A Dish Served Cold

A Dish Served Cold

Andrew Ashling

A Dish Served Cold Andrew Ashling This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Ebooks are not transferable and may not be sold, shared or given away, as this would be an infringement on the copyright of this work. Ormidon Publishing Cover design by Nanna Küsgen Copyright © 2009 by Andrew Ashling

Chapter 1:

A Narrow Escape

I suppose that if I want to tell you how I came to know the Ridges and how that acquaintance almost cost me my family's fortune and very nearly got me enslaved, I'd better begin with a curious incident that happened just before my fifteenth birthday. After my father's death my mother had to take responsibility for the family fortune. She had inherited quite a bit as the sole heiress of a successful chain of shops. Upon the death of her father she had sold the lot and let the family's attorneys invest the proceeds. My father had kept an eye on the investments and my mother was quite happy to let him. After all, she was the dreamy, impractical type. But when my father died she had to take matters in hand, and who would have guessed that this fragile, poetic soul was also a shrewd investor with a razor sharp financial mind. We had done quite well, thank you very much, and our assets, which were already substantial to begin with, steadily grew from year to year.

When I was almost fifteen my mother decided that it was time I began to learn the basics of the management of our investments and assets. “I will not always be around, you know,” she said. “But we will ease you gently into this, my dear. To begin with, let's have you simply tag along when I visit Singer & Singer.” Singer & Singer were our attorneys. Harold Singer being the elder, venerable head of the firm and Geoffrey Singer being his son and presumptive successor. Needless to say those visits to dusty offices in an old but magnificent building were utterly boring to a fourteen year old boy. Neither did I learn much as most of the crucial discussions went on between my mother and Mr. Singer senior, behind closed doors in his private office. I guess my mother simply wanted me to get familiar with the firm and vice versa. Most of the time, I had to wait in Geoffrey Singer's office, bored beyond words. It must have been on the third or fourth visit that it happened. While I was patiently waiting for my mother to come back, sitting quietly in a club chair for visitors, I studied Geoffrey Singer who was reading some papers at his desk. Without being downright ugly, he also couldn't be called very attractive. He was in his early twenties, I guessed, and had a slender, wiry body. What most attracted my attention were his big hands with long, bony fingers. His face was sharp and so was his nose, which he, from time to time, nervously rubbed with his left index finger. He wore gold rimmed glasses that made him look older than he actually was. His straight hair was short and sort of salt and pepper colored. All in all, he looked somewhat like a giant mouse. Definitely not my type. Besides the fact that for me, at fourteen years, everybody above twenty seemed positively ancient. He must have felt me staring at him, because suddenly he looked back at me. “Andrew, would you like something to read? A comic maybe?”

“Sure”, I said. Anything to pass the time. Well, not anything. “Come with me,” he said and he opened a door that led to a room full of racks and shelves. Clearly the archive of Singer & Singer or at least that of Singer junior. The room smelled even dustier than the rest of the office. On the far side stood a little table with a chair and a reading light. Geoffrey reached into a box on one of the shelves and retrieved a few magazines which he put on the table. He opened one of them. I still stood at the entrance of the room. “Come, take a look and see if you find it to your taste,” he said while he flicked on the reading light. He turned around and began rummaging in another box. I went to the little table and leaned over to take a closer look. “What the fuck?” On the pages before me were several pictures of two naked guys, in the most lurid positions, fucking each other. OK, although I wasn't prepared to admit it at that age, I knew I liked guys. But not these kind of guys, with oversized muscles like wrestlers and at least thirty. Shocked I started to back away from the table, but I bumped into Geoffrey who was suddenly, without me having heard a thing, right behind me. “You like that, don't you, you little pervert? I bet you and your little friends have played dirty games like that many times.” His voice sounded deeper than usual and somehow, well, moist I suppose, as if there were too much saliva in his mouth. It was September but it was still very warm, so I wore only a tshirt over my jeans. With one sudden movement, his left hand reached under my shirt and, while keeping me firm against his breast, with his thumb, he began to massage my nipple. His right hand opened the top button of my jeans, forced itself in my briefs, wriggling the zipper open, and pulled both down simultaneously. My briefs stuck around my knees but my jeans fell to my ankles. He cupped my balls with his hands, squeezed them slightly which made me bend forward, more from surprise than from pain, and then he grabbed my dick.

“Hey,” I yelled, “cut that out. Let go of me.” “Sshht,” he hissed in my ear, “you know you want this, you little bitch.” Yes, from Sean Denham, my best friend on whom I had a crush maybe. Not from some unsavory guy ten years my senior. I tried to wrestle myself free, but the only effect it had was that he pressed me harder against his now heavily heaving breast. He began stroking my cock and to my horror I — it — responded. I didn't want this and I felt, besides being totally humiliated and violated, betrayed by my own body. “See,” he whispered hoarsely, “I knew that you were just a horny little boy.” By now tears came to my eyes, and at the same time I tried, vainly I might add, to suppress a soft, whimpering moan. Nobody had seen me naked, not even my mother, since I was eight or nine and here I stood, with my ass bared and a virtual stranger fondling my most intimate parts. Helpless. This couldn't get any worse, could it? But of course it could. How he did it, I don't know, but in a second he had removed his left hand from my breast, opened his pants, pulled his dick out, and placed his arm and hand back around me to restrain me. It went all so quickly that I hadn't had time to take the opportunity to wrestle myself out of his grasp. I felt him trying to press his cock between my butt cheeks, at the same time bending me toward the table. It was all I could do to push back with my arms against the table to prevent him from bending me over completely. If he succeeded in doing so, my entrance would be wide open. I knew I wouldn't be able to resist for very long. I panicked at the humiliating thought that not only would he make me come, but he would have his dick inside me while doing so. “This can't be happening,” I thought feverishly. “This can't be happening, this can't happen, this will not happen.” Out of sheer desperation, and with all the strength I could muster, I stood as upright as I possibly could. “I'll have you enslaved for this,” I raged. “Take your filthy paws off me, you disgusting animal. Do you know what my mother

will do when I tell her you raped me? Can you even begin to imagine how many lawyers she will hire to make sure you get convicted and permanently enslaved? You know the punishment for rape of a minor. Do you realize just how much justice the Ashton fortune can buy?” I was out of breath, but it worked. He let go of my dick and released me of the strangling hold in which he had kept me. I slowly turned around and glared at him with a hate so strong as only the young can emanate. All blood had drained from his face. He had already put his member back in his pants, I noticed. “I'm sorry,” he said. “Please, don't tell your mother. I really thought you wanted this.” “What made you believe I wanted to be raped by a dirty beast? When did I say that I wanted this? How could I have wanted this? Have you looked in a mirror lately?” I spat at him. “You're right. Of course, you're right. I don't know what came over me. O, please, please... I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” he whimpered. He knelt before me, and pulled first my briefs, then my jeans up. He tried to pull up the zipper as well, but was far too nervous and had to give up. He stood up, took a step back, looked at me, and began to cry. I must have looked exactly the part of a molested boy. Hair disheveled, jeans rumpled, unzipped and unbuttoned, t-shirt creased, panting, wild eyed. Seeing me, he understood there was not the slightest possibility of him denying anything I would choose to accuse him of. He knew his life as he had known it would be over if a fourteen year old boy should but speak one word. As a man of the law, he knew everything there was to know about Indentured Service, as it was known in official documents, or slavery, as it was known by the people. I took a few deep breaths and leaned against the table behind me to steady myself. Sure, I was still mad, enraged even, and if I could have crushed him then and there like a bug, I would have. But I also felt other emotions welling up. Triumph was one of them. I had controlled a desperate situation by mere words,

just the right words, true, but only words nevertheless, and it was I who had somehow found them. Power was another. I held the fate of a grown man in my fourteen year old hands, a man who stood before me, trembling and crying, waiting what the verdict, my verdict, would be. “Please, button up your jeans, comb your hair, before they, before your mother comes back. I beg you, don't tell. I promise, it will not happen again, but please, please...” “Shut up already,” I barked, and began to straighten my clothes as good as I could. My comb had fallen out of my back pocket, together with my wallet. Geoffrey saw me looking for them, and picked them up from the floor. He silently handed them over to me. After I had brought some semblance of order to my hair, I left the room, and sat again in one of the club chairs for visitors. Geoffrey sank behind his desk. It seemed as if he wanted to say something, but then thought better of it. He rearranged some papers without really seeing what he was doing, adjusted his glasses, and rubbed his nose. He took a deep breath, gathered all his courage, and opened his mouth. “Rest assured,” I said gruffly, before he could utter a word, “I won't tell.” He sighed, sat a little bit straighter and cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said in his normal voice as if I had just handed him a cup of coffee instead of his life. “I assure you, you won't regret this.” After what seemed an eternity my mother and Singer senior finally came back, still discussing some finer points of an investment. “You seem a bit ruffled, my dear,” she said. “Ah, you know me, mother,” I replied noncommittally and smiled at her. I heard a barely audible sigh of relief from the direction of Geoffrey's desk.

“You're awfully quiet, dear” my mother said in the car on the way home. “Oh, I'm just a little bit tired, that's all,” I answered. In fact, I was mulling over the events of that afternoon. Why hadn't I told on Geoffrey? What had tipped the scales? Well, I was not too sure. I truly pitied the guy. It couldn't be easy being him, what with his looks, and his craving for young boys. And like my mother always said: “Nobody deserves to be made a slave. I don't care what they're supposed to have done. It not only degrades the victim, it also degrades us as a society”. I tended to agree with her. If you think that was noble of me, I'm afraid I have to disappoint you. There was also a considerable measure of self preservation involved. I would have had to recount the whole sordid affair in embarrassingly intimate details to the police and almost certainly repeat it again publicly in court. The story would have been all over the papers. Who needed this kind of notoriety? School was hard enough without being known as the boy who almost got fucked in the ass. No, thank you very much, it was enough that Geoffrey had believed I was prepared to involve the authorities. Thoughts of an altogether different nature raged also through my mind. Until today I had paid little attention to my looks. It had come as a surprise to me that my appearance could drive somebody as far as to lose control and throw all caution to the wind. As distasteful as the whole episode had been, it was also kind of flattering in a weird, twisted way. Maybe, I thought, I can make Sean Denham see what Geoffrey Singer had seen.

Sean would meet with far less resistance. None, in fact.

Chapter 2

An Act of Kindness

Sean and Timmy were my two best friends. We had known each other since kindergarten. All three of us came from what you would call a privileged background, but while our peers were usually sent to exclusive private institutions, a freak democratic streak in our parents made them send us to a public school. Early on I learned that I'd better call myself simply Andrew Ashton and most emphatically not Andrew Nathaniel Ashton VII. Beating up the rich kid was the favorite pastime of every bully of the schoolyard. Sean and Timmy had similar experiences and we soon found out that there was indeed safety in numbers. As a result we tended to stick together as much of the time as possible. Even so we were mostly in the corner where the blows fell, but never without dealing one or two of our own. It's true what they say: being in battle together creates a special bond. Gradually they left us to our own devices and that was perfectly fine by us. None of us excelled in sports, nor did we belong to the computer nerd or video game crowd. In our own way we

were kind of dorky, I suppose. Usually we spent our free time at the tennis club of which we were members, practically from birth, just like our parents. Democracy went only so far, you see. There was a special section for the young ones where we could hang out, get soft drinks and generally enjoy a bully-free environment. We even played tennis occasionally. Very occasionally. We stank at it big time. As we grew older we liked to discuss current events and politics, especially Sean and me. Timmy was just happy to hear us talk and only once in a while took part. Strangely enough, he never seemed bored. Have I mentioned we were kind of dorks? Timmy was Timothy Strathway, as in Strathway Constructions. He was rather small and compactly built, with a round face surrounded by unruly brown curls, which he tried to tame, in vain, by sporting some kind of headgear. Usually a cap, but Sean and I still remembered with slight distaste the spring his choice fell on a beret. He couldn't sit still for five minutes and everything in life was a source of great wonder to him. Certainly not stupid, but far from an intellectual giant, Timmy was fiercely loyal and someone you wanted by your side if there was trouble. He would have gone through a fire for you and come out grinning at the other side. Sean helped Timmy with his Science and Mathematics classes, I helped him with Literature and History. Sean Denham was the greenest branch on the vast tree of the Denham political dynasty which had given the country Congressmen, Senators, Governors, a Secretary of State and a host of lesser office holders. His father, Senator Frank Denham, resided most of the time in the capital. This didn't seem to bother Sean much. Nothing did. Sean was gifted with one of those by nature sunny dispositions. He had half long, dark brown hair with eyes of almost the same color and a friendly face. He was handsome, but more cute than handsome, if that makes any sense. When he saw you, his face lit up with a big smile that seemed to say that he had waited the whole day just for you to arrive. He effortlessly managed to make you feel special, exceptional. He was kind but strong at the same time, strangely dignified yet unaffected. He had an easy gracefulness

about him and his charm could melt rocks. God, even his sweat smelt nice. He was my best friend and I was deeply, hopelessly and totally in love with him. On Saturdays we used to go into the city. Sometimes we went to see a movie. We also loved rummaging through bookshops and later showed each other our newly acquired treasures. That is, Sean and I did. Timmy followed us and usually bought just the one book. We'd often seen the bookcase in his room, full of brand new, unread books on the most diverse subjects, filling the shelves in the exact order he had bought them. It gave the room cachet, Timmy used to say. Dorks, we were such dorks. We met, weather permitting, in the park in the center of the city, always on the same bench. It was late in the summer and the sun was shining. A beautiful day. I arrived first and had just sat down when I got a text message from Timmy: “not feeling too well can't make it sorry.” Oh well, that meant I would be alone with Sean the whole afternoon, and that was a pleasant enough prospect. “OK. Get well soon,” I messaged back. Although I was deeply in love with Sean, I hadn't done anything about it. I didn't want to take any risks of losing him as a friend. He didn't even know I was gay and that I had a crush on him, and I had no idea at all how to make him see that without scaring him away for ever. A quarter of an hour later my cell rang. Sean. “Hey Andrew, I'm sorry but the old man has come home unexpectedly with a few important guests in tow, and he has decided that he needs his firstborn and the apple of his eye to be around. I've got a text from Timmy. You too I suppose. Seems you're on your own, my friend. Bummer.” “Yeah, bummer is the word. Don't sweat it though. See you tomorrow at the club?” “No problem, the political circus is leaving this evening. Hey, don't do anything I wouldn't do and don't have fun without us.” “I solemnly swear,” I said lightly, but of course I was disappointed.

