A N.I.C.E. Boy

Introduction:

In 1927, a majority (with a single justice in dissent) of the U.S. Supreme Court

decided that Carrie Buck should be sterilized. Both the plaintiff, Carrie Buck,

and her mother Emma, had been committed to the Virginia Colony for Epileptics

and Feeble Minded. Both of them had been judged to be "feebleminded", a term

synonymous with promiscuous, primarily because they had borne children out of

wedlock. Interestingly, Carrie was a B student who had been raped by a relative

of her foster parents.

In the decision, Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., wrote:

"that Carrie Buck is the probable potential parent of socially inadequate

offspring, likewise afflicted, that she may be sexually sterilized without

detriment to her general health and that her welfare and that of society will be

promoted by her sterilization.... It is better for all the world, if instead of

waiting to execute degenerate offspring for crime, or to let them starve for

their imbecility, society can prevent those who are manifestly unfit from

continuing their kind. The principle that sustains compulsory vaccination is

broad enough to cover cutting the Fallopian tubes. Three generations of

imbeciles are enough." (Buck v. Bell, 1927).

Carrie Buck's single inadequate offspring, Vivian Dobbs, who had been judged

mentally unfit by the Court's expert witnesses, was 7 months old at the time.

She later received straight As in school.

Buck v. Bell has never been overruled! At one time or another, 33 U.S. states

had statutes which enabled 60,000 Americans to be involuntarily sterilized. The

practice continued to the mid 1970s. As the philosopher George Santayana said,

"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."

Pedophilia Gene Discovered.

New York Times, May 17th 2003

Today, scientists at Princeton University's Center for Genetic Studies announced

that they had located the primary gene causing a type of pedophilia. Pedophilia

is defined by the American Psychiatric Association as an unnatural attraction

between men and children. This particular gene is responsible for some men's

unnatural attraction to young boys. According to Dr. Landers, senior researcher

and holder of the distinguished Morton B. Earl Chair of Genetics at the Center,

the gene is positioned in the upper third of the 23rd Y chromosome. Until the

recent discovery, the da Vinci gene as it is called, was generally believed to

play a major role in triggering a host of other genes on the 23rd chromosome

that are responsible for such things as advanced cognitive development and the

extraordinary levels of creativity to be found in a very small percentage of

males. There is some evidence that it generates superior physical

characteristics as well.

The da Vinci gene was named by Dr. Alphonse Coleman of Stanford University's

Human Genome Center, who discovered it earlier this year. The name was selected

to honor the 15th Century genius, Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519), who in addition

to being the most important artist, sculpture, and scientist of the Renaissance,

was also an inventor of the highest order. It is paradoxical that he was also a

pedophile of great repute in Italy, although the gene's connection to pedophilia

was unknown at the time it was named. At the age of 38, Leonardo "adopted" a

boy, described by him as "thieving, lying, and obstinate", but who was according

to Leonardo's acquaintances, also beautiful and roguish. When they met, he was

ten years old. Named Salai for "Little Devil, he was da Vinci's inseparable

companion for some 26 years. As it happens, Leonardo was not alone in his love

of boys. Among a great many of the world's most talented men, Michelangelo, in

his late 60s was infatuated with the boy, Cecchino dei Bracci; William

Shakespeare dedicated many of his 154 love sonnets to a ten-year-old boy, the

Earl of Pembroke; and Tchaikovsky and Schubert are known to have indulged in the

practice of pederasty, according to Dr. Landers.

It is believed that the gene, although very uncommon in the population, occurs

disproportionately in Caucasians and Asians, accounting for the prevalence of

deviant behavior in those races as well as statistical anomalies in

intelligence. Dr. Landers stated that although it is normally considered

recessive, the gene's role is somewhat different to other genes in that it acts

to trigger other genes into dominance, some on the X chromosome provided by the

mother but primarily elsewhere on the poorly understood 23rd Y chromosome. When

recessive, it triggers very few if any other genes, but at least fifty and sixty

boy babies are born every year in the U.S. with the gene fully dominant. These

boys could achieve da Vinci's stature if they had the right environment, Dr.

