climax that he so desperately needed to prove he was still a boy.

A second passed. He felt the heat emanating from the knife.

Shayne's agonizing scream was clearly heard outside the thick stone walls of the room, yet it did not reach the place where Peter had chosen to hide himself until night time. Then, under the cloak of darkness he planned to approach the fortress and try to find a way inside. It was a long wait. Hours.

Shayne remained alert through the entire ordeal. It was only at the very end when he feigned losing consciousness. He waited then, his eyes closed tightly, not moving, containing his pain somewhere in the recesses of his mind. Only when the men left him alone did he dare to open his eyes again and look at what had been done to him. He gagged and vomited over himself and onto the floor. He cried. However, despite the terrible pain, even he realized that his punishment for loving Peter could have been far worse. At least he was still alive. Finally, he closed his eyes and blotted out the golden sunset that pierced the window slits. It was only a momentary respite, yet he dreamed of Peter. Of being Peter's lover. Of playing with their dog. Of sharing their lives. Of living in a house together. There was hope, not much but enough that he stopped crying. He had a single purpose, and if Shayne Santorini was anything it was single-minded. When he made up his mind to do something, he did it.

He made himself stand up. He winced when his thighs came together. It hurt almost as much as a week before, He made himself take slow deep breaths. He clenched and unclenched his hands. His clothes were gone. He walked to the window and looked into the darkness of light. He smelled the hot salty air, dry like the desert. He heard the sounds of the night. Somewhere out there was Peter. Close, or far away, he didn't know, but Peter would come to get him as soon as possible.

"Peter, I love you. I love you so much," he whispered to the breeze. Maybe his words would be carried to wherever Peter was. He wiped his tears away and stepped back from the window.

There was an open doorway that beckoned to the nude boy and Shayne walked forward cautiously. Any sound his feet might have made was cushioned by the soft slippers of a eunuch. He looked through the opening into another room. There was no one there. He continued to walk, sometimes shaking when the pain welled up from between his thighs, moving from one empty room to another. By the fourth room he was becoming very nervous. Was it possible that the fortress was deserted? He realized that it wasn't likely because he heard occasional sounds to the contrary.

The next room was not unlike the four other rooms that he'd just passed through except that most of the room was occupied by a high wooden table. At the nearest end, two bent posts were splayed out like legs braced against the fury of a storm. Each post was equipped with a sort of metal stirrup complete with buckles and straps. There were straps secured to the table as well. The center and one end of the table were blackened. The discoloration appeared to surround a small hole placed to the side. Even though the table hadn't been used in well over a hundred years, someone had still placed a large ceramic jug underneath the hole.

Shayne thought that it looked like something from an old-fashioned doctor's surgery, or it might have been used for some sort of torture. Indeed, as he paused to evaluate its use, he went so far as to approach the table and examine it more closely. His curiosity was fathomless. Without thinking why, he placed his forearm along the side of the table where there were two small straps. He realized only then what would have been even more obvious had he laid down on the table. He held his breath, not believing that although table was high off the ground, the placement of the straps meant that only a child of about his size would be accommodated on it. Given the position of those forearm straps, if he did lie down upon it, his bottom would be very close to the edge of the table. The purpose of the small hole began to dawn on him. Suddenly, he gulped. The purpose of the table became very evident once one realized that the feet were to be strapped into the stirrups. The effect would be to force the legs wide apart and completely expose the genitals.

He shuddered, remembering his own horrible experience on a wooden table only a week earlier. The only difference was that his legs had been forced down instead of being lifted above the table. His legs had been bent back at the knees and tied to the legs of the table. It was one of the reasons why there was so little blood from his emasculation. There was no way for a boy to escape castration in either position.

With stomach bile swirling and threatening to rise into his throat, he hurried on. The next room appeared at first glance to be as empty as the rooms before, yet something brought him to a sudden stop. He saw the hard-shelled suitcase that had carried him from Minneapolis to Cairo. Again, he shuddered. He could barely see as tears formed in his eyes, and his mind shrank back from the memory. He remembered very little of that part of his ordeal, yet he was conscious of far more. The darkness. The terrible darkness. Unable to move. Not knowing. Being alive, but thinking he was dead.

