Too Friendly

Brian Anders was a friendly kid, perhaps too friendly-for his own good. He had been warned not to talk to strangers, but, to Brian, there were no strangers. All were his friends, whether he’d known them all of his life, or had just met them. He would walk up to-begin a conversation with-anyone, regardless of that person’s race, age, or gender.

His mother, Susan, sometimes worried about Brian’s openness with people, but they lived in the small community of East Mountain, about ten miles from Longview, Texas. There was a general store which had the town’s only gas pumps, an antique store, a cafe which was open for breakfast and lunch, and a Baptist church, which Brian and his family attended. The town had a population of less than eight hundred, most of whom worked in Longview. It was in a dry district of Upshur county which meant that alcohol couldn’t be sold. Nothing ever happened. There wasn’t even a police department. Brian had attended the school run by the church, but would have to attend Union Grove Jr. High when school started in September. That worried his mother.

Susan Anders was protective of her son-her only child. He had come late in her life, after she and her husband, Roy, had given up any hope of having children. She was forty-eight and Roy was fifty. This boy, a gift from God, was her life. She watched him as he sat at the kitchen table drawing. The heat and humidity of the July day were kept at bay by the home’s central air conditioning. Although the heat didn’t deter most boys Brian’s age-eleven-from playing outdoors, Susan wouldn’t allow him to go outside during the hottest part of the day. Other parents would often drop their kids off in Longview at either the mall or the movies, but, for Brian, unsupervised trips to the movies or to the mall, were out of the question. Although they had TV, they had neither cable or satellite TV. Brian was only allowed to watch TV for an hour each day and only programs approved by his parents. The family preferred to spend their time in joint activities, games or conversation. Fortunately, Brian loved to read and to draw.

Piddling around in the kitchen, not because she had anything that needed to be done, but because she wanted an excuse to be near Brian, Susan frequently leaned over, placing her hand on his shoulder, brushing her face against his, smelling his smell, losing herself in his smile-in his laughter. God! She loved him

Brian had drawn a knight on his horse and was now drawing a dragon.

“Are they going to fight?” she asked.

“No, they’re friends. They’re going to fight the orcs and goblins.” To Brian, orcs and goblins epitomized evil. His knights and dragons never fought each other-only orcs and goblins.

“Where’s the orcs and goblins?”

“I haven’t drawn them yet. They’re next, after I finish the dragon.”

Brian glanced up from his drawing-looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. He loved his mother-knew that she had no excuse for being in the kitchen, except to be near him, but he was no longer a little boy. He was eleven-twelve next month. His best friend, Tommy Crowley, lived next door, although, since his house was on ten acres and Tommy’s was on forty, some distance away. They were the same age, but Tommy went to public school in Union Grove. At four o’clock, his mother would reluctantly let him out of the house; he planned to go over to Tommy’s. Since it was only 3:30, he continued drawing, beginning on the first orc, thinking about Tommy’s Playstation II. On it you could fight dragons for real; but his mother thought that video games were too violent. She’d never let him have one.

At five minutes to four, after gathering his drawings together and putting them away, Brian picked up the phone to call Tommy. Please, God, he thought. Let him be home.

Tommy answered the phone. He had been expecting Brian’s call. “Hello.”

“Hey, want to do something?”

“Sure, come on over.”

As Brian hung up the phone, he said to his mother, “I’m going over to Tommy’s-OK, Mom?”

“Why don’t you have Tommy come over here?” She was reluctant to let Brian out of her sight.

“Aw, mom. There’s nothing to do here. Besides, I already told him I’d come over-please, mom.” He gave her his most imploring look, one she could rarely refuse.

“OK, but no video games.”

“Damn,” thought Brian, the use of the expletive, indicating his disappointment. He knew that she never wanted him to play video games, but played them on those days that she didn’t specifically tell him not to, rationalizing that he hadn’t been forbidden to play them that day. It was some measure of his rebellion against his mother’s restrictions. Saying, “I won’t,” he ran out the door.