disappointed. So, I had a whole afternoon to kill on my own. I was still trying to figure out what I could do to entertain myself and had half decided to go see a movie when I saw a man looking at me. It was Geoffrey. I hadn't recognized him at first because he wasn't wearing a dark gray suit as usual, but some light summer outfit. He saw I had recognized him, hesitated a while, then came towards me. “Andrew,” he said and nodded, “can I sit down?” “Hey, it's a free country and I don't own the bench,” I replied neutrally. “Ah, right,” he said and sat down as far away from me as possible. “I wanted to thank you properly for not telling on me, you know, and the, ah, incident,” he added after a short, uncomfortable silence. “You say incident, I say attempted rape,” I answered. “I am truly and deeply sorry about that,” he said earnestly. “I really don't know what came over me. I am usually a very cautious person, but when I saw you sitting there, the sun playing in your hair, I...” His voice trailed of. I turned to him and I saw a whole other person. Instead of the office mouse, there sat a young man who looked his age, not handsome in a classical way, but certainly not ugly or repulsive. He looked very unhappy. “Listen, let's forget it. You didn't scar me for life, and all in all no real harm was done. Not for lack of trying, though,” I smiled. “That's... very nice of you,” he said surprised. “So, you like little boys?” “No, no,” he said horrified, “it's not like that. Not little boys. I like them young, true. Younger than the law permits, anyhow. But I like them to be in complete control. And willing. It was a freak accident, a mistake.” He looked very unhappy again. “You threatened me and you were completely justified to do so. Every time I try to make, ah, contact, I run the risk that someone will

act on such threats. Even those who offer themselves for money could ruin me. I, I mostly go without, ah, gratification, but the frustration builds up. Sorry, I am boring you. Or worse.” “It can't be easy for you,” I said. I felt sorry for the guy, and I knew a little bit about frustration myself. Then I surprised myself. I still don't know what came over me. Was I bored, frustrated myself, or did I pity the guy that much? Were the raging hormones of a fifteen year old boy taking over my brain? “Listen,” I heard myself say, “if you've got some discrete place to go to I'll let you feel me up a bit.” Me and my big mouth. The moment I had said it I regretted it. Geoffrey looked nervously around as if fearing a trap. “You're joking,” he said, hoping I was not. “No, not at all, you don't even have to pay me,” I said with much more confidence than I felt. “There are conditions though. You can look. You can feel me up where I say you can. When I say stop, you stop. Immediately. I don't reciprocate. You can, let's say, take care of yourself, but I won't touch you. There will be no fucking. And, most importantly, this is a one off deal. You will not try to contact me or in any way seek a repetition of the occasion. Do we have a deal?” “I promise,” he said, licking his lips nervously. His car was just outside the park. He drove us to the outskirts of the city. I had expected to be taken to a seedy, cheap hotel, but it turned out we stopped in a rather ordinary neighborhood. The Imperial Hotel was not as grand as it's name implied, but it seemed clean enough. “My little brother and I are in town for a funeral and we'd like a room to rest a bit and clean up a little,” he said to the man behind the counter. Yeah, right. We had no luggage and we weren't exactly dressed for a solemn occasion. The man behind the counter didn't raise an eyebrow. He probably had heard it all before.

Room 301 was what I expected it to be. Smallish with cheap but adequate furniture. I wasn't all that certain anymore, but I couldn't very well go back on my word now, could I? I took off my jacket, threw it on the bed, and sat down in a big arm chair. Geoffrey immediately got the message that the bed was out of bounds and put his jacket next to mine. He unbuttoned his shirt. “Do you mind that I...” “Not at all.” I watched him strip completely and then he turned toward me, waiting. To my surprise he had a rather nice body, and I tried to imagine how he would have looked at my age. Probably not half bad, I guessed. I removed my t-shirt and he knelt before me. His dick was already half erect. With both his hands he caressed my chest, then my nipples, all the while remaining knelt before the arm chair. His hands slowly moved lower, and hesitatingly he touched the button of my jeans. He looked questioningly up to me. I nodded, and when he had released the button and pulled the zipper down, I raised myself a little to give him room to pull down my jeans and briefs. He was fully erect by now and I must admit that I, what with all the caressing and the general situation, was getting excited as well. He tentatively kissed my knee, looking up like a dog to see if he could. I didn't protest so he kept kissing first my knee, then the inside of my thighs, going higher and higher but not daring to touch my cock. When again he looked up like an obedient puppy, I gave him permission to kiss my balls. “Can I?” he begged hoarsely, this time without looking up, but he didn't dare finish the question. “Do you want to suck me, Geoffrey?” I asked. He nodded. I stood up so as to give him better access. He took first the tip of my dick in his mouth and with his tongue softly stimulated the head. Gradually he took my cock deeper and deeper until his lips almost touched my crotch. I must have been in his throat by then, but he didn't gag. I admit that having my member enclosed like that, warm and moist, felt very hot.

Almost involuntary I began to fuck his face slowly. Geoffrey responded by sucking my dick and doing some things with his tongue that almost drove me crazy. After a while I couldn't hold back anymore, and I started pumping more energetically until at last I exploded in his mouth. Burst after burst he gulped down, heavily breathing through his nose and stroking his own dick. He carefully cleaned my cock with his tongue, and then released it until only the head remained in his mouth. By now I began to lose my erection. Geoffrey stroked himself frantically and when he came I pulled my dick out of his mouth. While Geoffrey still sat on his knees, spent and panting, I pulled my pants up and put on my t-shirt and jacket. I suddenly wanted to leave as fast I could. “I'm going now,” I said. When I had almost reached the door, he called after me. “Andrew?” “Yes?” “Thank you for this,” he said softly. “You're welcome,” I replied, and left the room.

Later, when I got home, I stood under the shower for more than forty minutes.

Chapter 3

A Knight in Shining Armor

About a month after my fifteenth birthday I was reminded why I was against what we usually call ‘the system’. We call it that because it is a euphemism for indentured service, which in its turn is a euphemism for slavery. I'm sure most of you think of the system as ‘sensible’ or ‘reasonable’, mainly because from a very young age we are taught so. I'm also sure that most of you think that the Greenberg Act, more than fifty years ago, reintroduced indentured service in more or less one go. Believe me, that wasn't the case. I'm a history buff, so I know. In fact it was more of a gradual process. The original Greenberg Act, passed in a dire economic crisis, was intended to make it possible for debtors who hadn't any money to pay off their debts by rendering services to their creditor. Which seems sensible, doesn't it? Originally there were many restrictions and safeguards. The nature of the services and their monetary worth had to be stipulated in contracts and these were supervised by the government. At first it was strictly on a voluntary basis, but

after a while the courts could order someone who couldn't pay his debts to render services instead. Naturally there were those who altogether sought to avoid paying what they owed, and moved to another part of the country, or went into hiding. So, restrictions were placed on the freedom of movement of those under a service contract. Still fairly sensible. Some ten years later the scope of the law was considerably enlarged. The prisons at that time were full, and there never seemed enough cells. So why not calculate the monetary damage of a crime and let the convicts pay it off instead of having them locked up? Rather than burdening the country's finances, they became productive and even profitable. Fewer prison cells to maintain, fewer prisoners to guard and feed. At first this new extension of the law was only applied to those who had committed lesser crimes like theft, but the success, and also the financial gain, was so great that it was soon used for those who had committed major crimes as well. Naturally, as this involved dangerous individuals, strict measures for the safeguard of the population had to be taken. Of course they were chained. They were also thoroughly ‘trained’ to make them obedient, mostly by instilling a terror in them of being punished severely. The persons in whose service they worked were given the authority to discipline them and to take all measures they thought necessary to prevent their escape. After all, these were dangerous criminals. It was impossible to distinguish between those who were ordered into indentured service for minor debts on the one hand, and murderers on the other. One regime for all. That was the only way the system could function and, boy, did it function. And still the scope of the law was broadened. Drug dealers were criminals, obviously, but a few years later users too were convicted into indentured service. Even if they hadn't committed a crime yet, it was only a matter of time before they would. Why run the risk that some innocent citizen would suffer because of their addiction? Once in the system, they were thrown in a

training camp where they detoxified cold turkey. A few of them died, but that was to be expected. Besides, chances were their addiction would have killed them anyway. Once in actual service, they were continually supervised and severely punished for the least infraction of discipline, so they had no opportunity to relapse. Crime figures dropped dramatically. Another ‘blessing’ was that some fifteen years after the introduction of the Greenberg Act, the death penalty was abolished. This proved, its supporters argued, that the Greenberg Act was both sensible and merciful. You could also say that it was more profitable to work criminals to death than to fry them on the electric chair. At first, and theoretically this is still the case today, you could get out of indentured service. When your debt, actual or to society, was paid off, you became a free citizen again. The few who did manage to get released, had a hard time reintegrating into society, and often relapsed. This proved, said specialists, that there is something like a type that is almost predestined to become an indentured servant. What was the use of training them, releasing them, trying to readapt them to society, only to have to repeat the process eventually? So, in practice, the courts tended to render more and more verdicts of lifelong indentured service. Your debt might be small, but the court could decide that you would always be financially irresponsible, hence a danger to the economic stability of the country. By this time the system had evolved into full fledged slavery. I know we don't like to call it that, not officially or in polite company at least, but that is exactly what it is. About twenty five years after the introduction of the Greenberg Act, indentured servants became a commodity. Individuals or companies could buy the services of indentured servants. Very sensible. Maybe you owed me money, and at the same time it could be I was not interested in your services. Why not let me sell your services to a company that could make good use of them? I got my money from the company, and for you it made no difference. Theoretically, all this was supervised by the

Bureau of Indentured Service. In practice the caretaker, or the master in daily parlance, did pretty much as he pleased. If you're going to take away a man's freedom and make him obey orders, you have to psychologically prepare him. This was mainly achieved by two mechanisms. First there is the ‘breaking in’. When a person is declared an indentured servant, he immediately loses everything: his freedom, his citizenship, his rights and his name. It is paramount, said psychologists, that the fact that this person's life had changed forever is impressed upon him as forcefully as possible. The convict is stripped naked in court, right after sentencing, and a slave collar is put around his neck. It is made of a light, but very strong alloy. There is a mechanism that clicks the collar shut. There is no mechanism to unlock it. Usually the court orders a public spanking, administered by the Special Guards of the BIS. According to renowned psychologists this is most effective. The humiliation of being stripped in public, maybe in front of spouse and children, makes the convict realize that his old life is over and done with. The public spanking with wooden paddles on the buttocks goes on until the pain becomes unbearable and the convict loudly begs for mercy. This makes him realize that his fate is now in the hands of others, more worthy and responsible people. And, they add, it is perfectly harmless. The buttocks are essentially big muscles and there are no organs in the vicinity. So, while it is most efficient in administering pain, it causes no permanent damage. Immediately after his conviction, the new slave enters a training program of usually a month, in which he is conditioned to total obedience. The goal is, again according to psychologists, to take his obviously faulty personality apart, to dehumanize him and then to reconstruct him into a productive, useful entity. Most of these persons are much happier afterwards, they say, because for the first time in their lives they will have a sense of accomplishment, of usefulness through service. There is a general manual, but besides that, each BIS Training Center has its own special methods and procedures, none of which you want to happen to you. Slaves learn to obey orders immediately, never to speak unless spoken to, to call free citizens ‘sir’ and

‘madam’, even if they are minors, and never to look them in the eyes. As they have no name anymore they learn to respond to ‘boy’ or ‘girl’, whatever their age. Of course their caretaker, their master, can give them whatever name they want. A popular book, “Indentured Service — An Owner's Manual”, recommends they be given silly names, or names of pets, to prevent the emergence of an undesirable sense of self-worth. Once his training is finished the slave is auctioned off. Those in need of an indentured servant can come to the center and inspect them at their leisure. Then their services are sold to the highest bidder. For we still maintain that hypocrisy: we don't sell human beings, we sell their services. Fat difference. You still think that, all in all, the system is reasonable and sensible? Consider this. Let's suppose your father is in debt. First his possessions like his car or a yacht are sold off. If that doesn't bring in enough money your house is sold. Then your father himself is sold. Your mother probably escapes. If your parents were married with a prenuptial that states that each partner retains control over his or her assets, she obviously is her own person and as such has nothing to do with your father's estate. Why do you think there is no marriage without a prenuptial anymore? The children are another matter. Minor children, until they are eighteen, are considered to belong to the estate of both parents. The reasoning is this: they cost a lot of money to feed, clothe, house and educate. If father hadn't spend that money on his offspring, he could have used it to pay off his creditors. So it is fair that you should help in paying back father's debt. So you are sold also. Still think the system is fair? It goes yet one step further. Merely to prevent getting into debt, your parents can commit you into indentured service. In polite company it is frowned upon, and it doesn't happen all that often, but happen it does. By the way, if you are an unruly child that can't be controlled by your parents, they can also petition the court to commit you to lifelong indentured service. They have to justify their reasons and a judge has to examine them. In most cases mentioning budding criminal, or antisocial tendencies is more than enough. He can

criminal, or antisocial tendencies is more than enough. He can invite you to tell your side of the story, but he doesn't have to. If he concludes that you show indeed signs of future criminal, or even disruptive behavior, your fate is sealed and off you go. One day, three Special Guards and a certified executor appointed by the court, usually an attorney, appear at your doorstep. In the presence of your entire family the Act of Commitment into Indentured Service is read aloud by the executor, after which he instructs the guards to take you. They grab you, strip you naked, put the slave collar around your neck and give you a fierce paddling on the ass. All in front of your parents and siblings. If you happened to have friends over, they also can enjoy the spectacle. Then, crying, blubbering, barely able to stand and still naked, you are marched outside your house to the van that will bring you to the training center. The van is very obvious and by then most of your neighbors will be behind their windows, or in their doorsteps, to witness your humiliation. Granted, few parents could do this to their child. And yet, from time to time, it happens. Still think that by and large the system is sensible? Reasonable?

As I've already said, just how unfair the system can be was brought home to me when I had just turned fifteen. It was the beginning of October, late in the afternoon and I decided to go to my secret spot in the woods. For the time of the year the weather was mild. The grounds around our house are vast. There are several gardens and beyond that fields as far as the eye can see. It made for quiet living. At the southern end of the estate is a wood. The first part lies on our property, the greater part is a protected park. There is a clearing in the woods, where nobody ever comes, with a little river. I often went there to think, when I felt unhappy or just to sit quietly. It always calmed me down. I set out on the small path that led from the back of the garden, through the fields to the wood. Mother employed a gardening company to maintain the grounds.