Landers observed. "You have to keep in mind the complexities of today's world.

Realistically, it isn't likely that a renaissance man like Leonardo could occur

again under normal conditions, particularly given the much greater depth of

knowledge that is required in each field nowadays. Instead, you find great minds

in individual disciplines, like mathematics, the sciences, the arts, and, of

course, in business. What we've observed is that the da Vinci gene creates a

special person who is very much in Leonardo's image but who tends to specialize

in one or two fields," said Dr. Landers. "They show an inordinate ability to be

both exceptionally creative and to bring forth what for the rest of us are very

complex ideas."

Male sexual orientation was previously thought to be carried on the female's X

chromosome or caused by environmental factors, such as exposure to high levels

of testosterone while in the womb, resulting in homosexuality. However, research

has shown that a type of sexual orientation that attracts men to young boys is

quite different and is apparently unrelated to homosexuality since it is caused

by the male's Y chromosome. Dr. Landers refers to this attraction to young boys

as da Vinci orientation to avoid the unpleasant associations of pedophilia. In

particular, the da Vinci gene interacts with the receptor gene on the X

chromosome to begin the process. When dominant, the gene initiates a chain

reaction on the Y chromosome that can involve hundreds of other genes of various

functions causing da Vinci attributes. Even when it is recessive, the gene

causes males to show varying levels of attraction to young males, sometimes only

as a nurturing tendency, or mild preference, but in other more extreme cases as

pedophilia. What causes the gene to be dominant is unknown at this time.

The unusual role of the da Vinci gene was discovered during Dr. Landers' DNA

research using over 1,000 convicted sex offenders. Landers observed that the

gene was present in a few exceedingly intelligent males who were also

predetermined to pedophilia. "It is important to differentiate between them and

those men who are inclined towards young boys because they were abused

themselves when they were young," said Landers. He indicated that because of

AIDS, the da Vinci gene is thought to be present in only one percent of males.

The gene may have been very common in males in ancient Greece and other ancient

cultures, accounting for the very high incidence and general social acceptance

of pederasty in those societies. "Normally, it's a recessive gene that has

varying effects in the triggering process," according to Dr. Landers. "This

means that some 140,000 boys and men in the U.S. will have the da Vinci gene in

their DNA and possess pederastic tendencies to varying degrees, although very

few of them will act on their attraction. Currently, about 3,000 babies are born

with a recessive da Vinci gene every year, but it manifests its full effect in

very few of them. It will be a relatively simple matter to develop a genetic

test, enabling screening prior to conception, or to identify potential sex

offenders."

Chapter 1. Hudson Creek, Virginia. February 13th, 2004

Dustin Lane, US Congressman for Illinois' 13th District, arrived home in a bad

mood. Home was a third-floor apartment, what was euphemistically called a

townhouse in the prestigious Hudson Creek development in Virginia. In the

daytime the views of the woods and creek were magnificent, especially in Fall

when the leaves were brilliant shades of red, orange and yellow. He had lived

there for nearly a year and the setting was the reason why he had bought the

place. It was not because it was convenient. It was a long drive from the

Capitol and the traffic was horrendous unless he worked until late. And it

usually was very late when he returned home.

After taking out the gold-trimmed envelop from the inside pocket, he dropped his

jacket and keys on the table next to the front door. He turned around to make

sure that the security chain and dead-bolt were in place, then ambled tiredly

into the living room. He had been thinking about what he would do for most of

the drive from the office, and for a moment, a very brief moment, he thought

about trying to resist. It was something he was ashamed of, the only thing in

his life that he could in all honesty say that he was not proud of.

Perhaps by watching some television, or, more properly reading some of the

reports that were in his briefcase he could get so sleepy that he would fall

asleep as soon as he got into bed. It was a way to escape the inevitable and he

needed to catch up on his committee work, not lie awake for hours masturbating.