“Don’t run,” shouted his mother, “It’s too hot.”

Brian slowed down to a walk until he rounded the corner of the house out of sight of his mother, then took off running again. Free. He was free at last. In a few minutes he was knocking at Tommy’s door.

“Hey,” said Tommy as he opened the door. “You want to play video games?”

“I can’t. I told my mom I wouldn’t.”

“She’ll never know.”

“No, I can’t. I told her I wouldn’t.” His sense of honor wouldn’t allow him to play once he had told his mother that he wouldn’t. “Let’s go swimming.”

Swimming in the pond at the back of Tommy’s property would have also been forbidden, if his mother had known, but Brian had been careful to never discuss that with her. Tommy grabbed a couple of towels and the boys headed for the pond. It was still hot; the water, although warm would feel good.

Charlie, Tommy’s dog, a small Border collie, ran up to the boys when they came out of the house, showing his excitement by barking and jumping. Brian knelt down to pet him. He wanted a dog of his own, but, because of his allergies, his mom wouldn’t let him have one-although being around Charlie never seemed to trigger them. “Come on, Charlie,” he called, as he and Tommy began their usual race for the pond. As always, Brian won.

“Shit,” said Tommy, bent over-out of breath, “I’m going to beat you yet.”

“Fuck if you are,” answered Brian, using one of his favorite cuss words. Fuck and shit were his favorites. He liked the sound of them; he only got to use them when he was around Tommy. Smiling, he thought to himself that his mother would have a cow if she heard him say fuck. Brian knew that he wasn’t supposed to cuss, but he never used the Lord’s name in vain. His cussing was limited to words such as fuck, shit, cock, and damn.

The boys stripped off their clothes, carelessly piling them on the bank of the pond, standing naked in the sun. The bank around the pond hid them from view. Brian surreptitiously glanced at Tommy. Since last summer, Tommy’s cock and balls had grown and had hair around them. His own were small and bare. Staring at Brian’s cock, Tommy said, “You might can outrun me, but at least I don’t have a little bitty cock.”

His face red, Brian replied, “My dad said that mine would grow-anytime now.”

After having seen the change in Tommy earlier in the summer, Brian had discussed it with his father. His father had explained that Tommy had gone through puberty. Brian hadn’t been sure what that meant. His church school didn’t have sex education, and his mother avoided any discussion of sex. “Boys usually go through puberty between the age of eleven to thirteen. Tommy is one of those who started early. Don’t worry about it. You’ll start puberty any time now. You’re almost twelve. It’s all part of growing up.”

“But, Tommy teases me about having a little...cock.”

Brian had hesitated before using the word, but had used it to test his father’s reaction. His father laughed. “Don’t worry about it. When you go through puberty, yours will grow. You never can tell. It might become larger than Tommy’s, but, if it doesn’t, it won’t matter. What kind of person you are is more important than the size of your...cock.” Roy Anders had hesitated and smiled before saying cock. He knew that his wife sheltered Brian too much, but, short of war with Susan, there was little he could do about it.

As Brian looked at Tommy, he was shocked to see Tommy’s cock grow, become hard-and erect. When he looked at Tommy, Tommy had a big grin on his face. With his right hand, Tommy began stroking his cock.

“What are you doing?” asked Brian.

“I’m jacking off. You try it.”

Brian’s cock also became erect, but only jutted out about three inches. Tommy’s was at least six inches long. “What does it do?” he asked.

“It feels good. Try it.”

Brian began stroking his cock. It felt good, but it also made him feel guilty. He wondered if it was a sin to play with your cock. In a minute, Tommy closed his eyes, bit his lower lip and moaned-as a white substance began spurting from his cock. Brian watched in fascination. “What was that?” he asked.

“I came. I shot my wad. Don’t you know anything? Can’t you cum?”