“It takes a lot of work, my dear,” she said, “to keep them looking natural.” When I came near the woods I saw a man removing dead branches from a patch of shrubbery. As I came closer I saw that it was not so much a man but a guy, maybe a few years older than I was. He seemed somehow familiar. Then I recognized him. “Hey, Eric, Eric,” I called out and he turned around. Eric was a boy I had known at school. He was a few years older, so we weren't exactly friends, but he had saved me from some bullies once. I must have been twelve when one day, while going to school, I saw at the corner of the street some guys who had already beaten me up once. I didn't know what to do. They had spotted me, and running away seemed useless. I was still trying to figure out how I could possibly avoid them when this guy, a few years older than I was, crossed the street and came towards me. “I'm Eric,” he said, and smiled. “Would you like to walk to school with me?” I looked up at him and saw a pleasant face with an easy smile. I nodded, speechless. I didn't know the guy from Adam. He was very relaxed, as only those can be that have total selfconfidence. I knew instinctively that he was one of those guys others listened to, a natural leader. I immediately felt protected. “What's your name?” “I'm Andrew.” “Nice to meet you, Andrew.” He kept making idle conversation, asking me all kinds of trivial questions. From a distance it must have looked like he was a good friend, or an older brother perhaps. The bullies weighed their chances. Three small bullies against one smaller boy seemed fair odds to them. Three small bullies against one smaller boy and a big boy, not so much. Bullies are cowards who want to deal out punches, not receive them. So they called

it a day. They never bothered me again. Eric stayed beside me all the way to the school grounds where I found safety in the company of Sean and Timmy. “Have a nice day, Andrew,” he said when our ways parted. “You too... and thank you, Eric,” I replied gratefully. We didn't become friends. At that age a gap of two years means you move in totally different circles. But I admired him from afar. Once and again we ran into each other and he always nodded kindly or said ‘Hi’. Even when he was with friends his own age. It always made my day special and I would glow for hours. I think I had developed a mild crush on him, more a case of hero worship, in fact. He was a good student and was well liked by both his fellow students and the teachers. Often at night, when I went to sleep and had closed my eyes, I imagined that Eric was lying behind me, holding me in his arms. It never failed to make me feel safe and warm. When the new school year started I didn't see him at first. It was only after a few weeks that I began to wonder what had become of him. I started to ask around, and I learned that Eric's father had owned an accounting firm that had gone bust. They had to sell their house and had moved to another county. And now I saw Eric again. He obviously had gotten a gardening job to help out the family, or to buy a car, or something like that. I was glad to see my erstwhile savior and was eager to reacquaint with him, so I started running in his direction. “Eric, Eric, it's me, Andrew,” I cried from afar. When I finally reached him I was slightly panting. “What a coincidence for us to meet here, isn't it Eric? How are you doing?” “Very well, sir,” he said hesitatingly. “Oh, come on,” I said, “this may be my family's estate, but you don't have to be so formal.” “I don't want to get into trouble, sir,” he said softly with

downcast eyes. I looked at him properly. He was wearing baggy pants that were much too wide and had seen better days, held up with a piece of string. His shoes seemed a bit too light for the season and the work he was doing. His shirt wasn't big enough, so that it left a small area of his belly uncovered. And then I saw, horrified, that he wore a slave collar. I stood there dumbfounded, knowing neither what to say nor what to do. The firm of Eric's father must not have simply gone bust. There must have been more debts than their house was worth. Quite a bit actually since the sale of his father hadn't been enough. I later looked it up. In fact Eric's father had embezzled a lot of money from his clients, so much that the sale of Eric and his one year older sister had been ordered. Now tell me how that can be seen as just or sensible. Eric had been a good student, and was a decent human being. How was it his fault that his father was a crook? I still was recovering from the shock when suddenly a man in his thirties appeared as out of nowhere. He was heavily built and carried a little, supple kind of stick. “I'm Clarence,” he introduced himself, ”the foreman.” “Andrew Ashton,” I replied. I saw he recognized the name. “Inspecting our work, sir? I hope everything is to your satisfaction.” I'm only fifteen, and my mother wouldn't let me inspect a potted plant, I thought, but instead I said “No, no, not at all, eh, just looking around.” “Right. The boy hasn't been making a nuisance of himself, has he?” Oh, my God, I was getting Eric into trouble. “Oh no, certainly not,” I said hastily. “He's not a bad boy, this one. But you know how it is. Sometimes he makes a mistake, and from time to time he gets a

little bit cocky, don't you, boy?” “Yes, sir,” Eric replied meekly. I was getting very, very uncomfortable, and a little bit sick in the stomach. Was it really necessary to treat him like a little child? “You see, young sir,” the foreman said, “they are not trained properly. Treated far too leniently, if you ask me. This one we bought from a factory that was downsizing. So he was trained at the Bureau and then at the factory. Still we had to do most of the hard work ourselves. You always have to, you know, if you want first class service. Firm discipline from the start, I say. It makes it easier for them in the long run. A few weeks ago we had to discipline this one firmly, didn't we, boy?” “Yes, sir,” Eric said once again. Stop calling him ‘boy’, I thought angrily, his name is Eric. “Turn around, boy,” Clarence said harshly. Eric obeyed promptly and the foreman unceremoniously pulled his pants down. The baggy garment fell to his ankles. Eric wasn't wearing any undergarments. “Bend over boy, so we can have a good look at your ass.” Eric bent over. The foreman pointed out some almost healed lesions with his stick. They were still angrily red, and I shuddered at the thought of how they must have looked when they were freshly made. “He's healing nicely, isn't he? Anyways, this one won't be cocky anymore for a long time, will you, boy?” “No, sir,” Eric said, his voice sounding strange from his bent over position. The foreman went on to describe the work they were doing in great detail. All the while Eric stayed in his humiliating position, afraid to move an inch. “Now,” he said finally, “stand up and turn around, boy.” Eric turned around, his pants still on his ankles. His member was in full view as his shirt was far too short, and neither did he dare cover himself with his hands. Without really wanting to I stared

at him, and he saw me looking. His face turned deep red with shame and embarrassment. “You're certain, young sir, that the boy hasn't given you any trouble? Lack of respect, maybe? I could discipline him here and now, you know.” He patted his left palm lightly with his stick thing. Eric's face contorted from sheer terror. “No, no, no,” I said as fast as I could, “he, eh, the boy has been good. Lots of ‘sirs’ in every sentence. Always looking down. Very proper and all that. The boy has been very, very good.” “Have you indeed, Bibi?” What the fuck? Bibi? His name's Eric, I thought. But of course his owner could call him anything he liked. “Yes, sir, I swear, this boy has been very good, just like the young master says, sir.” “Well, alright then. I'm pleased, boy.” Then he turned to me. “I must be off now, young sir, I've still got the others to inspect. Can't leave them alone for too long, you know. A good day to you.” “Yes, a good day to you too,” I mumbled totally confused. And off he went, as fast as he had appeared, totally oblivious of the fact that he had left Eric in his humiliating position. I always had kept this idea in my mind of Eric as my knight in shining armor who had saved me from those bullies. Now that he could use some protection himself from this bully, there was nothing I could do to return his kindness. I was only fifteen, for crying out loud, and there was nothing, nothing at all I could do. I looked at my hero, this guy of seventeen, who had been viciously beaten, standing there with his ass bared and his manhood in full view and who didn't dare lift a finger to defend his dignity. Who knows what he had gone through these last years. I had to fight back my tears, but I soon lost that battle. “In heaven's name, Eric, pull up your pants,” I said through my tears as soon as I was absolutely certain the foreman was out of earshot. Damned if I was going to call him by that ridiculous

name. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” he said. Only now that he had been given a direct order Eric dared cover himself. He stood at attention. I tried to think of something to say that would indicate that in my eyes he was still Eric, the kind guy who a few years ago had taken me under his wings, but nothing came to mind. He was only seventeen and this was how the rest of his life would be, I thought thoroughly depressed. I would have liked to hug him, comfort him, but the risk was too great that someone would see us, and then I probably would have gotten him in really big, big trouble. “I hope one day this will all turn around for the better for you,” I said, but I doubted it ever would. “Sir is very kind,” he answered in a tone that indicated he didn't believe it either. I couldn't stop crying. “Oh, God, Eric, I'm so, so sorry about all this.” For a while he said nothing, just standing there, eyes downcast. Then he looked up slightly. “Don't cry, Andrew,” he said almost inaudible. “None of this is your fault, and I know that if you could do something about it, you would. Nobody else has cried for me these last years. That means a lot to me. You're a kind person, Andrew.” And so he ended up comforting me, instead of the other way around. I was grateful that he had called me by my name. It meant that at least some part of the old Eric was still there. At long last I left him. What else could I do? “Goodbye, Eric.” “Goodbye, sir. Thank you, sir.” For months to come I suffered from sudden depressions when, at the most unexpected moments, something reminded me of Eric. Eventually I told Sean, when one day we were alone in his room, and he asked me directly what caused my mood swings.

room, and he asked me directly what caused my mood swings. The retelling made me burst out in tears again. Sean held me in his arms while I sobbed uncontrollably on his shoulder. “There, there,” he said while he stroked my hair, “there, there.”

Over and over and over again.

Chapter 4:

An Unacceptable Offer

When I was fifteen, I decided it was time to come in the clear about the fact that I liked guys. Not that I planned on telling the world, far from it. I know, there is officially no discrimination against gays, and homosexuality is even fairly common, but there is still that hidden, unspoken, but clearly felt, disapproval of boys who like boys. There is still that nonsense of not being a real man, and especially my coevals could be cruel about it. Not that I would have minded that much, but why invite trouble? My nearest and dearest, on the other hand, well, that was another matter. My small, very small, inner circle should know, I decided. That meant I had to tell mother, Sean and Timmy. Mother, because I would have hated it if she had found out from somebody other than me. Sean and Timmy because at our age sex crept more and more often in our daily conversation. What did you expect? We were fifteen and even paint drying on a wall reminded us of sex. Everything did. It became gradually more

difficult to evade mentioning my preferences or to talk around them. I also didn't want to have to lie to my best friends. Then there was my gigantic crush on Sean. I still hadn't done anything about it, and at times it was so painful that I felt like I would explode. I was afraid that the time would come that I would lose control, grab him in the crotch, and force my tongue in his mouth. The thought alone made me feel excited and horrified at the same time. Besides, if I wanted Sean to even consider me as a possible love interest, he first had to know I liked boys, ergo maybe him. Pure science: from the general to the particular. Andrew Ashton, from now on, would live in truth and honesty. Once my decision was made I began to plan the operation carefully. My mother had to be told first. I didn't expect great difficulties on the parental front. My mother was a kind, sensitive woman who loved me dearly, and she was broadminded. Of course, she probably would be a little bit disappointed, there might be slight indications of worry, and there even might be well meant, but, as far as I was concerned, ill advised urgings to ‘speak with someone’ or to ‘try it with a girl’. Broadminded she might be, but I still have to hear of the first parent who jumped for joy when they were informed that their offspring was gay. No sweat, I was prepared for all that. My replies would be kind but firm, my attitude gentle but persistent. She would soon come to see it my way and learn to be happy for me. It was just something that had to be done. I chose my moment carefully. My mother grew her own herbs in a special patch in our gardens. She also dried them herself and made tea withf them in countless combinations. They all tasted vile, but her hobby seemed to relax her. So, when one late afternoon, after the help had gone home, she was in the kitchen trying out a new brew, I saw my chance. “Mother,” I said, “can I talk to you?” “Of course, my dear,” she answered absentmindedly, while putting herbs out of different jars in the teapot. “Well,” I said, suddenly feeling nervous, “it might be, well, the thing is, I think that, maybe, possibly, there could be a chance,

that I might not feel all that attracted to, you know, girls.” “Oh, yes dear,” she said while studying the contents of one particular jar, “you mean you're gay? I've known that for years, dear.” I was thunderstruck. I felt as if all the blood in my body had instantly concentrated in my face, and I stared at her with open mouth. She looked up at me. “What? Should I have told you that you are gay, dear?” The woman was incredible. She poured boiling water in the teapot. “Come,” she said, “sit with me at the kitchen table. We'll have cookies, and you can tell me all about it, dear.” Cookies: my mother's universal medicine for every little spot of trouble life would throw at you. But, as it turned out, we had a lovely time and she made me feel at ease. “You know, dear,” she said at one point, “just be true to yourself. Love and let yourself be loved, and try to not hurt people in the process. Love is love is love, whatever form it takes”. OK, not the most original advice maybe, but sound nevertheless. When I made ready to go to my room and had almost left the kitchen, she called after me. “You will let me know in time, won't you dear?” “What, mother?” “When you invite a friend to stay overnight. So I can ask the help to put an extra pillow on your bed.” The woman would never cease to amaze me. So, all in all, that went very well. The first hurdle was taken. Telling Sean and Timmy would be somewhat more delicate. I didn't want things between us to become all weird, and I certainly didn't want to lose my friends. I pondered the problem from all sides, and always came to the same conclusion. I would simply have to tell them, hope they took it well and pray that we

simply have to tell them, hope they took it well and pray that we would remain friends because of who we were, and what we meant to each other. The alternative was keeping up appearances, eventually outright lying and always running the risk of being found out. That, I decided, would be more embarrassing and certainly would hurt our friendship more, maybe even beyond repair. The way I would go about it was that I would take my chance when the conversation turned naturally to sex, and we were all in a good and relaxed mood. I would be suave about it, and everything would be cool. Except, I wasn't all that sure it would. It was late May. Sean had his sixteenth birthday earlier that month. I would be sixteen on September 29th and Timmy on October 14th. Sean had got a car from his parents, the classic sweet sixteen birthday present. Timmy and I also fully expected to get a car on our birthday. Oh, and like Sean, our own parking space at the club, but that went without saying. OK, we were spoiled little brats, I'll admit as much. Sean loved his car and loved driving it. That meant far fewer bus rides for Timmy and me, as Sean was happy to fetch us, bring us and generally drive us around. Any excuse for driving his car. His brand new mode of transportation was not the only thing Sean loved. Lately he had developed an eye for the girls in the club, and the girls didn't seem to mind at all. One sweet, little thing in particular, Linda, seemed to be his favorite. He often sat with her alone at a table in the club, talking and giggling, while Timmy and I, at another table, watched him charm the pants of her. Well, figuratively speaking, because it seemed early days as far as a relationship was concerned. Was I jealous, you ask? I most certainly was, so much it hurt. But I managed to conceal it. I think. Nevertheless, I realized all too well that I was working in a rapidly shrinking time frame. At this occasion, however, it was just the three of us. We were sitting at a table, outside, overlooking the courts, and we were basking in the mild sun. “What,” said Timmy, “no Linda, Sean? No lovely, luscious Linda?” “No,” Sean said, smiling, “she's in the city, shopping with her

mother, so I'm stuck with you dorks, more's the pity.” “We're losing our boy, man,” Timmy said to me, “I tell you, the creature has hypnotized him. Yeah. Soon she will forbid him to speak to us.” “Of course not,” said Sean, “I'll always spend time with you two, sad, lonely guys. Once every two months or so.” “See?” Timmy said again to me, “We're getting behind, man. Time we scored ourselves some hot chicks too, man. Yeah. Hot chicks with tight pussies and loose morals.” Here I saw my opportunity, and without thinking twice I jumped at it. “Sorry Timmy,” I said as nonchalantly as I could, “I am afraid you're on your own there. While you go chasing the pussy, I'll be chasing the snake.” “What? What?” Timmy said, totally confused. “I believe,” Sean said lightly, “that what our friend is telling us, is that he is immune to the feminine charms.” “What? What?” “Timmy, Andrew is telling us that he is gay.” “Oh, right. Yeah.” “I hope I haven't shocked you, Timmy,” I said, willing my voice to sound relaxed. Timmy blinked. “No, no. Totally awesome, man.” A deep frown, usually the sign that some heavy processing was going on in his brain, appeared on his brow. “So, who are you fucking, man,” he asked genuinely curious. “Do we know him?” “Timmy, Timmy, some delicacy, please,” Sean said, laughing out loud. “Sorry to disappoint you, Timmy,” I answered with mock sadness, “but I am, alas, just like you, single.”