Usually, the possibility of doing something else was put aside even as it raised

its head as an alternative to his nightly ritual. Nine times out of ten, lust

won. Yet, that night, still holding the envelop, he started back toward the

front door, only to remember that his briefcase was lying where he had left it.

It was on the back seat of his Cadillac STS. While most people maligned American

automobiles, in Lane's opinion the criticism was undeserved for that car. It had

startling performance which Lane seldom used. It had an engine that was equal to

the best German engineering, which he definitely appreciated.

"Damn," he growled aloud.

He was used to talking to himself. If only the walls could hear, and answer

back, his loneliness would disappear. Things would be different. He could share

his secret and never be found out.

It was different a few years earlier, before society decided in its infinite

wisdom that pedophilia had to be eliminated. Exactly how or why it happened was

not really clear. Perhaps it was a cultural phenomenon, symbolic of the troubled

times that followed the terrorist attack of 9-11, or a reaction to the freedom

that came with the explosion of the Internet. But more likely, was Lane's

hypothesis. Politically correct society had created a situation where the masses

had no one else to despise. Pedophilia was decried everywhere, from the family

room to the halls of Congress as being evil.

There was no way he was going back outside to get the briefcase. It was too late

and he was tired after a long and stressful day. Lust won by default. Instead,

he went into the kitchen. Like the rest of the townhouse, it was decorated in

high-tech modern. The counters were polished granite and the cabinet fronts were

brushed stainless steel. So was the refrigerator, an extravagance that still

seemed ridiculous. He spent so little time at the townhouse, that there was

seldom more to eat than a few packets in the freezer. The refrigerator was

nothing more than an oversized, overly sophisticated wine-cooler. He opened the

vast door, pulled out a half-finished bottle of cheap Australian chardonnay, and

then went over to the sink to find a glass.

His next stop, after pouring himself a nearly full-to-the brim glass was his

study in the converted second bedroom. He did little more than pick up his

laptop computer, a difficult undertaking considering that one hand already held

the bottle of wine and the envelop. He made it to the bedroom without stopping

again, or dropping anything. Computer, envelop, glass, and bottle ended up on

the night-stand while he undressed before a mirror that was the full width of

the king- sized bed. He was vaguely aware of himself as he undressed. He still

looked good, not with the sagging belly that the majority of Congressmen had. He

was less aware of why he had bought the huge bed in the first place. For good

reason, he had never shared it with anyone.

Naked, Lane wandered into the bathroom. Just the idea of what he was going to do

when he got into bed was enough. The wine, some pictures, a jar of Vaseline,

coming to the precipice again and again until nothing could hold back the

inevitable ejaculation. The thoughts alone, the fantasies he created in the

privacy of his mind were enough to make his penis hard, but they were dark

thoughts, thoughts that he had to keep buried in his mind. In the brighter light

in the bathroom, he was conscious of it, standing almost vertical. He did not

touch it. That would have spoiled the magic of the moment, but he was more

attentive to its rigid need, the secret longing inside him that never went away.

It was seven inches, a little longer than average, but not thick. He was not

what could be called well endowed, not like some men were. His penis was slim

and torpedo-like, a constant thickness along the length except for the flared

end which was so barbed that it looked as if it would be stuck inside. If he

ever managed to get it inside, he mused wryly. Teeth brushed, bladder emptied,

he returned to the bed.

For a few moments the sheets were refreshingly cool and he stretched out,

luxuriating. There was nothing quite the sleek feel of tightly woven cotton.

The only problem with his life was that he spent it alone. He sat up and savored

a mouthful of wine, his eyes half-closed as he fantasized about what it would be

like to have someone beside him. Blond and innocently blue-eyed, with smooth

pale skin; or darker, Mediterranean with sensuous brown eyes, or..... Lane

smiled and reached over to pick up the laptop.

Then, remembering the envelop, he opened the flap. It was from the Office of the

President. Within, a formal invitation with a scrawled first name, `Holly', for

Holly Denton, the recently elected first woman president. Lane laughed aloud as

he read what he had been invited to. It was a `gathering to celebrate landmark

legislation'. The country's 'first meaningful health program'. The so-called,

'Healthy Nation Act.'