“I...I don’t know. I never have. I’ve never tried...jacking off.”

“Here, let me try.” Reaching down-grabbing Brian’s cock, Tommy began stroking it. It felt good-but nothing happened. Tommy gave up. “Guess you can’t cum,” he said. “Here, you do it to me.”

Brian hesitated-for a moment, not for any fear of being considered gay. He had no concept of what that meant, but Tommy’s cock-hard, erect-throbbing-both frightened and fascinated him. He and Tommy had playfully touched each other before; they had known each other all their lives; but, he hadn’t touched Tommy’s cock since it had grown. It seemed to have a life of its own.

It almost jumped out of his hand when he grabbed it. It was so big. Whereas he held his own with two fingers, he had to wrap his hand around Tommy’s. He began stroking it as he had observed Tommy doing it. As he stroked it, Tommy began thrusting with his hips as if he were trying to ram his cock farther into Brian’s hand, making soft moaning sounds in his throat: “ummm...ummm...ummm.” Then, “oh...oh...oh...” as Brian felt Tommy’s cock throb-saw its head expand as a white substance erupted from it, gushing out with each throb of Tommy’s cock-the first several jets spurting forth several feet. He continued to pump it-fascinated. The cum ceased spurting until there were only drops of the white substance being expelled from the opening in the head of Tommy’s cock. He felt the cock diminishing within his fist, but kept pumping until Tommy, placing his hand on Brian’s, said, “That’s enough.”

“What did it feel like?” asked Brian.

“It’s hard to explain. The feeling starts in your cock, but then spreads from it through out you whole body. It’s cool.”

“I wish I could do it.”

“You will. I learned all about it in sex ed. at school. You have to go through puberty first. I’ve only been jerking off for a couple of weeks.”

“Jerking off...is that what you call it?”

“Jerking off, beating off, jacking off, spanking the monkey, pulling the pud. There’s lots of names for it, but in sex ed., the teacher calls it masturbating.”

“Spanking the monkey,” Brian laughed. “That’s funny.”

The boys talked for a while, swam, skipped stones, and played around the pond until it was time for Brian to go home. Supper was at seven.

When Brian passed his open garage, he saw that his father was inside working at the table saw. He went in to greet him.

“Hi, Dad,” he shouted over the noise of the saw.

After shutting off the saw and raising the goggles from his eyes, Roy Anders walked around to where his son was standing. “Hi, kiddo.” He pulled Brian to him with one arm, hugging him, and ruffled his hair with the other. “Your hair’s wet. Been swimming in Tommy’s pond?”

Brian’s face burned-turned crimson. Guiltily he looked up at his father, but before he could speak, Roy Anders said, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell your mom, but you better dry your hair before she notices.”

“You-you don’t care if I swim in Tommy’s pond?”

“I don’t see anything wrong with it, son-just be careful. Hell, that pond’s hardly deep enough to drown in. But, you know your mom. She’d have a fit, if she knew you’d been swimming in it.”

“Thanks, Dad.” He threw both arms around his father’s waist-hugged him. “Say, Dad....”

When he didn’t continue, Roy asked, “What is it, Brian?”

Glancing first at the floor, then looking up at his father, Brian asked, “Is it wrong to jerk off?”

“Why do you ask?” Anders knew that Brian hadn’t yet reached puberty.

“Uh...Tommy was talking about it.”

“Is Tommy masturbating-jerking off?”

“He-uh-said that he had.” Brian wasn’t ready to admit to his father that he’d seen Tommy do it-that he’d done it to Tommy.

“There’s nothing wrong with it, Brian. All boys do it. But, remember-no one has the right to touch your penis or any of your private parts without your permission-not even Tommy.”

“Would it be wrong if I touched Tommy’s...cock?”