“Don't worry,” Sean said, only half teasing, “someone will come along. You're reasonably good company, you're borderline nice, and when the light is just right you could almost pass for cute.” “I'm glad,” I replied in the same vein, ”that my sexual proclivities and the resulting complications are such a rich source of amusement for you.” “No, seriously, Andrew,” Timmy chimed in, “Seany is right. You'll score, man, totally. Yeah.” Then after some more thinking, he added: “Man, if you were a chick I would so do you.” Sean erupted in laughter and, looking at Timmy's earnest face, so did I. “What? What? It's a compliment, man.” “Taken as such,” I managed to say between two gulfs of laughter. Timmy looked from Sean to me, from me to Sean and decided to join in our mirth. At nearby tables heads were turned. They must have seen three teens having the time of their life. A heavy burden had fallen from my shoulders. It was in the open now. No lies would be told, no masks would be worn. I was Andrew, I was gay, love me or leave me, I believe the phrase goes. While we were sitting there in the sun, laughing and exchanging silly banter, I felt happy and extremely lucky to have such friends. Sean drove us home. We had just dropped Timmy, who lived nearest the club, at his place and were driving silently. I looked at the landscape, beautifully lighted by the setting sun. “Andrew,” Sean broke the silence, “can I ask you something?” “Ask away,” I said. “Listen, I may be crossing a line here, and if so, just say the word, and I will drop it and never bring it up again.”

“What is it?” I asked and, a little red alarm light went off in my brain. “Oh, probably nothing. My imagination most likely. You know me, vain as hell.” He grinned broadly. “You know I think I'm irresistible... but, well, do you have a crush on me?” There it was, the moment I had dreaded most, the one question I didn't want to answer. I wasn't ready for this. I wasn't prepared for what his reaction might be. “Yes, I've had a crush on you,” I lied. “It came. It went.” “Oh,” he said, “that's alright then.” He fell silent. I know what you're thinking. Wasn't I all about truth and honesty? Yes, but there is such a thing as too much truth in one day. And it wasn't a total lie. The crush had indeed come. It hadn't gone, that's all. I just wasn't prepared to let my hopes and dreams, flimsy as they were, be taken away already. But, be taken away they would. The rest of the way we talked about current affairs, and the awkward moment seemed behind us. When he turned into the long driveway up to our house, Sean fell silent again. He stopped before the stairs that ran along the front of the house. “Andrew,” he said, looking straight ahead, over the gardens, over the fields, at the wood in the distance as if he had seen something there, “you're my best friend, and you do trust me, don't you?” “Of course,” I said and the little red alarm light in my head started blinking furiously. “If there was something that, eh, bothered you, that was, maybe, difficult for you... you would come to me and talk about it, wouldn't you?” He took a deep breath. “You see, I would hate it if my friend should be in pain, would suffer, because he needed something that, well, that I could so easily provide.” I choked. He had seen through my obvious, stupid lie. It was only after some time that I trusted my voice enough to answer him. His right hand was resting on the stick shift. I lay my hand

on his and squeezed it lightly. “You're a good friend, Sean,” was all I dared say. I got out of the car and ran up the stairs into the house, and I didn't stop until I was in my room and had locked the door behind me. I fell upon my bed, crying, muffling the sound in my pillow. My wonderful, wonderful, generous Sean. “If you want to have sex with me, I'll have sex with you”, was what he had said. If that was what I needed, Sean would give it to me. And Sean would give freely, willingly. There would be no restrictions, no holding back. I knew him all too well. Sean was straight, and yet he would permit me to do anything to him I wanted, he would allow me to act out every little perverse fantasy I might have. And he would not complain, on the contrary, he would be enthusiastic about it. He might find some things personally repulsive and disgusting, but he would never permit me to notice it. He would make me believe that he wanted it as much as I did, and never would he ask for anything back. It would be glorious. It would probably be the best sex I would ever have or could have. Almost indistinguishable from the real thing. For when Sean gave, Sean gave everything he had to give. And there was the rub. For that would still not be enough for me. I would still recognize it for what it really would be: pity sex. It wouldn't have what wasn't his to give: his heart. And it was that what I wanted, craved, needed. I could see it clearly now. He would never dream of me, like I dreamed of him. His heart would never beat faster just thinking about me, like mine did when I thought of him. He would never feel that smoldering fire in his loins upon seeing me, like I felt when I saw him. And so, without even knowing it, certainly without meaning to, Sean had crushed the last remnants of my dreams, smothered my hopes and taken away my last illusions. I knew I could never accept his generous gift. By offering himself, he had taken away everything.

I fell into a bottomless pit of despair and cried like I had never cried before.

Chapter 5:

Enter the Ridges

They were a handsome lot, the Ridges, I had to give them that. In a few days my mother would marry John Ridge, and they were moving in. John Ridge was a widower, in his late thirties like my mother, well conserved, with a full head of hair and still a striking figure, except that he began to show the first signs of decline that are usually associated with good living. His belly had begun to expand a little and dark patches under his eyes gave away that he liked his drink. Nothing dramatic as yet, but give it ten years and the decay would be much more pronounced. He had two sons. The oldest, Dan, was about my age, a month younger to be precise, with a very handsome face and the trained body of an athlete, a jock. He wore his light brown hair short. He played basketball and was quite good at it, it seems. In fact, sports were his life. He was obviously used to people admiring him and he accepted their adoration as the most natural thing in the

world, as his birthright. That there were people like me, who were totally not interested in sports and couldn't tell you a single name of the star athletes around whom everything revolved in his world, was of no consequence to Dan. It only meant, in his eyes, that we were ignorant, that we were too stupid to understand how important he was. I had despised him and his natural arrogance almost immediately upon meeting him. As far as I was concerned, being able to shoot a ball through a hoop wasn't the height of human accomplishment, and the notion that it made you a hero seemed ridiculous to me. Sports hero, my ass. The two words shouldn't be written in the same sentence, let alone next to each other. The other son, Davey, was two years younger and couldn't be more different. While Dan was loud and obnoxious, Davey was quiet and seemed to prefer to fade away in the background. He shared his brother's good looks, but his face was more oval and his muscles less pronounced. He wore his thick blond hair almost shoulder length, maybe to contrast himself with his brother. Yet it didn't make him look girlish, he was all boy. He seemed to be always on edge, constantly on guard, moving with the natural grace of a cat. When he entered a room, he quickly scanned it as if to imprint its features and, more importantly, its exits on his mind. There was a natural conspiratorial bond between John and his eldest son. They both ignored Davey, whose impassive face never betrayed if this bothered him. But I got the impression that he didn't mind the lack of attention, that he preferred it even. Him, I liked. With their arrival, the quiet, cozy existence that my mother and I had led ended. It was also the day I started to lock my room routinely, whether I was in or out. Now that I come to think of it, we had formed a strange little family, just the two of us in that big house, until now. The Ashton fortune had evaporated to almost nothing when my mother and father married. You know how it goes. The first generation lays the foundation for the fortune, the second builds on it and enlarges it to obscene proportions, and the following generations usually live on it and try to maintain it. You will find

generations usually live on it and try to maintain it. You will find no captains of industry in our family tree. The Ashtons were mostly silent partners, backers, investors in sometimes hugely successful enterprises. Basically they leeched on the success of others. Our family's luck had turned, and by the time of my grandfather the Ashtons barely could hang on to the estate. The big house in the city and all the other real estate had long since gone. No wonder grandfather thought his son to be a clever boy to rake in a rich heiress. The Ashtons were old money, except there wasn't any of that money left, and the Burbanks were definitely very new money, but by that time our family didn't care about such subtle niceties. My mother and father moved in with my grandparents when they were married. Why not, the house had been built with a very extended family and a small army of servants in mind, so it was big enough. When my grandparents died in quick succession, it was just the two of them until I came along. And so it stayed. My mother couldn't stand to have indentured servants around, although she could have afforded them easily, and by that time you couldn't get free persons for a job as livein servant. On the one hand most people preferred slaves anyway because they could work them all hours, they did any job you ordered, and you didn't have to give them time off. That meant that there was not much demand for free persons in that capacity. On the other hand, free persons didn't want a job that was so closely associated with indentured service. Nobody who didn't have to wanted to do slave labor. So, my mother made do with a hired help that came in for a few hours each day. Usually some girls from the nearby town, whom she paid extremely well. They did some light cleaning, washing and cooking and various other small chores. “After all,” my mother used to say, “I'm perfectly capable of making a cup of tea and warm up a meal myself.” If the meal was prepared beforehand, that is. All other jobs you wanted done could be performed by specialized firms. I once argued that the firm that did our laundry also worked with slaves. She had sighed, said that she perfectly understood that the times were what they were, but that she just didn't want to have to deal with indentured

servants herself. Maybe a little bit hypocritical, but I understood that she couldn't change society on her own. When I was six, one day, my father went for a walk in the woods, sat down against a tree and shot a bullet through his head. He was found the next day. There had been no warning signs, and he left no note. When I grew up I used to be angry at him, for not being there, for not teaching me all those little things a son should learn from his father. I once asked my mother if she wasn't angry with him as well for leaving her. “Oh no, my dear,” she had said, “no, your father has made me very happy for many years. We were high school sweethearts, you know. I don't think I have ever been angry with your dad. I was sad of course. Very sad. But not angry. He loved us both very much, you know. He adored you.” “Then why did he leave us?” “I don't know. I sometimes think that he would have stayed if he could have. You know, we all have in our heart that little place that we keep all to ourselves, that we never share with anybody, no matter how close they may be. In some people, in that place, there lives a deep, nameless despair. Most of the time it stays there. But once in a while it escapes and overwhelms the person, and there is nothing they can do to stop it. I believe that without you he would have left earlier.” It wasn't much of an explanation, but it was all I ever got. From then on it was just mother and me, in a big house on a large estate. Timmy once asked if it didn't make me feel lonely. In his house they did have servants and he had two younger brothers. I had shrugged. It was all I had ever known, so it seemed quite natural to me. I had never given it a thought. As far as I knew it would go on like that. But then mother had met John Ridge at the club. I knew she had several friends there. I just hadn't paid attention to the fact that she spent more and more time with this one man. When she told me she wanted to marry him it came as a total surprise.

“Of course, dear,” she had said, “if you would really, really mind I would think again. But I'm not getting any younger and in a few years, who knows, maybe you will want to spread your wings and leave the nest. It could get very lonely here then, all by myself. And he makes me laugh.” How could I begrudge her some companionship? Meetings between the Ridges and us were organized, first at the club, later at our house. John Ridge had some money of his own, just enough for himself and his boys. All inherited, of course. I don't think he worked a day in his life. Not that I held that against him. Our house being so big, it was decided they would come live with us. My mother seemed to think that I would like the company of two instant ‘brothers’. I begged to differ, but kept silent. A few weeks before the wedding the Ridges came over to let the boys choose a room. Our house is roughly divided in three parts. In the central part is the hall, the great living room, a library and the large, yet cozy kitchen. My mother and I had our private rooms in the left wing until I was about thirteen. My room was next to hers. When I began to complain that it became too small, or I too big, she had looked at me and thought for a while. “Well, dear, I think you're right. You're old enough and you deserve a bigger room. Besides, you don't want to have your old mother on your lip all of the time. Go look around and choose any room you want.” “Any room?” “Why, yes dear, we're not using them for anything, are we?” I had spent a few happy days exploring the house and finally settled on a spacious room in the right wing, on the second floor. I call it a room, but it was more a studio. It had its own small, but well equipped bathroom, a tiny kitchenette and a refrigerator. I imagine in olden days some unmarried Ashton spinster aunt had lived there. The two main features that clinched the deal were the great windows that overlooked the

gardens and the fields and the great bookcase that covered an entire wall. It was just perfect. Mother had looked skeptical. This was not exactly what she had meant. She had assumed that I would stay in the left wing, maybe a few rooms down the hallway. “O well,” she had said, “alright then. It is not as if you are moving out, and I suppose you'll be wanting your privacy.” Which made our living arrangements slightly more absurd, I suppose, mother and I sleeping in a different wing of the house and mostly meeting in the kitchen or the living room. The Ridge boys could also choose a room, but they were limited to the second floor of the right wing. My hallway, my wing. They wanted us together, not all scattered over the house. Mother had asked me to show the Ridges around. When we came in the hallway Dan snorted, but Davey seemed impressed. Without asking, Dan opened the first door, which was the one to my room, and before I could say anything he had entered. I quickly followed him. He looked around appreciatively. “Nice room,” he said. “As you can see it is occupied,” I replied curtly. “And by the way, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't invade my space. Please knock and wait till I say 'enter'. If my mother can do that, so can you.” “Touchy, touchy,” he replied with a smirk, but he left. In quick succession he opened all doors, stuck his head in and finally entered the last room on the other side. That one he claimed. Mainly, I suspect, because it was somewhat bigger than mine. At the time I had decided against it because the windows were on the front of the house. Meanwhile, Davey seemed to hesitate. “You'll probably like this side more,” I said. “Come, I'll show you.” I led him to the great windows in my room and showed him the view.