He did not dare open the suitcase, yet he could not go on and leave it there. He approached cautiously, stopping only when he was within reach of it. Fearfully, he pushed against the suitcase with his right foot. It didn't move. It seemed very heavy, far heavier than could be explained by clothes alone. Only then did he see the blood oozing from the bottom of the suitcase. His hands clenched, his palms clammy. Again, he shoved the suitcase with his foot. This time it toppled over and crashed onto the hard stone floor. He jumped back. He had not expected it to be so loud, but no one came to investigate. With shaking hands, he squatted down and unsnapped the locks, wincing when his groin area was even slightly disturbed. He lifted back the lid, not certain of anything except that he had to see what was inside. A pallid face stared back at him. He choked as his stomach heaved, as he realized that Abdul Al Ghiran's dismembered body was neatly stacked inside.

It took several minutes for Shayne to regain enough control to think. He slumped against the wall, trying not to vomit, trying not to think about what he'd seen. The suitcase was still lying where he left it, the lid thrown back. He put his hands in front of his face when he had to walk past it. Then, once in the next room, he began to shiver uncontrollably. He wilted, toppling down onto the floor with his back pushed up against the wall. He hugged his arms around his legs, trying to make the image go away. The man's head had been severed completely from his body. So had his arms and legs. All chopped up and packed into the suitcase. He vomited, emptying his stomach.

It was some time later when Shayne regained his feet and started off again. The next room was the last room in the row. He opened a door and peered out into a corridor. He began to walk, his footsteps muffled by the soft slippers. Eunuchs were supposed to come and go without a single sound. A corner. Another hallway. A flight of steps. At least he as going down, even if he was moving around a square. There was a bright light illuminating the corridor beyond the next corner. He approached carefully, moving along the corridor like a ghost in the night. He stopped. He couldn't see anyone, but he could hear them. The men were speaking Arabic. Another few paces and he pressed back against the wall. His eye crept closer to the rough stone. He moved very slowly, ready to dart away if anyone saw him. There were four guards, all of them armed with short-barreled automatic pistols. He would have to return the way he'd just come even though he was positive that the way out lay directly ahead.

However, instead of moving away, Shayne stayed there. His heart pounded. He thought about Peter and tried to decide what Peter would do. Peter would use his brains. What he needed was a diversion, something to make the guards go away. He crept back along the corridor. He had only gone a few yards before he came to a door. It was closed, but he tried the antique handle. It wasn't locked. It was dark inside. He entered through a narrow gap, holding his breath until he was inside. He blinked, trying to adjust to the gloom. There was a bed. A table. An acrid smell, like cigarette smoke, but wasn't. Someone stirred in the bed. He crept closer, resisting the urge to turn and leave. Whatever it was that drove him on, it was enough to compensate for his fear. There were clothes folded neatly and lying on the table. A belt with a fancy silver buckle. A decorated knife still inside its scabbard. He picked it up, recognized it immediately, felt its sharp point, burning, slicing into his empty scrotum. He was filled with rage, a desire for vengeance that was so strong that it denied reason.

Holding the knife in his hand, he approached the man asleep in the bed. His hand trembled. His intuition screamed a warning. He took a few steps back, his heart pounding. There was a distant roar that echoed through the 13th century fortress. A high pitched scream, a whine that grew louder and louder. And then, the walls shook and the floor vibrated. The man in the bed woke up, saw Shayne standing there, bellowed something, began to rush forward. There was a flash of light that lit the room up. The a dozen flashes that were brighter than the light of day. Shayne say the man's black eyes, felt the man's hands grasping him, punching, tossing him back. Then thunder, blasting through his eardrums until he screamed in agony. Still, Shayne lashed out with the knife. Something hurt his face. A moment later there was an awful pain in his belly. He screamed as hands tightened on his throat, throttling him. He gripped the knife tighter and brought it up from below. It slowed, almost stopped, but he kept lifting it up. He disemboweled the Lion. A strange warmth burst over him. The man collapsed, releasing Shayne's neck. He jumped back so fast that he scraped his bare flank against the rock wall. There bursting pain in his eardrums became worse and worse. His stomach was cramping. Then, more shaking, tumbling, crashing, falling, tearing, screaming, roaring, thundering, flashing, burning. Shayne Santorini lost consciousness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Epilogue.