“There’s different kinds of touching. Kid’s playing around-playing grabass-will sometimes grab each other’s balls-but, even when doing that, it should be mutually acceptable. If the touching is more of a sexual nature-well, I don’t know. Boys are curious; they experiment. I trust you. I don’t know of any boy that is as good-as decent-as you are. I’m not going to tell you whether touching Tommy would be good or bad. Always listen to that little voice within you. It’ll tell you whether it’s right or wrong.”

He leaned over-kissed his son’s wet hair. “Now, go dry your hair before your mother notices.”

As they sat around the dinner table, Roy asked his son, “Have you done your chores for the week?” It was Friday night.

“Yep.”

“All of them?”

“Done them all,” answered Brian.

“Guess you want to be paid then.”

His eyes wide, a smile on his mouth, Brian nodded. Reaching into his wallet, Roy pulled out a $10 bill. Brian received $10 each week for doing his chores. “Thanks,” said Brian.

After they finished dinner, Brian asked, “Can I skate down to the store?” The general store in town was about two miles from Brian’s home. The money was already burning a hole in Brian’s pocket.

Susan Anders said, “I don’t think that would be a good idea. It’s late-almost eight. It’ll be dark soon.”

“Oh, let him go,” said Roy. He’ll be all right. You’ll be careful-won’t you, son?”

“Yeah, Dad, I’ll be careful.”

“Skate facing the traffic-and come straight back from the store. Don’t stop at Tommy’s.”

“Why don’t you take him, dear?” asked Susan.

“There’s a PBS program on TV that I want to see-besides he’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”

Roy wished that his wife would loosen the reins on Brian. At least next year he’d be going to school in Union Grove. That would give him the chance to be more exposed to the world. Anders worried that the boy had been too sheltered-knew too little of what went on in the world. He knew that it would be a big change for Brian. The church school had less than forty students. The school in Union Grove had hundreds-but, he knew that his son could handle it. Brian had such charisma; everyone loved him.

Jumping up from the table, Brian ran to grab his rollerblades. “Don’t skate in the house,” yelled his mother.

“I won’t.” answered Brian. He couldn’t anyway. The carpet was too thick.

At the driveway, Brian sat down on the grass, removed his sneakers, tied the laces together, hung them around his neck, and put on his rollerblades. He would have to put on his sneakers to go in the store. Mr. Crowley, Tommy’s father, who owned the store, didn’t allow rollerblades in the store. Brian skated down the driveway, onto the shoulder of Medlin road, then down it until he hit Main St. which was highway 1845, the highway through town. He skated facing the traffic as his father had told him.

There was a porch at the entrance to the store-and a step up to it. Brian sat down on the step, removed his rollerblades, placed them on the porch out of the way, put on his sneakers, and went into the store. Mr. Crowley looked up from the counter when he walked in. “Hi, Brian,” he said.

“Hi, Mr. Crowley,” Brian answered, smiling.

Brian was an amazing boy, Mr. Crowley thought. He had the most unusual eyes-green flecked with gold, so much gold in fact, that when the light reflected off them at certain angles they appeared golden. It was his eyes that one first noticed, but it was his smile that won you over. There was nothing artificial about Brian’s smile. Beginning at his toes-it radiated out from his face, encompassing those around him. Strangers in the store, awed by his smile would come up to him-were compelled to talk to him-drawn to him not just by his beauty-he was a beautiful boy-but by an intangible quality-a goodness-an acceptance-that radiated from him along with his smile. Rewarded by Brian’s response-he spoke to them respectfully, but as if he’d known them his whole life, they were reluctant to leave, realizing that they were in the presence of someone special-fearful that they would never again meet such a person.

--------------------------------------------

Alexander Reardon was a friendly guy, perhaps too friendly-for the good of his victims, prepubescent boys. He liked them on the cusp of puberty-right before they changed, before they were capable of an orgasm. Oh, he never raped them. That wasn’t his game. He castrated his victims-robbing them of their manhood on the eve of their obtaining it-stealing their small balls before they could begin changing into men. Three he’d done, and he’d never been convicted of doing any of them. The three-he’d charmed into his van; and, since he’d always hunted for them far from his home, he’d never been caught.