In principle, at least on the surface, it appeared well-intentioned. However,

lurking within the nearly three hundred pages of legislative documentation was

an agenda that made him cringe. He was never a person to cower, yet he shrank

back from accepting the invitation. The last thing he wanted to do was to spend

a couple of hours in President Holly Denton's entourage. Hurriedly, he scrawled

"NO" and "HAVE PRIOR ENGAGEMENT', leaving out the exclamation mark he wanted to

use because there was no point in irritating the woman more than necessary,

assuming that her aides brought it to her attention. Without further thought, he

placed the R.S.V.P. in the gold trimmed envelop that had been provided. Only

then did he have second thoughts, which was only to be expected for a junior

congressman. There was only one reason why he was being feted, but his vote was

not for sale. He closed the flap, expecting it to self-seal, as was usually the

case for expensive invitations.

"For God's sake," he complained, tired of what he perceived to be the

Administration's nickel and dime efforts to save money.

He licked the edge of the flap. He thought nothing of it at the time, or would

ever again, but on reaching the pointed center, his tongue stuck. It was an

unpleasant feeling until he pulled the flap away. Momentarily, his tongue rubbed

against his lips until the dry sensation faded. Little did he know that several

dozen cells had been transferred from his tongue to the envelop and his future

had been sealed even tighter than the envelop.

He picked up the laptop computer, and after making sure that phone wire was

correctly placed in the jack, positioned it on his lap. While he waited for it

to boot, and connect to his internet service provider, he sipped some more wine.

Finally, he opened the drawer of the night-stand and took out a half-full bottle

of Vaseline. According to the built-in computer clock, the time was 10.45 p.m.

Only one e-mail among the thirty of forty that awaited him was of importance. He

answered Cal Brewster's e-mail quickly, although with the deliberation due to a

close friend, mentioning that he had rejected the President's invitation. He

added `the time will be better spend cruising for boys.' He encrypted the

message before he sent it, vaguely realizing that he spent a great deal of time

watching his back. It would be even worse after the vote on the President's

Healthy Nation Act.

With the otherwise unpleasant but necessary job of answering e-mail out of the

way, Lane switched to what he was really interested in. The waste of time had,

however, done little for his disposition, which was irritable to say the least.

So much depended on him that it was unsettling. The newly elected government,

riding on the euphoria of success in both the House and Senate, as well as the

Presidency, had initiated legislation that was purportedly forward thinking, but

in reality was Draconian. Increasingly, 2004 was becoming more like 1984.

With a few abrupt hits on the keyboard, he passed through the new story listings

at the Nifty Archive, searching for something new that was worth reading. There

was not a lot, nothing that he wanted to read. Nothing from Teglin, whoever he

was, but he could certainly tell a story that was worth reading. He was one of

the few authors who knew the difference between love and lust. The only problem

was that if was not unusual for many weeks to pass between his episodic

contributions. Most nights, the absence of something worth the effort of reading

was not unduly frustrating, but given the mood that Lane was in, it gave him

further cause to seek an alternative. A visit to the newsgroups was in order. He

resisted for a while, for as long as he was able. However, it was a fight that

he could not hope to win.

He relented faster than ever, perhaps because he promised himself that he would

not visit again for another week. Unlike the pictures that were to be discovered

in the newsgroups, the stories were harmless. At least stories could be

rationalized not to cause harm to anyone, with the possible exception of the

reader. Pictures were different. Someone had to pose willingly, which was

disturbing in itself, or be photographed either without their knowledge or

against their will, which was just as disconcerting. Some of the pictures were

entirely artificial, which alleviated his inherent guilt somewhat. Not that it

mattered. It was still wrong. It was illegal, and far worse, for his sessions

tormented his soul after he was done. Sweaty, drained, in post-orgasmic bliss,

Lane always sank into the depths of misery. He had not asked to be like this.