It would be wonderful to write a triumphant scene that had a combat formation of USAF Super F-18's acquiring their target and releasing the 2000 lb. j-dam bombs they were carrying. However, the nearest F-18 base was too far away in Saudi Arabia to make the trip without refueling. Neither was there an aircraft carrier in the area, which would have been convenient. The nearest aircraft carrier was cruising the Persian Gulf, and again refueling was required to make the trip to Ethiopia. There simply wasn't the time to get refueling arranged. Instead, the attacking force came from the amphibious marine unit deployed off the coast Yemen. Two formations of Harriers came in under the fortress' radar, approaching on a tangent to the coast. The first group of fighters rose suddenly to gain bombing altitude, giving only a few seconds of warning to the terrorists. By then their GPS-guided bombs were already on the way to the target.

Peter watched from the hill in disbelief as the jets screamed overhead. His spirits, already low, sank to a dismal low. Two of the jets went into a steep climb and initiated a patrol at a higher altitude in case the Ethiopian air force was scrambled. The other jets rolled, breaking away, then circling and preparing to come back for a second attack even as the fortress began to light up. However, instead of over-flying the target they came to an abrupt stop, like guardians poised at each of the four walls. The planes hovered, their GE jet engines wailing into the night. The air shuddered as explosion followed explosion. It was an incredible sight.

Only then, Peter started down the hill, frantically running towards the fortress because Shayne had to be dead after the massive explosions. Only then did he hear the air rumbling behind him. He stopped, then realizing what it was, he fell flat on his face as a helicopter rushed towards him. Somehow, it missed him. There were at least a half a dozen other helicopters strung out behind it. As the helicopter passed over him, black faced soldiers in sand-colored camouflage suits jumped out. One of them grabbed Peter, held him down.

"You're Hamilton?" the voice demanded gruffly.

Peter nodded in panic. "Yes, I'm Peter Hamilton."

"Cap'n Wilson gonna be right along, Sir." The voice was a reassuringly southern drawl.

"Who are you?" Peter gasped.

"Master Sergeant Cale, Sir. Unit seven, US Marines offa Am-fib three, Sir"

"Marines?" Peter asked. "You said Marines?" For some reason a force of US Marines was the last thing he expected.

"Yes, Sir." Cale's head lifted up. He checked the terrain. He had a confident, kick-butt expression. "Bit of a rush getting here, Sir."

"Where from?"

"We're from the Davidson, Sir. She's off the coast about twenty miles, Sir."

"Who's got him?" someone shouted.

"I have him secured, Sir," Cale called out. He grinned at Peter. He had a mouth full of huge white teeth. "Is he really here, Sir?"

"I saw him earlier today," Peter answered.

"Sweet Jesus! We're taking the fucker out this time. Sorry, Sir. Okay on the count of three, we get up and run like hell, Sir. You stay right next to me, right Sir."

"Where are we going?"

"To get your kid, Sir."

"But the castle? Your planes just fucking bombed the shit out of it."

"'Fraid not, Sir. Those were all shock bombs. They make a hell of bang, Sir, but the place is mostly in tact. There's probably no plaster on the walls, though. We have another formation scheduled in ten minutes, Sir. They aren't carry shocks. We have to get moving, Sir."

"I don't--"

Peter didn't have a chance to finish what he was going to say. He was dragged up by the arm and he had to run. Down the rocky slop, slipping and sliding on the loose stones. He fell down once and grazed his hands. The door to the fortress was thrown open when they arrived. The marines were going in blind, but one would never have known it. The mission was almost unplanned, but every man knew what he had to do. They moved quickly, using headsets to exchange information. Peter had no idea what was going on, but he followed on Cale's heels.

"We've secured the fortress, Sir," Cale shouted over his shoulder as they rushed through the courtyard."

It didn't make a lot of sense to Peter. He could hear continuous rifle fire, the crack-crack-crack of automatic weapons. He ran past a group of men lying face down on the ground with their arms outspread. One of them was screaming. There was blood all over him. Cale entered the building, still running, stopping, running again. Peter heard a loud burst of gunfire. Cale jerked him on. They ran along a corridor. Peter was beginning to gasp for air.

"We've got him," Cale shouted back. "Next floor up."

They climbed the stairs two or three at a time. Down another corridor. There were three marines huddled around Shayne, wiping him off with a black robe.

"The little dude cut him down to size, Sir," one of the marines said. "Poor little guy is covered in blood and shit."

"He's okay?" Peter demanded.

"He's coming too, Sir. He's in bad shape, but he'll pull through. Fucking bastard tried to strangle him, Sir. You can see where his hands were on his neck. Would have too, but the kid used his knife on him, Sir."

"Let's get him out of here," Cale ordered. "The Harriers will be coming through here again in a few minutes. We can clean him up on the chopper."