“Beautiful. We could be miles from everything.” “In fact, we are,” I smiled. “You have a lot of books,” he said, admiring the bookcase. “I like to read too, but I haven't quite that many.” “Well, I have had a few years more time to collect them.” “Would you mind if I take the room next to yours?” he asked. Not really, but I preferred he took another one. An empty room next to mine made for more privacy. “If you wish,” I said, “but it is smaller, and I think you'll like the one next better.” I showed him the room I meant. It was the only free room that had the same bookcase wall as mine. “Yes,” he smiled, “I think I could make myself very comfortable here.” Then he frowned. “I'm sorry”, he said, “you must feel as if we're invading your house.” “I'll adapt,” I said. “Besides, if you're going to live here I want you to feel at home.” And now they were moving in. They only brought their personal belongings, as John had sold their house with the furniture included. Davey had the most stuff, mainly his books. There were still several carton boxes filled with them in the hallway. I went to his room and knocked on the open door. “Can I help you with that?” I asked. “If you don't mind. I still have to unpack most of my books.” So I helped him haul the boxes to his room and shelve the books. “Where do you want these?” I asked. “Oh, put them anywhere on the shelves. I'll arrange them later.” The first batch I unloaded were Shakespeare plays. He seemed to have most of the history plays, the great tragedies and a few of the comedies and the pseudo-classical tragedies. They were

all rather cheap pocket editions, a mix of different publishers and all slightly tattered. He evidently had gotten them second hand. “Ha,” he said, “here it is. Do you know it?” He showed me a hardbound, richly illustrated copy of Mary Renault's “Fire From Heaven”. An historical novel about the young Alexander the Great. “She can really bring it to life, you know”, he said, “I know it is a novel, but the characters are so real you would swear that it all happened exactly as she describes.” “Yes,” I said, “she can almost make you believe she was there herself when it happened, that she knew these people personally.” “So, you have read it?” I nodded. We were crouched between the boxes and stacks of books, and he turned a little to show me some of the illustrations, mainly photos of the ruins of ancient Macedonian buildings and statues. My left knee involuntarily touched his right knee, and I felt a current flowing through me. He seemed not to notice anything, engrossed as he was in his book, looking up pictures, a thick curtain of his hair partially hiding his handsome face, his slender fingers carefully turning the pages. When he had found a picture he thought particularly interesting, he looked up, smiled, and showed it to me, explaining what it represented. With hindsight I think it was that moment I began to fall in love. I could have spent the whole day looking at him sitting there between his books. I found the slight touch of our knees arousing, so arousing in fact that soon I couldn't stand up without embarrassing myself. It was ridiculous. Me and my damned hormones. I couldn't let him notice I sat there with a hard on. Luckily I knew a little trick. I've told you I'm a history buff. I tend to read all I can get my hands on about a specific subject or period at a time. A year before I could have told you the date and the significance of every battle of the War of the Roses and drawn you complete family trees of both the Yorks and the

Lancasters. Which is no mean feat considering that every second person in both Plantagenet branches is called Edward. But then I become interested in another subject and it all quickly fades away. Currently I was brushing up on Roman history. So I began to slowly recite in my head the Roman emperors in order. It took me until the Severan dynasty before I would have been able to stand up. We were still crouching down next to each other, when suddenly he lost his balance. In a reflex he grabbed for something to hold on to. His left hand found a box, but that was almost empty and so gave way. His right hand found me. This made me lose my balance in turn. We tumbled down, he landing with his head on my chest. Stacks of books tumbled over. The situation was rather comical, and we were laughing out loud while scrambling up. I saw a totally different Davey. He was relaxed, thoroughly enjoying himself, sharing his love for books with someone who understood. Gone was the tense boy who needed to be in control at all times. “Oh, sorry,” he said, “are you all right?” He looked had me slightly concerned. “I think so,” I replied. “Don't worry.” He kept looking at me and there were little sparkles in his eyes. Maybe I am the big brother he always wanted to have, I thought, and maybe I am more. Oh yes, I was beginning to like him a lot. At that moment, of course without knocking, Dan barged in. “Settling in alright, little sis?” he said. He saw the little scene and looked suspiciously. “What do you want?” Davey asked disgruntled. He had changed back to his usual defensive self in the blink of an eye. “Nothing, just looking out for my kid brother,” Dan said and he looked at me with a despising leer. I felt caught in the act, although there had been no acts whatsoever to be caught in. “Yeah, well, I can look after myself,” Davey sneered.

Dan shrugged, gave me a last suspicious look and left. Of course, the moment had passed. We finished shelving the books and I helped him carry the empty boxes to the garage. Later in my room, I felt confused. On the positive side it was clear that my crush on Sean was almost, if not completely, over. A few months ago I would also have noticed that Davey was a handsome boy. His almost classical face would certainly have struck me. I am not blind. But I am almost certain that it wouldn't have wakened sexual feelings. Sean would have been too much in the foreground for that. Yet I was a bit worried by the reaction an ephemeral touching of knees had provoked in me. How old was this kid? Fourteen, fifteen? Was I turning into another Geoffrey Singer? I shuddered. Well, let's not exaggerate. There was an age difference of only two years and that would remain so. That was not so bad, was it? He sixty, me sixty two? Then again, wasn't he sort of my half brother? No, I reflected, not really. We shared no blood and mother hadn't adopted him. She was just marrying his father. That would make him my stepbrother. But no way was I going to look at John as my dad or even stepfather. He was just some guy my mother married. Whatever. Screw all that. I let my mind wander a bit over the possibilities, and almost immediately I saw the main obstacle. That moron Dan would make both our lives hell. I had gotten the clear impression that he already suspected something, even before there was any tangible reason. Oh, God, the complications would be endless. Also, forgetting for a moment that I was at heart a romantic, I was in need of some serious, serious sex. Obviously. My knee, well, not only my knee, had proven that. Could I saddle the kid with the demands of my hormones on a rampage? Hardly, I decided. And all that was without even considering that I didn't know how he felt. Was he even interested in me? Could I make him interested? Maybe he saw in me only the big brother he wished he'd always had. Wasn't I building a smile and some eye sparkles into something that was not there? I hardly knew him, I

concluded. No, no, bad idea. I decided to put the whole business on hold for the time being and be happy with the fact that I had apparently overcome my Sean addiction. That was something, wasn't it? But a seed had been planted. Three days later my mother and John were married. It was a quiet affair. Just the signing of the register. No family, just us boys. Later a quite diner at an exclusive restaurant. About a month later I became sixteen. I got my car. Of course. Another month later Dan became sixteen. He also got a car. My mother paid for it.

About a year after the wedding, my half brother Benny was born.

Chapter 6:

A Cunning Little Fox

I was sixteen and I had yet to have my first real sexual experience. Of course there had been the usual feverish antics behind bushes and in school toilets. Puppies in heat. I don't very much like to talk about that. Then there had been both Geoffrey Singer incidents. And naturally there is a guy's best friend, his hand. None of those really counted in my book. None of those had explored the rich variety of acts my obscene mind had so often held tantalizingly before me. Formally I considered myself to be a virgin. By real sex I meant two people taking ample time to enjoy each other, preferably after an intensely romantic but very short courtship. Let's say, an evening. Not involving bushes, but a bed, candles and soft music. I had of course sabotaged myself by having this humongous crush on Sean. I had concentrated all my sexual desires on him, so much so, that I hadn't been interested in other possibilities. Well, that crush was now history. Sean was still my best friend. That would never change. There was a place in my heart that

was his property, but as a love interest I had let him go. I wanted him to be happy, and it was clear that Sean would only be happy in the arms of a girl. It sounds simple, and it may seem I make light of it, but it had taken me long months, a lot of soul searching and many a desperate evening to come to this point. When I finally came out of my Sean trance, I slowly began thinking about alternatives, but nothing had as yet materialized. And, of course, I had done nothing about it also. Certainly not about the Davey alternative which I considered more or less taboo. Did I even want a relationship? I suppose my main immediate goal was losing my formal virginity. Had no use anymore for the old thing. Strangely enough, the events that led to the demise of my virginity began in some bushes. It was a Friday evening, about six, seven months after the Ridges had moved in, around eleven pm, when I turned into our driveway. The headlights of the car lighted the bushes that stood at the corner and in a flash I thought I saw a naked ass. That is the kind of brain I have. Out of the millions and millions of signals and stimuli it receives, it faultlessly identifies those that signify ‘naked ass’ and brings them to my attention. I love it when my brain does that. I stopped the car and got out. Yes, I definitely heard something crackling in the bushes. “Hello,” I said, a little bit unsure, “is someone there?” I got no answer and decided to investigate a little closer. “Don't come any nearer. I am naked.” A young voice, not exactly childlike, but close. It sounded afraid. “I am not going to hurt you,” I said to the bushes, “I just want to make sure that you are all right.” “I'm shy. I haven't got any clothes on.” Yep, that's the definition of naked. “Oh, I can't go home like this,” the voice complained.

“Look, maybe I can help you. You can't stay there forever. It's chilly.” A face appeared amid the leaves. I vaguely could see a slender body. At first sight I thought it was a young girl, but it was in fact the rather angelic face of a boy, about fifteen years old. A dirty angel. His face was all smudged. I averted my eyes, took off my jacket and stuck it in the general direction of the bush. “Here, take that to cover yourself and come into the car. It's warmer there.” The jacket was snatched out of my hands, and a few moments later he came out of hiding, clutching my jacket round his middle. He seemed to walk with some difficulty. I opened the passenger door for him and he got in. I got a better look at him in the car. He was beautiful in a faintly girlish way, small-boned with light brown, wavy hair. He was shivering. He would have wakened anybody's protective instincts as he sat there, quiet and vulnerable. Miserable. “Whatever happened to you?” I asked as kindly as I could. “I was raped,” he said, and he shrugged. Poor kid, I thought. I was shocked, but my practical mind took over. “Listen,” I said, “I'm taking you to my place. We'll find you some clothes and then I'll take you home. OK?” I wanted it to sound easy and quick. He nodded without much enthusiasm. I started the car and began driving. When the house came in sight, he panicked. “Where are you taking me?” he wailed, “That's Dan's house.” Ha. Rape and Dan in the same context. Could it be? I wouldn't be surprised in the least. “No,” I said, “that's my mother's house. Dan lives there because his father married my mother.” “Ha,” he said, “you're not his brother?” “No,” I said, “I most certainly am not. Not by any stretch of the imagination.”

That seemed to put him at ease a little. “Dan's not at home,” he said pensively. “He drove away. With my clothes.” That seemed a thing Dan would do. “He said he'd throw them out, one by one, every few miles or so. He said I just would have to move my bare ass until I found them. He laughed. I think I stepped in some glass.” I stopped the car. “OK,” I said, “we're going to turn around and look for your clothes. Where were you ra—. From where did he start?” “Halfway the lawn, there is a little space between the trees, with bushes and all. There he left me and drove away. With my clothes.” I knew the place. There was indeed a small path between the trees with just enough space for a car, that led to a little clearing. An ideal spot to rape someone if ever there was one. So, if he had started from there, I just had to follow the road and look on the side. We were in luck. Just outside the driveway, in the direction of the town, I saw a formless bundle that turned out to be a leather jacket. I retrieved it. The kid produced a sweet smile when I handed it over to him. “Oh, my jacket. I love my jacket. Let's see. Wallet? Check. Keys? Check. Thank you...” He looked questioningly at me. “Andrew,” I said. “What's your name?” “Toby.” Well, that was the full extent of our luck. My best guess was that his clothes were still in Dan's car or that he had thrown them in the river while driving over the bridge a few miles further down the road. After some time it became clear that we were on a hopeless expedition. The kid still sat there naked, my jacket over his lap and clutching his own jacket as if he feared it would disappear again if he let go of it. So, I turned back and drove home. Mother and John were away for the weekend. Only Davey would be home, and he would probably be sitting quietly in his room, watching a movie or reading a book. The kid definitely

had difficulty walking, so I carried him all the way to my room. He was not heavy, but still I was out of breath. I sat him down on my desk, like a big doll, so that his feet didn't touch the ground. I got the kid a soft drink out of my refrigerator. “Stay here,” I said, “I'm going to look for some clothes for you. I'll be back in a few minutes.” Two doors down the hallway I knocked. “Leave me alone. Go away.” “Hm... It's me, Andrew,” I said. Silence. Then the door was unlocked and Davey appeared. He looked left and right in the hallway. “Oh, it's you, come in,” he said. “Could you give me some clothes?” I asked. He looked at me as if he had just discovered that I had some weird fetish. “Yes,” he said slowly, as to someone who needs to be humored, “If you wish. But they won't fit you.” “Oh, they're not for me,” I said, and I explained the situation. That is, as much as I understood of it. “Ah, yes,” Davey said in a bitter tone, after having listened impassively at my explanation, “another human being that curses the day he met one of the Ridges. Sounds like Dan alright. Well, let's see. Is he my size?” “Oh, I don't know. A little bit smaller, maybe.” He opened his closet and retrieved a big carton box. “I've outgrown these,” he said and took out a pair of jeans, a shirt, boxers and socks. “Shoes?” I asked. “Will sneakers do? Oh, and tell him not to bother to bring them back. I was going to give them to charity anyway.” “You're a prince,” I said and smiled.