Yet holding back that urge, urgent with lust for pre-pubertal boys, needing a

young male body for the satisfaction of his depraved desire, was as impossible

then as it had ever been for him.

There were over four hundred messages in the news-group and he rapidly descended

through the list. Experience taught him which were worth the effort of

downloading. Most of them were rubbish, messages from the purveyors of

pornography operating under a thousand different names so they could not be

blocked. There were a few names that he recognized, four or five, with multiple

postings, with filenames that were unfamiliar. He checked those first. By the

third or fourth image in the first series, his heart was pounding in his ears.

By then the model had removed his clothes. The hotel setting could have been

anywhere in central Europe or one of the old Soviet states, but almost any

poverty stricken country was likely.

Misha, if that was his real name, was a delightful high-resolution photo-series

of a blond-headed boy with sky-blue eyes and a smile that looked as if he

enjoyed being naked. He had certainly taken his clothes off rapidly. Usually it

took a dozen photographs before the boy revealed himself. This time, he was

naked and hard by number four.

If his hair had been longer, the boy was pretty enough to be a girl, Lane

thought. To his delight, the lad's genitals were barely big enough to contradict

the observation. Even erect, it was smaller than Lane's little finger. Lane went

from one image to the next, downloading the next while he was engrossed in

studying the last one. He savored the details. The boy had tiny nipples. A small

navel, an outward button. No hair, of course. The boy was too young for that.

Uncircumcised, his favorite kind of `boy- dick', with a red-tipped foreskin that

was long enough to completely cover the head even when the penis was fully

extended. It had a used appearance, and the very thought made Lane sigh aloud.

What would it be like? He licked his lips. Would it retract easily? Holding it

between his lips, pressing down, leaving it wet and slippery as he went. Would

the end pop through? The glans bulged slightly, just enough to reveal its shape.

Like an acorn, probably smaller. He fancied he could taste it. It would be

sweet, like warmed honey.

Two images later he gave in to his hunger and picked up the container of

Vaseline. He coated his penis with a few well-placed up and down strokes, then

with his laptop balanced on his chest, began the nightly ritual. Sometimes, if

he was lucky, he could make it last an hour or more.

The next picture was of the boy retracting his reddened foreskin. He was right

handed, Lane observed, with dirty finger nails. Almost every boy had grimy

fingers. Poverty and ignorance went hand in hand, or was it normal that boys

with grime were considered sexy? By contrast, the sexual organs were clean and

fleshy pink. If a person did not know better, the boy might be considered pure

and innocent.

The boy's foreskin was tight and it bunched up behind the glans, making it

darken. Not purple or crimson, but a color that made his mind look for something

similar. All he could think of was a cherry. It was shiny enough, but the color

was not that intense. The slit was barely visible, at least until the following

image when the boy's hand clenched around the shaft and pushed down.

Lane was fascinated. There was no other word to describe how intensely he

studied the images. Every time he looked at pictures like those, he wondered and

worried about the young male star, not even in his teens, a child who had

probably received little if any compensation for his shameless performance

before the camera. Lane did not delude himself by pretending otherwise. It was

common knowledge that child pornography was rampant in the countries that had

once formed the Soviet Union. He took a deep breath, barely able to control

himself. It was a sequence of photographs designed to stimulate men who were

attracted to young boys. Everything about the boy shrieked 'sex', but it was a

parody, the shy face, coy eyes lifted up, all an act. There was a person giving

direction, telling the boy what to do and how to do it. There was always a man

behind the camera, and more than likely, there was another one waiting in the

wings. When he appeared, the fun would start.

Lane did not have to wait long. The man appeared after three more images had

been saved on his hard drive. He was dressed only in a tee-shirt, obviously

ready for action. Misha was smiling, beaming with pretended delight as he pushed

the stained shirt higher and lay down with his head against the man's broad

hair-trailed belly. Lane breathed deeply, filling his lungs, knowing what would

follow. There was no question of it. The man's huge hair-covered penis was too

close to the boy's mouth for anything else to happen.