Peter leaned over, trembling, afraid of what he would see. Shayne was red, not pale skinned the way he was supposed to be. That was the first thing he noticed. He was covered in blood. He was naked too. He was still holding the knife that he'd killed the Lion with, clenched in his fist. It would have to be pried loose from his fingers.

The helicopter was less than a mile away from the fortress when the next formation of Harriers arrived from where they'd been waiting offshore. They weren't carrying shock bombs. Later, Peter would remember the explosions as giant balls of fire that blasted up into the night sky. As the bombs exploded, he felt the flashes of intense heat on his face through the open door of the helicopter. All he could do was to hold Shayne's hand under the blanket and hope. Pray that Shayne was going to make it. The medic seemed convinced that Shayne was semi-conscious, just not responding to stimuli. Shock could do that, he said. It usually wore off after a while.

Master Sergeant Cale called out the damage reports as they came in over the radio. There were ten marines killed or missing. A few of them might have been separated from the rest of the unit and would be picked up later. The Harriers reported complete destruction of the fortress. What was left was nothing more than a pile of rubble. The ship was on fire and sinking fast, its cargo of fertilizer no longer of use. The Ethiopian Air Force scrambled two MIGs. The Harriers were moving in to block their approach. The Davidson was coming up on the port side. Peter began to shake with exhaustion. Shayne's eyes opened, saw him, fluttered weakly, closed again. Peter knew he was going to make it. That was all he ever cared about.

Shayne Santorini received the sort of attention on the USS Davidson that befitted a ten-year-old boy who was destined to become a national hero. The Captain of the USS Davidson appeared almost as soon as the helicopter landed. Peter stumbled out after the stretcher that Shayne was lying was carried away. Everything had happened so quickly that very little of it made sense. He was led below. He wanted to see Shayne, to stay with him. That wasn't possible despite his arguments to the contrary. They gave him a shot of something in the arm to calm him down.

It was the next morning when he awoke. He demanded to see Shayne immediately. His request was conveyed to the ship's captain. His request was denied. He didn't understand what was going on. The door to his cabin was kept locked. It was just after midday when Peter's door was opened and he was led into the adjoining room to see Shayne. By then, Shayne was conscious. He'd been asking for Peter ever since he woke up an hour earlier. Peter sat on the narrow bed and held his hand. The doctor told them the extent of Shayne's injuries and then left them alone.

Only the ship's captain, the doctor and two orderlies knew the full nature of what had happened to Shayne Santorini. And Peter too, of course. He had the evidence of his own eyes when Shayne lifted away the sheet. He saw the Ring of Allah at the base of Shayne's small pink-skinned penis, and another ring, the ring to rule all rings. It was the ring that he'd given to Shayne as a token of his love. It was embedded through the fold of skin that was Shayne's empty scrotum. He cried.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The $25 million dollar reward, without tax, made a big difference in Shayne Santorini's life. It was not enough to compensate for what had been done to him by Osama Bin Laden and Abdul Al Ghiran, but it certainly helped. Being reunited with Peter and his mother and living together as a family was all he cared really about.

It would be in early April when Shayne sang before the President. The song was the National Anthem. The venue, a Little League game between the Wildcats and the Eagles, was in a small, somewhat weary town in the Texas Panhandle. It was a quiet place where they settled down. Off the beaten track. Lots of room. Private. Away from prying eyes. It was safer that way, and not just from Moslem terrorists. A few thousand acres of mesquite that provided ample space for a Brittany Spaniel to run all day, and for a man and a boy to discover the joy of being gay.

The President would attend that less than stellar game played by scruffy ranch kids only because Shayne was there to sing. It was the least he could do for an unrecognized national hero. It was decided by the end of February that what had happened in Ethiopia was never to be disclosed, not even to the man who followed in the White House. There were too many risks involved, too many sleeper cells who were riled and waiting for revenge to reveal the truth. The Lion appeared to have disappeared in Pakistan. That was enough.

So Shayne sang, proudly, triumphantly, putting aside his excitement about the game he was about to play, reaching out to a listening audience that was much larger than any church. Shayne's team was the Eagles, and they were ready to win. His soprano-pure treble notes floated across the dusty baseball field. Haunting, ethereal notes from a boy whose voice would never change. And Peter watched and listened from the front row of seats, spellbound like the man beside him. Only then, did he realize that while the boy who sang would never again be the boy who he loved in Minnesota, he loved him just the same.

The End.