“If there's anything more I can do...” he said. “Thank you, I've got it under control, I think.” At least he's a nice guy, I thought, returning to my room. It's hard to believe he's the brother of that moron. Something was nagging at my brain, but I ignored it. “Oh, they're nice,” Toby said when I showed him the clothes, “thank you, thank you, thank you.” And he broke out in an angelic smile. It was immensely gratifying to see him so happy. The kid makes you want to do things for him, I thought. “So,” I said, “let's see. We have your jacket, we have a set of clean clothes. I'll take a look at your feet, then we can clean you up a bit and I'll drive you home.” He still sat on my desk, and I sat down on the chair. He extended his leg and put his left foot in my lap. I adjusted the desk lamp to have a better view. There were quite a few slivers of glass, but practically no blood. I began picking them out one by one. “So what happened exactly? That is, if you want to talk about it. You don't have to.” “I don't mind. Dan asked me to come around to help him with a math problem.” “You know Dan?” “Yes, from the basketball team. He's the star player.” Yes, Dan had joined the team when he had transferred to our school. And then I remembered. “Aren't you the water-boy, or what is it called? Sorry, I'm not into sports.” “I'm the Technical Assistant of the team,” he said, pronouncing both capitals clearly. “Ah yes, you do the little dirty jobs for the jocks.” “It's not like that. They're my friends. They like me. They always invite me to their parties and everything. They're nice. The

coach says I'm an essential part of the team.” He lowered is voice, imitating the coach. “Toby, you're an essential part of this team.” “Fetching towels and so?” I asked sceptically. “No. Yes. I do that too. But I also tutor them.” And there was the coach again. “Toby, in God's name, keep the grades of these blockheads out of the danger zone. I need them all this season.” He giggled. “So, I tutor them.” I looked up at him. No, he was not kidding. “And what do you tutor?” “Oh, Maths, Physics, Chemistry. I'm good at those. But really anything they need tutoring in. I'm a good tutor.” It still seemed far fetched. “You see, they're jocks. They are big and strong. I like big and strong. But they're not very smart.” He giggled, I swear it, he giggled. “Well, most of them. Freddy is smart and Tom too. And Dan. Most of them aren't, though.” “And that's why they like you?” “And because I relax them.” “You relax them.” I didn't ask anymore, I simply registered. “Yes. They're jocks. They're awfully tense. It's the adrenaline, you see. It builds up over time, and it makes them tense. And when they are tense, they can't concentrate. And when they can't concentrate, I can't teach them stuff. And when they don't learn stuff, their grades drop. So, I have to relax them.” “I see,” I said, although I wasn't sure I did. “What do you do to relax them?” “I have sex with them. I am good at sex. And then they are all relaxed and everything, and I can teach them stuff. They want to learn stuff because they're my friends and they like it when I praise them.” Was this kid pulling my leg? He looked earnest enough, though. “The whole basketball team?” I asked softly.

“No, of course not.” And he giggled, so help me God, he giggled again. “But a lot of them. I don't mind.” If I had understood him correctly he did the dirty jobs for the team, tutored them, let them fuck him, and in return they tolerated him around. “They're really very grateful, you know. They organized a birthday party for me this year. And they made the photographer wait half an hour because I was running late and they wouldn't let him take the team picture without me. That's nice, isn't it?” “Yes,” I said, “that's very nice.” Hm, if that was true then maybe my earlier assessment had been just a little bit harsh. Maybe they did like him. I did. Sort of. “And they come to the concerts.” “The concerts?” “Yes. I sing in a choir.” Of course he did. “It bores them, I think.” He looked at the ceiling. “But still they come. Well, at least three of them.” He stuck three fingers up. “I think they take turns.” He giggled. It went through me like a knife. “I like singing. I'm good at it.” I wouldn't have dared doubt it. But he decided to not leave anything to my imagination and in a crystal clear, strong voice he began to sing. “Ave verum corpus natum ex Maria virgin vere passum immolatum in cruce pro homine. Cuius latus perforatum vero fluxit sanguine esto nobis praegustatum

mortis in examine.” I recognized Elgar. He was right, he was good at it. It was beautiful, and I said so. It made him giggle. Of course it did. I was finished with his left foot. “All done. Other foot, please,” I said and looked up at him and smiled. He rubbed his left foot and smiled back at me. “It's all better,” he said, and he sounded truly happy. “I like you. You're nice.” He stuck his right foot out. “So, what happened with Dan?” “He's a good player. The best. The coach was very happy to have him when he came to our school. But he is not nice. But he is good for the team. So... He doesn't need tutoring. He's very smart. I thought it was strange when he asked me to help him with a math problem. He doesn't need help. But I said ‘yes’ because he doesn't like me, and I wanted him to like me. For the team. His notes were at his place, he said. He would drive me home afterwards. But when we were almost here, he turned in the little path between the bushes. He stopped where there is a little space and he made me get out of the car and stand in the headlights. ‘Give me your shoes,’ he said. He said he was going to hurt me if I didn't, so I did. ‘Give me your socks,’ he said. ‘Give me your jacket,’ he said.” He was counting the items on his fingers. “I've got the picture, I think,” I said. “Anyway. He threw everything in his car, and at last I had no clothes on. Then he made me masturbate. “Masturbate, you little team whore,” he said. I am not a whore. He called me slut and cocksucker and butt-boy and—” He was counting on his fingers again. “Yes, yes, he insulted you. You don't have to give me the

details.” “Well, and then I came. He laughed the whole time.” His lower lip was quivering. Poor thing, I thought. Somebody ought to beat the shit out of that bastard. Maybe the kid had not exaggerated. Maybe his teammates were indeed fond of him. Dan wouldn't be able to stand that. Dan was one of those people who couldn't see beauty without wanting to destroy it. They want to tear everything down to their own lowly level. They are the cancerous form of jealousy incarnate. And Dan's evil eye had fallen upon this poor kid. It made me want to cuddle the little guy. And strangle Dan. “And then he raped me. He threw me against the hood of his car and he raped me. Very hard. It hurt. He said that all I was good for was for dumping his sperm in.” He said it as matter of fact, but a tear had appeared in his left eye. “Andrew, do you think I'm a whore?” “No, of course not,” I said, “and let nobody convince you that you are.” “Anyway, then he threw me in the bushes. There were thorns. I got some on my back and on my bum, but I got most of them out, I think. And then he drove away. With my clothes.” He let out a long sigh. “I tried to find them. I stepped in some broken glass. Then you came.” He looked at me and smiled. “I'm glad you came. You're nice.” The world seemed to be divided in two parts: nice and not nice. I belonged to the nice part, and somehow that pleased me very much. “Well, I'm glad I found you,” I said. “Toby, if your teammates are such good friends, why don't you tell them what Dan did?” “No”, he said decisively, “I can't do that. For the team. The coach says we have a shot at the State Championship this year with Dan. And they would hurt him. They would hurt him really, really bad. And then they would be in trouble. No. I can't do that.”

And you don't want them to have to choose between you and the team, I thought. Going to the police was probably also out of the question. A pity, it seemed Dan had raped a boy beneath the age of consent, and I would have loved seeing him getting his comeuppance. “Toby,” I asked suddenly curious, “how old are you?” “Seventeen. You?” I startled. The kid was older than I was. I tried to mentally adjust my image of him. And failed. “I'm sixteen,” I confessed, rather low key. When his right foot was finished he rubbed it and then jumped from the desk. My jacket fell from his lap and, buck naked, he tried out his feet by putting his weight on one foot and then the other. He turned around and spread out his arms. “All better,” he announced. “It hardly hurts anymore.” “Good,” I said. Now, you must remember that I was a formal virgin and that my sexual frustration was nearing dangerous levels. Also, there was a naked guy in my room who was maybe about a year older, and who looked about two years younger. A beautiful guy, who was displaying himself. Guys should be handsome, maybe cute, most definitely not beautiful. I was getting very confused. Among other things. “Didn't you say that you are shy? I thought you didn't like people to see you naked? You're very naked, you know.” “Yes, I am,” he said as if he only just now had noticed that little fact. He giggled. As heaven is my witness, he giggled. “Strangers, I don't like to see me. You, I don't mind. I like you. You're nice.” “Come, I'll show you the bathroom. You can freshen up a little. You'll feel better.” About fifteen minutes later he reappeared, still naked as the day he was born, although I had given him more than enough towels.

“All clean,” he announced cheerfully, “outside and inside.” Which merited a giggle, and why not? “Andrew, could you look at my back for thorns? I still can feel some.” I had him stand by my desk, sat on the chair and shone the desk lamp upon his back. Even under the light they were hardly visible, but there were indeed three thorns that still stuck there. The suckers were not easy to remove. He winced each time I got one. “Now my bum,” he said and as if it was the most normal thing in the world, he draped himself over my lap, head and arms hanging down on one side, legs on the other and his bum, as he called it, sticking up in the middle. And a nice little bum it was. I'm only flesh and blood, and I began to feel uncomfortably warm. I shone the lamp on it and found two thorns. To remove them I had to touch his ass, and this had the effect that my thoughts were not altogether focused on the task at hand. I finally managed it. “Got them,” I said. “Good,” came his voice from the floor. “My bum hurts a little, would you terribly mind, Andrew, to see if there is...” “Damage?” I finished his sentence for him. “Yes, please.” I found his lack of inhibition refreshing, true, but this went a little bit too far. I began to feel a noticeable swelling in the area of my crotch. Still, somewhat nervous, I gently spread his cheeks and saw a rosy-pink flower button. Which, by the way, seemed perfectly unblemished. “I think you're alright, kid,” I said. “Toby.” He was right, I shouldn't call my elders ‘kid’. “It's more kind of inside. Could you feel maybe? Please?” I should have known, of course. If my blood hadn't been far too hot by then, I might also have come to the conclusion that he very well could have performed this little examination on himself

very well could have performed this little examination on himself while in the bathroom. “Just feel with your finger. Please.” I placed my right index finger gingerly upon the flower bud. Of course it was my imagination, but I could have sworn that it was not so much me pushing my finger in, as his hole gulping it up. What was I supposed to feel? I was no doctor. “A little bit deeper, please.” So I pushed my finger a little bit deeper. And began sweating. “Just a little bit deeper, I think. Yes, there. Could you feel around a little bit. Please.” After moving my finger gently around for a while, discovering exactly nothing, I suddenly felt his sphincter rhythmically contracting around it. A long sigh of deep contentment emanated from the floor. The little nymphomaniac was taking me for a ride. There was nothing wrong with this bum. This bum was in perfect working order, and I had the finger to prove it. I was annoyed, more, I felt used. The cunning little fox had made me stick my finger up his ass for his own perverted ends, damn it. Another voice in my head said: ‘Yeah, nice one, Andrew, blame the kid. For what? For raping your finger with his hole?’ I know, if you put it like that it sounds ridiculous, yet that was exactly what the little devil had done. I was a little bit pissed, but all the same was very gentle in removing my finger. This caused another long sigh of satisfaction. I couldn't help smiling. Oh well, let the little guy have his bit of fun. He had gone through enough this evening. I decided that as far as I was concerned he was a kid, older than me or not. Somehow he managed to turn around on my lap without falling off. His head and his legs still hung down on either side, but his ass had been replaced by his dick. He flaunted a full blown erection. I tried to put my hands somewhere away from temptation. He remained lying like that for some time, as if to give me ample time to study it. Which I did. His cock wasn't very big, but then again, neither was Toby. I suppose it was the perfect dick for his body. It was also the first dick I had seen that looked, well, cute. And it was clearly inviting me to play

with it. Or of that my feverish, dirty mind tried to convince me. My own dick pressed uncomfortably against my jeans, and my breath became a little heavier. Then he hoisted himself up, so that he sat in my lap, and put his right arm around my neck. “I'm all stiff,” he giggled. He had to giggle. Yes, I had noticed. You could poke an eye out with that thing. God, this was sheer torture. “Are you all stiff, Andrew?” he asked innocently. As if he didn't know, the little tease. He spared me the trouble of having to answer by laying his hand on my crotch. There wasn't much left for me to confirm or deny. “Yes,” he chirped triumphantly, as if he had just won the first prize in a raffle. He slid off my lap, grabbed my hand and tugged me to my bed. With gentle pushing, nudging and wriggling he indicated that he wanted me to lie down on my back. Then he began to undress me, with that eager, intent look on his face of a little child opening a big Christmas present. I let him. What do you want from me? I was frustrated. I was horny. He was seventeen, for crying out loud. I was the younger one. I was the one being taken advantage of. When he had unwrapped his present completely, he looked at it pensively. Now, I like to think that I am not a prude. I am private, very private, that's all. And I've always been at ease with my body, but under his stare, I admit, I became just a little bit self-conscious. “I like you,” he said after a while, “you're nice.” I caught myself almost sighing with relief and was annoyed with myself. He crawled upon me and sat on my thighs, so that our balls and cocks touched. He leaned over and began gently massaging my shoulders. “You're awfully tense,” he said. It's my first time, I thought, what do you want? I would rather have died an intensely painful death than saying that aloud, though. But, see, here, right here is the exact moment I should have started worrying. At the time it didn't ring a bell.

“Then relax me,” I said smiling up at him. Big mistake. But again it didn't ring a bell. I should first have asked for a detailed description of his relaxing method. “Okie dokie,” he said and by his special nudging technique made me turn over on my belly. He sat with his bum on my ass, which in itself was quite a nice feeling, and gently massaged my shoulder muscles. Then I felt him lying down, much lower, between my legs, spreading them, and probing fingers opened my butt cheeks. Something warm and moist began moving around my opening, ever so gently, once in a while softly forcing the entrance. I had never had this done to me, but I soon submitted to the titillating sensations. There was a lot of saliva involved, I vaguely noticed. Nothing, I knew nothing. I was such a simpleton. Because, see, this is the second moment I should have been worried. Seriously worried. I didn't know it at the time, but I was being prepared, no more no less. I was an innocent lamb, led to the slaughter. He came back up and began kneading the muscles in my back, his dick now resting on my crack, which I found very sensual. Well, just about anything he did was new for me, and I must admit I was beginning to enjoy myself. As he loosened my muscles I grunted softly. Then I felt his small hands spreading my butt cheeks and his dick dropped, just a little, between them. “Toby,” I said, a tad alarmed now, “what are you doing?” “Don't worry, Tiger, I'm not big,” he said in a voice that was meant to be soothing. It was the first time I had heard that statement being used as a selling point. But somehow I wasn't reassured. Not reassured at all. Surely, the kid wasn't thinking... No way he was going to... I myself wanted to lose my virginity. Fast. But my back door was also a virgin and, contrary to me, hoped to remain so for the foreseeable future. I was too young. I felt the tip of his dick touching my entrance. Mind you, it wasn't pushing. It wasn't threatening. It just kind of rested there. But I knew I was done for. This was so not what was supposed to be happening. He leaned over and pinned my hands beside my head. Then I really

started panicking. Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, I thought, the barbarians are at the gate, Andrew Nathaniel Ashton VII, you are going to be fucked, you are so going to be fucked. And then I felt myself open. I yelped as I felt a sharp pain, and slowly he sank in me. The pain remained, but sort of subsided, went to the background. “You're tight,” he grunted satisfied and appreciatively. “Of course I'm tight,” I said irritated, between biting my cushion, “your dick is the first thing there going in that direction”. Kid, I thought, if you dare giggle I am going to be so very, very cross with you. He slowly moved around in me, seeking, probing. Suddenly all the muscles in my body contracted, nerves I never knew I had were on fire and I saw all the colors of the rainbow. “Aha,” he said as if he had found a cuff link he had lost a long time ago. A long drawn out ‘Oh’ was all I could manage. “Told you I was good,” I heard a soft voice say. Yes, he had. Then he let himself drop gently upon me. And there I lay, his legs upon mine, his crotch on my ass, his cute dick inside me, his belly in the small of my back, his head resting on my shoulders, his hands caressing my arms, spread wide out, nailed by an alto of the Vienna Boys' Choir, enrolled as an honorary member in his very own basketball team. I felt the comforting weight of his body upon mine and his breath on my back, and I knew I could stay like that, just like that for hours. When finally he climbed off of me, he lay beside me, on his belly, his head resting on his crossed arms, looking intently and vaguely amused at my face. He was obviously admiring what he had done to me. I wasn't too sure how I felt. Both my ass and my ego were slightly bruised. Being fucked by a kid was not, definitely not, how I had pictured my first major sexual experience.