"Come on! For Christ's sake!" Lane said impatiently to a computer that was

supposed to be downloading at 100 kilobytes a second.

Then, the image Lane was hungering to see appeared in its uncensored glory.

Misha's mouth was wide open, obscenely wide, as if he was ready for a dentist to

examine his teeth. His lips were stretched into thin lines, his pink tongue

barely licking the shaft just beneath the glans, his white teeth apart, getting

ready. Hurriedly, Lane clicked on the next picture link and went back to the

image viewer. He breathed heavily, and stared. He stared hard, stroking his

engorged penis with a slow deliberate rhythm. That mouth, perfect in every way.

The lips so kissable, the thing so indecent, so incredibly exciting that it took

his breath way. There was a line of wetness along the man's penis where the

boy's tongue had already been. Nothing wasted in 1200 by 800 pixels. The slit in

the man's penis, meatus or whatever it was called, was already disgorging its

slimy lubricant. There was a shiny globule at the end. Lane knew what the next

image would be.

He saved the picture file the instant that the download was completed. Quickly,

he clicked to retrieve the next picture, then returned to quench his craving.

"God," he groaned.

He studied the picture with rapture, envious, his heart pounding from the thrill

of it. The boy's mouth was closer, his tongue extended even further. The head of

the man's penis was wet only where the tongue had touched, but in lifting away,

it had stayed connected by a silvery thread of pre-seminal fluid. It hung

between them, a spidery curve from upper lip to tip of glans.

"Fuck!" Lane whispered.

His own penis was oozing just as much fluid as the man in the photograph and he

paused to catch some of the slipperiness on his fingertip. He lifted it to his

mouth, imagining a boy doing the same thing. He tasted his excretion. Strangely

bland, but not boring. It was not the taste of a boy but all man. Salty, slimy,

not too bad. What would a boy think of it? It did not have an unpleasant taste,

but for a young boy to put it in his mouth and suckle on it? Would he like it?

Would he gag, and then pretend to like it because that was what was expected of

him? Fully extended, the man's penis appeared very similar to his own organ.

Long and slender, though certainly not thin. The man's glans was smaller, or

perhaps that was simply the angle of the camera.

Hurriedly, Lane returned to the browser. The next image had downloaded. His

actions had become automatic. Click and save, get the next one. Go back to the

image viewer while it downloaded. His heart was thumping. In number 15, the boy

almost deep-throated the man's penis. There was only an inch or two of the long

shaft to be seen. The rest had disappeared. There was a big rounded bulge in the

boy's smooth unblemished cheek to indicate how far the man's penis reached into

his mouth. There had been no gradual insertion, half-a-dozen photographs to show

it disappearing inch by inch. Instead, the boy went down like a whore with his

mouth wide open. The boy's eyes skewed up to see the camera, as if looking for

recognition of his shameless feat. He looked proud of his accomplishment.

"Awesome," Lane panted hungrily. "Go for it boy! Go all the way down on it! Take

that big cock!"

The next picture was similarly unexpected. Usually, the action stopped at mutual

sucking. Not this time. The boy squatted over the man, his knees splayed wide

apart. His pale smooth buttocks were directly above the hairy groin. The man's

penis, very hard and slightly curved, stood vertical and ready to impale. It was

covered in lubricant, not the greasy shine of Vaseline, but wet and slippery.

The boy's penis was still erect, but Lane knew from prior experience that it

would not last for long. Not from personal experience, because he had never had

sex, at least not since he was a boy playing with his friends. He licked his

lips. He was as aroused as he had ever been. There was no question of what would

be seen in the next image.