Then, the one time that his charms hadn’t worked-when, out of frustration-out of hunger-compelled by his needs-he had attempted to force a boy into his van-an ideal boy, about eleven years old, not yet in the throes of puberty, one that he couldn’t resist, the boy’s screams had attracted onlookers-meddlers. They had beaten him-held him for the police. Eight years-eight fucking years it had cost him. Eight years for attempted kidnapping, and he hadn’t done anything to the kid. Now he was out on parole-living in jerk water Longview, Texas, in a crummy studio apartment, working as a janitor-him, a janitor.

Hearing a noise, he looked out the window. Protesters-again-in front of his apartment building, walking back and forth carrying signs-signs protesting his presence in their town. Ever since his name and picture had been posted on the Internet, they’d been there-everyday. They wouldn’t leave him alone-yelling at him, screaming at him whenever he left his apartment. He’d complained to the police, but they had-gleefully he thought-told him that nothing could be done-that the protesters had the right to be there-to protest his presence. Well, what about his rights? He had rights, too. What about his right to privacy? Weren’t they violating his constitutional rights? Three months he’d been in Longview. Three months after eight years during which he hadn’t even talked to a kid. He was forbidden contact with any minors. His need had become a hunger-a compulsion. He wanted to hold the severed sack containing the balls of a boy in his hand. He tried masturbating while thinking about it-but it was no good. Without actually holding the balls in his hand, he couldn’t even get hard. Despite the protesters, despite his parole, he had to find a kid-but where? It was too dangerous to get one in Longview; that was too close to home; he would be one of the first ones that the police would pick up; but he had a curfew. On Fridays he had to be home by ten. If he broke his parole, he would go back to prison.

By 7:30 PM, the protesters had gone, so Reardon left, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. Gilmer, he thought. Gilmer might do. Fifteen miles away, it was in a different county. Maybe-just maybe-it would be far enough, would be a place where he could find a kid-cut him, and still make it home in time. He picked up the puppy he’d bought earlier that day, carried it to his van, started it, drove off, checking his rearview mirror to see if anyone was following him. There was no one. He took highway 1845 out of Longview. It was the back way to Gilmer, but he wanted to attract as little attention as possible.

Passing through a small community-he didn’t notice the name-he stopped for cigarettes. On the porch, going into the store, he noticed a pair of rollerblades beside the steps. Inside the store he saw their owner. His eyes-Reardon had never seen such eyes, and the kid’s smile-for a moment it seemed to strike a spark within Reardon-a spark of pity-of compassion, but it fell on the barren stone of his heart. There wasn’t enough decency left in Reardon to provide tinder for the spark.

He had to have this kid-had to take his balls. This boy was his antithesis. He radiated goodness, hope, joy, everything that Reardon lacked. Taking his balls would hopefully steal his future-embitter him, change him into a being such as Reardon was.

Reardon left without buying cigarettes. He didn’t want to be seen. Everyone in the store was staring at the boy-entranced. No one saw him enter-or leave. Getting into his van, he backed it around to the side of the building-and waited.

In a few minutes the boy came out, put on his rollerblades and skated down the shoulder of the highway. Passing him, Reardon glanced back in his rearview mirror. The boy didn’t seem to be paying him any attention. It was dark and he was closely watching the pavement. Seeing an intersecting road ahead-the street sign said Medlin Road-Reardon turned onto it and stopped his van. The boy, when he skated up to Reardon’s van, showed no concern. “Hi,” he said. That smile again-and again it tugged at Reardon-but to no avail.

“Hi,” said Reardon, giving him his biggest smile. “I let my pup out to take a pee. Now, I can’t catch him. Would you help me?” The pup was sniffing the grass beside the road.