With his by now familiar tugging and nudging maneuver Toby let me know that he wanted me to mount him. Ah, well, after already having had to confess that I had never been entered before, now I would be forced to admit that the reverse role was equally theoretical for me. Painful. He saw my hesitation. “Don't worry, Tiger, I'll do the heavy lifting,” he said. He more or less slid under me and guided me, that is, an essential part of me, in his waiting entrance. Soon he was around me, fitting snuggly like a glove, and his ass was pushing gently against my crotch, tutoring me what he wanted me to do and how fast and how hard. He was a good tutor, just like he had said. And I was a good student, because I wanted to please him, I wanted him to be proud of me, I wanted him to praise me. Damn, the kid was good. He decided to show me yet some more of his many, many talents which apparently included being a contortionist and equilibrist, as he managed to turn us around, as a unit, without me ever leaving him, so that I lay on my back with him sitting on me. He then turned around, swinging one leg over me, so that he faced me. He slowly started moving up and down, reducing me to a moaning bundle of nerves. At long last I couldn't stand it anymore and softly complained: “Toby, Toby, I can't hold out much longer.” He flashed his as yet most angelic smile and whispered: “Then don't.” The release seemed to come from somewhere deep, deep inside of me, and while I came in him he looked at me with delight and endearment. “Nice Tiger,” he said. I think I was being praised. Seconds later he began to convulse, and every little shock was translated by his sphincter to my dick which communicated them all over my body. Was that my doing, I wondered, or can the kid make himself come on demand? He leaned forward, entwining his fingers in mine and locking his great, wide open eyes in mine, so completing the circle, welcoming me as an integral part of his orgasm, allowing me to witness his most

integral part of his orgasm, allowing me to witness his most intimate feelings, baring his soul, permitting me to gaze in his heart, and I swear, I swear when he came on my belly, his face, with his lips slightly parted, in the thrall of ecstasy, was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. When later he had snuggled beside me, he looked up at me with adoring eyes that said that not only had I given him the best orgasm of his entire life, but that I had made him really, truly, deeply happy. And I, I was proud, so, so proud I could have cried. How is it, I wondered, that this kid can fuck me and end up making me feel like a man? I know, I know, I am not naive, well, maybe a little, but I am certainly not stupid. I know that it was art. But is was Great Art. I know that I was only his canvas upon which he had painted exactly what he wanted. I know that he had played me as an instrument. And so what? At least I was played by a virtuoso. I felt what I felt and what I felt was real. Go on, laugh and see if I care. Besides, I like to think that it was not all art. The kid had not been bragging. The kid was good. The kid was very good. The kid was a genius. And I believed all he had told me. If he should tell his teammates what Dan had done to him, Dan would at least need surgery, possibly an undertaker. I knew because I wanted to kill the swine myself. The stupid, stupid fuck. The kid could have shown him the stars. If only he had let him. If only he had asked. Instead, the dirt bag had masturbated in him. Later we took a shower together and afterwards he let me dry him with a large, fluffy towel, like the big, giant doll he was. “It tickles,” he giggled all the while, “Andrew, you're tickling me.” I lived to make him giggle, I decided. When I had stopped the car before his house, in a modest, quiet street, he put both his arms around my neck and kissed me softly on the lips.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, Andrew, for everything.” I hugged him back. “I like you. You're nice,” I said. And while getting out of the car... but you know. The next day, when I arrived at the club, Sean smiled at me. “Look who's here, Timmy, all glimmering and glistering like a freshly decorated Christmas tree. Life must have been good to our boy.” “Yes, it has,” I said with a broad, sheepish grin, “yes, it has indeed.”

“Well,” Sean said, “it's good to see you all relaxed like that.”

Chapter 7:

The Boy Who Couldn't Be Seen

I was sixteen, and more and more I felt the need to regularly tend to my frustration levels. I couldn't wait anymore until naked guys started to randomly appear out of bushes. So I did some research and explored a little. I visited the gay bars, but didn't feel very much at home. Also, I missed the company of Sean and Timmy. I wasn't used to going out on my own. If I had asked, they probably would have accompanied me. It would have bored them, at the very least, and it would have hindered me while on the hunt. I wasn't looking for a relationship, I simply wanted to release tension. I wanted sex. Not every day, not often even, let's say once a month. After some more research I found the ideal solution. I became a member of the Green Carnation Club, a closed, fairly exclusive meeting place for people who wanted uncomplicated and very discreet sex. Thank you, mother, for a generous allowance. Most of the members weren't even out of the closet, and the older ones returned to their wives after

having satisfied their needs. You could have been talking the whole night with someone, even have had sex, but if you met him the next day in the city he wouldn't know you. I recognized a few guys from the tennis club but we ignored each other. I was definitely out of the closet, but still it suited me fine. You entered by opening a door with your magnetic membership card. The place was very tasteful, not too much light nor too dark, with quiet music. There was no dancing. Contact was made in the usual way. A few looks, or a waiter who asked if you would care to accept a drink from the gentleman over there. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. I was one of the youngest there most evenings, but I always managed to find someone near my age. Strangely enough the indecisiveness that plagued me usually didn't bother me there. I let someone pick me up, or I tried to pick up someone myself. If things didn't go smooth from the word go, I quickly gave up and chose someone else. It never took me more than an hour to find a sex partner. Usually we chatted for about half an hour in the club. I never told them anything important, certainly not my last name and I never took anybody home. There were several suitable hotels nearby. You paid for a night, but I seldom needed more than an hour. Most of the time it was hot, steamy sex. Most of the guys were nice and good looking. I learned a few things. Most importantly, I kept my frustration at an acceptable level. I know, it seems shallow. It was. But after the Sean debacle I wasn't prepared to let my emotions run away with me again. I kept half an eye on Davey, but, for the same reason, I didn't dare look too closely. Toby, you ask? Ha, Toby. I must admit I had a soft spot for the little guy and I am sure that if I had sought him out, he would have found a place for me in his busy schedule. I had fond memories of the night the little fox had seduced me. But I was afraid that, if I tried to repeat the experience, after a few times the magic of that night would dim. Furthermore, I wasn't all too sure that I wanted to share him with a basketball team, a choir and heaven knows who else. No, all in all I'd rather keep my memories intact. I did follow up on him a little, though. One night I went to a match. I was careful to remain in the back of the crowd. It was

clear to me that he hadn't exaggerated. You can always tell, even as an outsider, when a group is only tolerating a certain member. It was clear that Toby was a fully accepted and appreciated part of his team. I saw them laugh together and hug and touch each other in that way that apparently is acceptable between teammates. One enormous, big blond guy in particular seemed to have a special affinity with Toby. Disturbing images floated before me of the little guy being crushed by that flesh mountain. But after a while I saw that he was — how shall I put this? — careful in an almost tender way whenever they hugged and cheered when the team scored a point. I didn't know his name, but I called him the gentle giant. I knew none of their names, except of course Dan's. I must admit, as far as I could follow what was going on, that Dan was indeed good. He scored regularly, was fast and did things with the ball that bordered on magic. After half an hour I was bored and left. Timmy did more or less what I did, but in a more open way on parties and in clubs. He admitted to making liberal use of the Strathway name and after each conquest gave us a long, very graphical blow by blow report. I was a lot more discreet, but Timmy and Sean always seemed to know when I had got laid. The sweet Linda had been replaced in Sean's affections by the equally lovely Kristel who in turn was pushed out of the picture by the beautiful Karen. I seem to remember there also had been an Anna, a Brenda, a Lorna and two Kates. He never ended the relationship himself, but they always seemed to break up with him when he began tiring of their company. They always parted in a nice way. They always assured him that it wasn't his fault, but their's. They always remained friends. Sean was happy. And I was happy that he was happy. I was also happy that I could be happy that he was happy. Happy, happy, happy. Well, I can't deny that once in a while the old green eyed monster showed its ugly head, that now and again, after he had let himself being dumped once again, I wondered if he wouldn't change to my side of the fence. But those feelings became gradually fewer and further between, and they disappeared more and more quickly, until at last they were just barely noticeable pangs that lasted hardly a second. It wasn't to be and that was that.

Meanwhile John seemed to make mother reasonably happy. They were gone on mini trips most weekends, they went out regularly and, of course, they attended the club together. Indeed, mother laughed a lot more. She even got pregnant. The baby was due at the end of August or the beginning of September. On one of the first days of July, when mother and I were alone in the kitchen, she said: “You won't forget, will you, dear?” “Forget what, mother?” “It's the little one's birthday this Sunday. He will be fifteen, you know.” Forget? I never had known when Davey's birthday was to begin with. “Maybe you should buy him a little present, dear, nothing big, just something to cheer him up. He seems a little sad sometimes.” “Sure,” I said. “Oh, and dear, let's not give it to him at breakfast. The Ridges aren't big on birthdays. John and Dan will leave right after breakfast. Some sports event. Better give it after they've left. After all, you didn't get Dan anything for his birthday.” Neither did Dan for mine. I liI liked the idea and knew exactly what I would give him. Giving him a book would be too complicated. I didn't know exactly which books he already possessed, and I wasn't too sure what he was currently into. Timmy, Sean and I would be going to the bookshops this Saturday, and I would buy him a gift card. Of course, figuring out for what amount was nearly impossible as it involved me making a decision. I wanted him to have the impression that I had bought him a present, not that I had bought him. So it couldn't be too much. But it should definitely

be enough so he could buy a book that he himself, on his own, maybe couldn't afford. Eventually I settled on an amount that seemed generous, yet not inappropriate. The gift card came in a glaring, brightly colored envelope. It was not a very personal gift, I knew, yet I was very pleased with myself. On Sunday morning, at breakfast, mother looked at Davey. “I believe sweetie.”

congratulations

are

in

order.

Happy

birthday,

Davey looked surprised. He clearly wasn't used that any attention was given to his birthday. “Yes, Davey,” I said, “happy birthday.” Mother looked at John, who after a while got the message. “Happy birthday, boy.” Dan Dan almost choked in it, but eventually grumbled “Happy birthday” as well. “Thank you, all,” Davey answered with an impassive face. As far as the Ridges were concerned that was the extent of the celebrations. After breakfast John and Dan indeed left. Mother asked Davey to help her clear the breakfast table. That was my cue, and I went up to my room to get my present. When I came back in the kitchen, I saw my mother tuck a folded envelope in Davey's breast pocket. “I have no idea what boys like these days, sweetie, so here is a little something to pamper yourself with.” She planted a kiss on his forehead. Knowing my mother, that little something would be a very generous amount in cash. The woman never had any idea what things cost in the real world. Davey hugged her, carefully, because her pregnancy was rather advanced by this time. He had to stand on his toes to be able to kiss her on the cheek. “Thank you very much, Claire,” he said, “you're an angel.” “You're very welcome, sweetie,” my mother said, smiling at

him. I stood there, hypnotized by the little scene that played before me in the soft morning sunlight. Davey, totally relaxed and at ease, hugging my mother as if she were his own and my mother looking at him, well, lovingly, as at a son. My imagination suddenly changed a few aspects of reality and in this new world there was no John and there was no Dan and the reason that Davey was standing there was because I had brought him into our house as my boyfriend. And my mother and my boyfriend truly liked each other, were hugging each other. It almost brought tears to my eyes, and I realized suddenly how ineffective my monthly sexcapades were, how I needed more than just hot, steamy sex, how I wanted to love and to be loved. How I wanted this, right this. I snapped out of it. “And here is something from me,” I said, after they had let go of each other. He looked in the gaudy envelope, saw the gift card and looked up. “Oh, Andrew, you shouldn't have.” “I know, but I wanted to. Just something to help you fill those shelves.” Now, I thought. Take me in your arms now. It doesn't have to be a passionate embrace, just hold me. You don't have to kiss me on the mouth, I'll settle for a kiss like the one you gave my mother. But now, please, do it now. From were we stood we could see that mother had turned her back on us and was rearranging her many, many jars of herbs that didn't need rearranging, making quite some noise so that she couldn't possibly hear us if we talked softly. Davey seemed to lean over to me, but then reconsidered. “Thank you, Andrew,” he said, then he raised his voice so my mother would also hear. “I'll both show you what I bought.” With that he left for his room. Oh well, he seemed happy enough. I went outside through the back door to take a walk in

the gardens. To calm down, to shake off the experience. Much later it struck me. Mother had orchestrated this. She had told me of his birthday, to get a present, exactly when to give it. She had heard me coming down and had meticulously set the scene she wanted me to discover. Minute by minute she had planned this. My mother the matchmaker. The woman was incorrigible. Well, mother's clever little plan hadn't worked, but that was hardly her fault. I cursed my damned lack of initiative. I was certain he had been on the verge of at least touching me. Nothing had forced me to wait passively. I could have taken him in my arms myself, instead of waiting until he did. I could have kissed him. But I hadn't. As it would turn out this was a good thing, but in the meantime I was pissed at myself. And very worried. I had barely overcome the Sean disaster, and I could literally feel myself falling hopelessly in love again. Hopeless being the keyword. With Sean it was the simple fact that he was straight. I could have known that years ago and avoided a lot of pain and anguish, but at the time I couldn't see it. This was worse. Davey was not just a friend I saw daily. I lived with him in the same house, the same hallway, just two doors away. And just as I hadn't seen what made my crush on Sean hopeless, though it had stared me in the face, I couldn't see what stood between Davey and me, but that there was something standing between us, that I was sure of. I felt myself sliding rapidly of a very slippery slope and there was nothing, as usual, to hold on to. Some time later a few things became clearer. It was a Saturday afternoon, and I was returning from the city. When I came in our hallway I saw that Davey's door was open, which was strange, since he kept it locked at all times. I gently put my bag of books on the floor to free my hands and take my key, when I heard noise coming from his room. Then I heard Dan's voice.