Lane loathed the word 'pedophile', but at that moment surely no other word could

describe the torrent of emotions, the unseemly desires, the relentless pounding

of his heart. Every breath was difficult, an exercise in itself. There was no

escaping the unavoidable truth of what he was. In public, he managed to keep his

eyes averted from all but the most attractive boys. Still, he looked often

enough. He was cautious by nature, but he looked too often. Boys were,....

beautiful, some stunningly so, always enjoyable in their youthful innocence, a

delight to watch even for a momentary glimpse. He watched them in the shopping

mall or playing in the park. He feasted his eyes only when it was safe to do so,

and then, he tried to imagine what it would be like to have a 'relationship', a

'young friend', a boy who wanted to be loved. He preferred to think of himself

as boy lover, a pederast as the ancient Greek roots defined it, combining 'ped'

and 'rast', 'boy' and 'love'. Above everything else, Lane believed that he could

still control his urges. He would not touch a boy if the opportunity presented

itself.

His hand trembled when he returned to the browser. For once, he delayed saving

the file until he had looked at it. Immediately, Lane observed that the man's

penis was not in very far, although he could not see the boy's anus to confirm

what he wanted to see. Of course, given the angle, the position, and the solemn

expression of the young face, nothing else was possible. In all probability, not

even an inch had penetrated, but enough of the man's penis was hidden by the

boy's buttocks that there was no question something interesting had happened. He

rushed to save it, then hurried back to get the next one. He was addicted, like

any drug fiend. However, unlike an addict, his need would bring no sympathy, no

special recovery programs, just public humiliation and prison if he was caught.

It was a compulsion. Lane was obsessed with boys, but only young boys, boys

whose bodies had yet to reach maturity. Nothing except boys interested him.

Certainly not teenagers or men, and definitely not women or girls. He was

single-minded. Even a passing glance at a boy was enough to arouse him. Whatever

caused his relentless need for smooth hairless bodies and prepubescent penises

was beyond his comprehension, and he had thought about it often. He had been

born a boy lover. It was all that he had ever known. Lane was tormented, caught

between the deepest motivation of all and a conscience that was awful in its

guilt. Lust won every time he tried to look away. He imagined what it felt like.

He kept looking, thinking about how it would feel. In Lane's untested opinion,

it had to be the best feeling of all. He could imagine the boy's anus squeezing

on his penis. The boy would cramp, tighten up, muffle his groan of ecstasy and

then try to relax, then push himself down just a little bit further. The

following pictures made it look very easy and anything but painful. They showed

a steady descent, lowering inch by inch; an engorged veiny thickness pushing

inch by inch into the hairless, slender boy. It was, by any sense or judgement,

impossible that such a huge penis could be contained within that narrow-hipped

pale body, but it happened nonetheless. All of it. Gone from sight. The boy's

face was contorted, eyes half-closed, lips pressed tight. Pain, or pleasure, or

some miraculous combination of both, Lane imagined. It certainly was not without

harm, not by any stretch of the imagination. To push something that big into

something that small had to have some sort of effect, didn't it?

Then, there were pictures that showed it coming out in stages, all the way out

eventually. It came out clean, slick, visibly untainted, almost as if it had

been washed clean. Lane was entranced by the boy's slight recognition of relief.

His eyes had a look of surprise that delighted Lane. Perhaps the boy really did

enjoy it? Still, it had to feel strange having something so large forced inside

a tender young body. Lane was rubbing furiously, aching for release, hoping

there were enough pictures for the boy to achieve orgasm. Part of him, part that

should have been ashamed, wanted the boy to have something of his own to justify

what he was doing. Everything Lane had read, and he had a great deal over the

years, said that sexual climax could happen from anal stimulation. In some

stories, the boy needed to be masturbated, but it was also supposed to happen

even when the boy's penis was limp. He panted, unaware that he was sweating.

It was strange how he managed to retain control. Pumping frantically with one

hand, downloading picture after picture using two fingers of the other hand to

manipulate the keys.

There was no question when the man ejaculated. Even though there was no sign of

it other than the boy's shameless knowing smirk. Lane observed a look of

accomplishment on the gleeful somewhat startled face that was incontrovertible.