“Sure,” said the kid. “Here, puppy. Com’ere.”

Wagging its tail, the pup waddled up to the boy.

“Here he is. He came right to me,” said the boy, obviously pleased with himself.

The sliding side door to the van was open. “Put him in the back,” said Reardon.

When the boy leaned over to put the dog in the van, Reardon, grabbing him from behind by his upper arms, shoved him into the van. “Hey,” said the kid. “What are you doing?”

“Shut up, kid-or I’ll smack you.” He quickly tied the boy’s hands behind his back, tied his feet, shut the door, climbed into the driver’s seat, started the van, and drove off-down Medlin Road.

The boy, frightened now, was crying softly. “What do you want? What are you going to do with me?”

Reardon ignored him. He wanted him to be frightened; he wanted him to be terrified. He would be-before Reardon was finished with him. Driving until he came to a dirt road, Reardon turned off Medlin Road, driving until he was well away from the main road. Since there didn’t seem to be any houses around, he pulled off to the side of the road and parked his van. Glancing into his rearview mirror, he saw no cars behind him. This place would do.

Climbing into the back of the van, he turned on the interior light. He wanted to see this kid-up close. During the brief glimpse he had of him in the store, he didn’t think that the kid had reached puberty, but, until he checked, he couldn’t be sure. Their cocks and balls grew before they showed any other external signs.

He fumbled with the kid’s belt, the snap and zipper of his pants, in his haste to pull them down to check out the kid’s crotch. “Don’t. What do you want?” whimpered the boy.

Reardon sighed with relief. Pulling down the boy’s jeans and his underwear revealed small hairless balls surmounted by a tiny penis. The boy was prepubescent. Surely he had never cum-never had an orgasm. Now, he never would-but his balls-when Reardon held them in his hand back in his apartment, would provide Reardon with one-with the first one he would have had in eight years. The only way he could cum was when he masturbated while holding a boy’s severed balls in his other hand.

The boy was obviously frightened now. His pants were gathered around his ankles. He was crying. “What-what are you doing? What do you want with me?”

“Have you ever jerked off, kid?”

The boy hesitated. “Uh...no.”

Reardon slapped him-then slapped him again. “Tell me the truth, kid. Have you ever beat off?”

“Yes,” answered the boy, “once-today.”

“Did you cum, boy?” Fuck, if the kid had comed-that would ruin everything.

“Do you mean, did I spurt?”

“Yeah, kid. Did you spurt?”

“No, I couldn’t. Tommy did, but I couldn’t.

“You never have?”

“No, that was the only time I’ve ever tried-and I couldn’t.”

“Who’s Tommy?”

“Tommy’s my best friend.”

“And he could cum, but you couldn’t?”

“Yeah, my dad said that Tommy had gone through puberty, but that I hadn’t.”

“What did you guys do, jack off together?”

By this time, the boy was too frightened not to answer. “Yes, he showed me how to do it. He spurted, then tried to make me spurt, but I couldn’t.”

“Did you want to spurt, kid?”

“Yeah, I guess. He said that it felt good.”

Perfect. The kid had tried to cum-had wanted to cum, but couldn’t. Reardon felt his cock stir-harden-for the first time in eight years. He wanted to cum, too-needed to cum. Tonight, at home, holding this kid’s cut off balls in his hand-he would. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his Swiss army knife. Pulling out the big blade, he clicked it into place. It was sharp-razor sharp.

Staring at the knife, the boy asked, “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to cut off your balls, kid.”

“Why? Why do you want to cut off my balls?”

“Without your balls, your cock won’t grow. You’ll never get hair around your cock. You’ll never be able to cum. You’ll always be like you are now. You’ll never become a man.”

The boys started bawling. “Please don’t cut off my balls. Please don’t hurt me.”