Lane could only imagine what it was like to do that, the utter happiness and

fulfillment that could only be discovered through ejaculation inside another

person, a boy. He thought about the sensation that the man was still feeling,

the boy's body clutching, the pulsing of a slippery rectum around his sex as the

semen spurted out. And he tried to think about the feelings of the boy, his anus

stretched so tight that it seemed impossible that any movement could occur let

alone enough to produce orgasm, and finally, the sudden heat flowing into his

rectum until he was full to overflowing. Lane jerked his penis, squeezing

frantically and abusing the sensitive head until it glowed with crimson heat,

barely able to hold back his imminent explosion, but equally unable to stem the

need to expel his seed. However, he held back the flow long enough to see the

final picture in the series.

The boy had lifted up far enough from his squatting position to reveal half of

the man's slick, slime-covered penis, and the reproductive drool that had

anointed him. Semen oozed out from around the shaft. Lots of it. More than

seemed humanly possibly, like the white of an egg dribbling in a viscous trickle

from his dilated hole. There was only one picture left in the series.

Lane closed his eyes, held onto his computer and pushed it down to his thighs,

far enough away that he would not get it wet. His throbbing sex swelled in his

hand. He groaned loudly, shuddering in the final throes, gasping in ecstasy. He

felt it rising and his buttocks lifted off the bed as he arched upward. Then, in

one agonizing moment, he saw the semen, his, or that of some other anonymous man

who was similarly reclining on his back with a little boy perched on top him.

Lane's semen splattered across his belly, forming white creamy clumps where the

spurts fell. The next picture appeared in the browser. It showed even more of

the man's semen dribbling out of the boy's distended red-raw anus. The hole

gaped open like a mouth, not unnaturally so but as if it was supposed to be that

way. It was surely among the most beautiful and horrifying sights that Lane had

ever seen. He slumped back down, aware that his heart was pounding, his naked

body twitching and jerking spasmodically.

As soon as he had recovered his breath, Lane used the corner of the sheet to

wipe away the fluid that had spewed over him. He pulled the computer up from

where it had slid onto the bed covers, saving the last file before he hurriedly

detached the phone line. He lay still, his heart still beating quickly, thinking

about the final image and regretting that he was unable to stop himself. It was

always that way afterwards, guiltily resenting his lack of restraint and ashamed

by what he had done, while at the same time he wished that it had lasted longer.

That was the terrible thing. The desire never went away. No matter how much he

promised himself or swore oaths to resist the need to look at the images. He

always returned to the pictures and stories. He had to, in order to fulfill a

need that verged on desperation if he abstained for more than a day or two.

Then, the beast within him demanded to be fed again.

Still, in quiet moments of reflection, Lane wished that he was normal. Married

with two kids of his own, a house in the suburbs. He would want sons, of course.

Life would be easier if he did not have to worry about getting caught. He

stopped there, as soon as the thought entered his head. He would never do such a

thing, not with his own flesh and blood, but that did not stop him, from

thinking about it, from worrying how much self restraint he possessed. He often

wondered if he would be able to control himself if the situation arose where a

boy was,.... available. So much was at stake. It seemed as if a day never went

by without some story in the media about pedophilia. No matter how hard the

authorities tried to eradicate it, pedophilia continued to exist. Increasingly,

he heard it referred to as a plague upon society. Merely arresting a few

thousand child pornographers and exposing hundreds of pedophile-priests did

little to stem the tide of men who had finally achieved a way to escape the

choking fear of expressing who and what they were. Now, instead of seeking out

boys through role-model positions, frightened men like Congressman Lane

committed furtive deeds in the privacy of their homes and computers and waited

for the police to hammer on their doors. Worse still, was the punishment that

was meted out to those who succumbed to satisfying their needs, even if no one

else was involved. The legislation at the federal level had originally required

two violent assaults on children before life imprisonment was mandated. Somehow

along the way, `violent' was interpreted as any act that affected someone else's

rights. Nowadays, simply looking at a photograph that showed a boy's bare skin,

either real or digitally created; communicating with another person in a

pseudo-anonymous chat about underage children, or reading a sexually themed

story about boys was enough to qualify. It took two such incidents for a man to

spend the rest of his life in prison. That was the law, and it was one of the

things that had motivated Lane to enter politics.