He screamed when Reardon placed the knife at the base of his scrotum, but Reardon didn’t cut-yet. He wanted to prolong it-prolong his pleasure-the kid’s agony, but he hadn’t much time. He had to be home soon. It was time, he decided-time to take the kid’s balls.

But, before he could cut-he was interrupted-by the sound of breaking glass.

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“Stop, you motherfucker,” Pete Sinclair yelled, shining his flashlight on the man who was hunched over the small figure in the rear of the van. God, he prayed. Don’t let me be too late. He’d been following this creep ever since he had seen his name and picture on the Internet. He’d followed him tonight-from Reardon’s apartment, to East Mountain, to the store, to Medlin Road, but, following behind him with his lights off, he’d missed Reardon’s turn onto the dirt road, having to backtrack to find him, parked beside the road.

Reaching through the broken window, he opened the passenger’s side door with the hand holding his 357 magnum revolver, keeping his flashlight on Reardon’s face. Reardon remained immobile, frozen like an animal caught in a car’s headlights. If the creep had hurt the kid, he was determined to blow him away.

Climbing into the van, he said, “Don’t you fucking move.” Then seeing the knife in his hand, he shouted, “Drop it. Drop the fucking knife-or I’ll blow you away.” Reardon dropped the knife.

“All right. Now, move away from the kid. Are you all right, kid?”

Staring back at him with enormous eyes-eyes that appeared, in the light of the flashlight, to be made of solid gold, the kid sniffled, then said, “Yeah-I guess-yeah, I’m OK.”

“What was he doing, kid? What was he going to do with that knife?”

“He-he said that he was going to cut off my balls.”

“Oh, he was-was he?” Climbing into the back of the van, Pete struck Reardon across the face with the barrel of his gun. Reardon dropped to the floor-unconscious.

Using Reardon’s pocket knife, Pete cut the boy’s bonds, then helped him pull up his underwear and pants.

“Are you OK, kid?”

“Yeah,” said the kid-and he smiled. God, that smile. It alone was worth the time that Pete had spent following Reardon-worth whatever risks he’d taken. For a moment, he couldn’t speak, then he asked, “What’s your name, kid?”

“Brian-Brian Anders.”

“Glad to meet you, Brian Anders. My name’s Pete. Why don’t you go wait in my car, Brian. When I finish up here, I’ll take you home.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to tie this guy up. We’ll leave him for the cops.”

“Why did he want to cut off my balls?

“I don’t know, Brian. He’s sick-or just evil. I don’t know which, but he should be put away-never let out where he could prey on kids like you.” Especially on kids like you, he thought. “Now, go on. Get in my car. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Brian, crawling through to the front and out the open door, walked to Pete’s car where he sat down on the passenger’s seat.

Reardon regained consciousness shortly after Pete finished tying his arms and legs. “So, you were going to cut off the kid’s balls, huh?”

With his mouth clamped tight, Reardon refused to answer.

Using Reardon’s knife, Pete sliced through Reardon’s belt, then through his pants, slitting them open to his crotch. Grabbing them, along with Reardon’s shorts, he pulled them down to his knees. A small, limp, cock hung above his balls. Pete grabbed his balls-squeezed as hard as he could-then sliced, separating Reardon’s scrotum along with his balls from his body with one deft motion. He hoped that Reardon’s piercing screams hadn’t frightened Brian too badly.

Leaving Reardon in the back of the van-blood gushing from his crotch-Pete started to walk to his car, but noticing the puppy, grabbed it, walked to his car, getting in behind the wheel. He handed the puppy to Brian. Brian stared at him, his eyes wide-enormous, but no longer golden in this light. His smile lit up the interior of the car. “Do you want him?” asked Pete.

“Want him? Yeah. Can I really have him? Is it all right?

“Sure, kid. He’s yours, now.”

“Wow-that’s way cool.” then remembering the scream that he’d heard, he asked, “What was that scream? What happened?”

“I just gave him a reminder-a reminder not to hurt little boys.” He drove Brian home.