“It's no use, little sis, I am much stronger.” “Get off me, you big ape,” I heard Davey pant. More noise. “No, Dan, no, I'm your brother.” “Half brother, maybe. You know as well as I do that my father, my father, you hear, has never considered you his son. Mother must have had an affair when she got you.” “Get off of me.” “Why? Are you keeping yourself for that Ashton wimp? Well, let me tell you, little sister, rumor has it that he had an affair with that Denham guy. Only that one switched to girls. But Ashton is still following him around like a lovesick puppy.” I'm sure I blushed. Were they really saying that behind our backs? “Get off of me, you bastard.” “Easy, easy. I've seen you looking at Ashton and I'm sure you dream of being fucked by him while touching your little dick. If you are going to give it up for him, it's only fair that you give your big brother the first chance to bore out your little boy pussy. You'll love it, I'm sure my dick is a lot bigger than his. Be grateful that I want to dump my jizz in you. All the other girls are.” He's going to rape his kid brother, I suddenly realized. Without thinking twice I stormed into Davey's room. Dan had him pressed to the floor on his belly and sat upon him. He had already pulled off Davey's jeans halfway his ass and was loosening his belt. They had their backs to the door. Dan was a trained athlete and probably a lot stronger than I was, but I had the advantage of surprise. I pulled him by his shoulders off the boy and threw him to the ground on his back. I put my knee on his chest, while trying to keep his arms under control. “Ashton, Ashton,” he said, and his lips curled in a mocking jeer, “what a surprise. To the rescue of your little fuck mate? Oh, you are so going to regret this. I'm going to beat you up good.

You're going to be in so much pain, so much pain...” He started to get up and it was all I could do to keep him more or less under control. I knew that in the end I would lose this fight. “Think you can take both of us, pervert,” an icy voice said behind me. Dan wasn't sure of that at all, I saw in his eyes. And then they came, once again, the words. I didn't have to search for them. They just came. Bundling all my strength I pushed him back to the floor. “Listen, you ass-wipe and listen good,” I bit at him. “Wasn't it enough that you raped Toby, do you have to rape your kid brother as well?” he was clearly startled that I knew about Toby. Toby hadn't said a word. He probably thought that was because he had terrorized him into silence. He probably also thought he was untouchable, being the star player. He must have been under the impression that nobody knew what he had done, and so this came as a severe shock. “Toby keeps his mouth shut because he loves the team,” I continued, ”but guess what, you cowardly serial rapist, I am not into sports and I don't give a rat's ass about your silly little team and even less about its chances to win the State Championship. If ever you enter this room again, if I see you so much as looking at Davey in a way I don't like, I will make it my business to tell the whole team what you did. And I'll tell it in all its disgusting details: how you lured the boy into the woods, how you made him strip, how you made him masturbate, how you raped him, you swine, how you stole his clothes and how you left him naked, hurt and afraid in the middle of nowhere. And I think I'll start with telling that big blond guy.” That last bit was a shot in the dark. But it worked. He was wondering how I knew all these details. I could clearly see him calculating. Could he lie himself out of it? What if they believed me? The consequences would be huge, the least of it being that he would be chucked out of the team and would lose his status as the star player. He tried to mask it, but I saw that he was afraid.

“OK, OK, Ashton,” he said, ”hey, it was just a bit of innocent fun between brothers. No biggie.” “Remember, I'll keep an eye on you, you miserable piece of shit. And the first thing I am going to do is tell Davey the whole story of how you raped Toby. So, if I were you, I would start praying that he doesn't tell your precious teammates.” With that I stood up. “Go. Get out of my room,” Davey said. Dan stood up. For a moment it seemed he was going to say something, but he turned around and walked out of the room. “OK, OK, ladies,” we heard him mumble, “keep your panties on.” I locked the door behind him. Davey sat on his bed with his head buried in his hands. He was not crying. He looked up at me. “You've made an enemy for life, you know.” “I couldn't very well let him keep... doing what he was doing, could I? When I saw how far he already—” “Did you see my—” Davey, like many blond boys had a fair skin and blushed easily. His head was completely red in seconds. This is bothering him, I thought? He was almost raped and he blushes at the thought that I have caught a glimpse of his bare ass. But of course I didn't say that. “No, he was blocking my view.” He remained silent for a while. “I know you must think it's strange, but I just can't bear to be seen. You must understand, in the old house, from when I was little, I couldn't take a shower or Dan would come and scare me. Open the curtain. Just stand there. Laughing. Or saying how small I was. He meant my... He... He used other words. Sometimes at night he would come when I was asleep and feel under the blankets. Most nights I tried to stay awake, listening in the dark for him. But of course I fell asleep. And then he

came... I... I got used to going to sleep with my clothes on. I had a special pair of jeans to wear in bed. You can't imagine. But this is the first time he tried anything.” That animal Dan had been sexually terrorizing him for years. No wonder the boy was always on edge. “Have you never told your father?” “John? John doesn't care. Dan is right about that at least. He doesn't think I am his son, and I like to think that he is right. Anyway, he would probably only have said to be a man and fight my own battles. He doesn't care.” “At least here you have your own room that you can lock,” I said softly. “Yes, that's much better. And my own shower in my own room that I can lock. And still he caught me by surprise. I came home, opened my door and he came running out of his room. And I am so careful, Andrew, I really, really am.” Yes, he was. Always on guard, always wary, always ready to jump. Weren't big brothers supposed to protect you? “Maybe he'll think twice from now on.” “I hope so. Toby was that boy you needed the clothes for, wasn't he?” I had told him a part already on the evening it happened. Now I told him the whole story between Toby and Dan. I left out the story between Toby and me. I tried to cheer him up a little. He was very polite, but I could see that he wanted to be left alone so I went back to my own room. I heard his lock turn behind me. I knew I was in trouble again. Andrew Ashton, I thought, you are a genius, really you are. First you fall in love with a straight guy who can't possibly give you what you want. Then you fall in love with the boy who can't be seen naked and probably doesn't like to be touched. You really know how to choose them. For, oh yes, by then there was not the slightest doubt anymore that I had fallen in love again. Deeply, hopelessly and totally in love. I

even didn't want to go to the Green Carnation anymore. It would feel like I was cheating on Davey. But, wait, maybe this wasn't so hopeless at all. Hadn't I heard Dan say that he had seen Davey looking at me? Yes, I had. I had also heard him repeat a rumor that was totally untrue. So there you are, what can you believe? God, how is this possible? Suppose for once in my life, just for once, I had taken the initiative and had indeed taken him in my arms. Who knows what would have happened? He would probably have jumped back in horror and disgust, and I would forever have been a second Dan, an older brother who wanted to feel him up, leer at him and eventually rape him. This couldn't be happening. Not again. I was disgusted with myself and with the whole, absurd situation. How had I let this happen again? But then I reconsidered. I didn't have to let this drag on forever, like I had done with Sean, but I could at least give it an honest try. Give it some effort, some time. If, after a while, nothing would budge, I could always walk away. I was not, most certainly not Dan, and, given a little patience and diligence, surely I could make him see that, couldn't I? Of course, I could. I would shake off the passive Andrew who always waited for a miracle, and waited, and waited and did nothing. No, I thought, enough. I will invade you, from the south and from the north, from the east and from the west I will invade you, and you might try to resist me, but it will be to no avail because before my onslaught you will lose ground, more and more, and you might try to flee, but I will cut off all your lines of retreat, and I will encircle you, and I will hem you in until you can run no more, until there is nowhere else for you to go and you make your last stand, and then I will ford your last trenches, I will cross your last bridges and I will tear down your last ramparts, with my bare hands if need be, until they come tumbling down around you, and you realize that you can resist me no longer, and you will know that there is no option left to you but surrender, complete, utter and unconditional surrender for I will not, I will not be denied. Sorry about that. I had just been reading von Clausewitz.

Sorry about that. I had just been reading von Clausewitz. But I felt better. And exhausted. A few days later, when I was with Sean alone, at the club, I asked him about the gossip. “Did you know that there is a rumor circulating that we, eh, at one time were, eh, involved.” “Yes,” he answered, “I know. It's an old rumor. You just heard?” “Yes. Why didn't you tell me?” “It was not important. And I thought it might upset you. Once, they even asked me to my face if it was true." “And?” “I said that it was none of their business. That's all.” “Why? You could have set the record straight.” “Andrew, people will gossip, whatever you say. Whether you deny it or not, they will think what they want to think. So, what would it have accomplished? But most of all: it really wasn't their business.” “Still, Sean, none of it is true. That must have at least irritated you.” He looked at me strangely, like only Sean can look at me. “Why, Andrew, why would it irritate me? Do you think that being loved by you is something to be ashamed of? I don't.”

Tell me, how do you respond to that?

Chapter 8:

Why Don't You Kiss Him

Benny was born on the last day of August, about a month before my seventeenth birthday. It had been an uneventful pregnancy, and it was an uneventful birth. But there was something wrong. Mother couldn't bond with her child. She lost her appetite and felt sad most of the time. She withdrew more and more and often stayed in bed. Many times she complained of headaches. At first the doctors said it was a rather common form of post natal depression, but whatever they did, whatever medicines they gave her, it didn't seem to help. Nurses took care of Benny. The first few months they worked in shifts, twenty four hours a day. It happened frequently that the agency had no nurses available for the night. On those occasions Davey took over. He didn't seem to mind, and he was quite good at it. John began to drink more. He seemed to miss mother's company and the baby didn't interest him very much. Dan cared about nothing of all this and lived in his own world. Davey and I spent gradually more time together. I was very

careful not to force anything. I just created more and more occasions for us to be alone together. He liked going on long walks and so did I. In the beginning they were rather silent affairs, but after a while he began to open up. Sometimes he talked about something funny that had happened at school and of course we had our shared love for books. For my birthday he gave me an anthology of English romantic poetry. “For Andrew, Happy Birthday, David,” he had written in it, in a precise, concise handwriting. He didn't mind being called Davey, but always referred to himself as David. I already possessed a copy, but I threw it away before there was any chance that he discovered it. All in all, I was satisfied with how things were going. I felt that progress was slow, agonizingly slow but at least there was some of it. I was just contented to have him near me and he seemed to like my company as well. That had to suffice for the time being. I had let my membership of the Green Carnation expire without renewing it. Only one time I had gone back and what used to be exciting now seemed bland. I didn't enjoy the experience of fucking an anonymous, although beautiful body anymore. In the beginning of the new year Sean and Linda got back together to everybody's surprise. They had run into each other one evening and spent a long time talking. They eventually came to the conclusion that neither of them found the fleeting affairs they had been engaging in since they parted company very satisfying. Nor had they found a partner that stood the test of time. By the end of the evening they were a couple again. “She could be a keeper, man,” Timmy said, “I think the creature has our boy in her wily web. Yeah.” Davey more and more took over the care of Benny during the evenings and the nights. It would be more practical, he said, to have a second nursery in the smaller room between ours. At first I was against the idea, but he had set his mind on it, and in the end I was happy enough to indulge him. We painted the room in pale blue with little clouds. I never said we were particularly original. Furniture we found in the attic. Some of it dated at least to the times of Andrew Nathaniel Ashton III. There was a lot of baby stuff. We chose a crib, bassinet, changing

was a lot of baby stuff. We chose a crib, bassinet, changing table and a dresser, hauled the lot to the garage and cleaned and painted it. It made for a lot of hours I got to spend with Davey. I loved seeing him absorbed in his project. After a week or so he came to the conclusion that it would be still more practical to keep Benny in his own room at night. So we fetched a second crib and a second changing table from the attic and cleaned and painted those. Then we installed them next to his bed. “Won't Benny keep you awake at night?” I asked. “Oh, he hardly cries and when he does, I take him in my arms and within a few minutes he is silent again. He's not a difficult baby”. Dan had watched all this activity from a distance. He hadn't commented, but it was clear enough from his scornful looks that he thought that babies were the exclusive domain of women. For my part, I loved seeing Davey rocking our half brother in his arms. How could I not love him? Mother became more and more sick. She began to complain of mysterious pains and threw up a lot. This was not simply an unusually long post natal depression. She underwent two days of tests in the hospital, and when the results were about to be delivered she asked me to accompany her if I was up to it. Of course I went with her. The verdict was devastating. She had cancer. It must have been there for years, slowly eating away at her, surreptitiously at first, but recently it had reached a very aggressive stage. We must expect the worst, the doctor said, in weeks rather than months. Maybe, with intense treatment, some time could be gained. My mother considered it, but came to the conclusion that it would only mean extra months of discomfort and inquired about pain control. Then she turned to me. “Do you think, dear, you could let me go?” No mother, I wanted to shout, I am absolutely not ready to let you go. Instead I nodded. Strangely enough she became more active. It was as if she wanted to see and do everything just one more time. One day, from the kitchen window, I saw her and Davey talking animatedly in the garden. I joined them.

“O, dear, did you know that Davey has been tending to my herbs?” No, I didn't know that. “They were wilting, so at first the only thing I did was give them some water, well, later I started taking proper care of them. I know how you love your herb patch, Claire, and I thought, when she is better...” “That was very kind of you, sweetie, and it means a lot to me that you are taking such good care of Benny too. It makes it all a little bit easier. Thank you.” Davey blushed intensely. Mother turned to me. “And of course he told me how you helped him, dear.” She lay an arm on my shoulder and one on Davey's. “It's such a comfort knowing that my boys will take care of each other and their baby brother.” She just couldn't help herself, dying or not, she had to keep trying to couple us. I loved her for it. Mother died in March. I won't go into the details. It still is a bit of a sensitive spot, but, thanks to the pain killers, she went peacefully. I hate funerals. I find them an unseemly public display of emotions that should be kept private. I know that most people think they are sort of therapeutic. Well, not I. I do my grieving on my own. Sean knew me so well that I didn't have to explain that to him. He let me know with a few looks and gestures that he wouldn't intrude upon my mourning, but that he was there for me should I need him, that I should take my time to heal, and that he would be ready to welcome me back when I decided to come out of hiding. I had not much contact with Davey in the week or so that followed, and he was very quiet whenever we met by chance. I took long walks on my own and sat for hours on end at my favorite spot in the woods. I hadn't cried when she died or

during the funeral, and I still couldn't cry. Which was strange, because tears come easily to me. However, after a week, ten days or so, when I was walking, I stopped in the middle of the fields, with nobody in sight. The tears came suddenly, unexpectedly and soundlessly, and they kept coming. They streamed abundantly down my cheeks, and when they finally stopped I didn't wipe them away but let them dry in the wind. While slowly making my way back home I realized that I felt much, much better. The wound was still there of course and hurt like hell, but it had closed. Walking, I realized how selfish I had been. Davey must have been grieving too. Mine was the only mother he had known, as his own had abandoned his family when he was very young. I knew they had shared a special bond, and so he must have been hurting as well. Yet, he had reacted in exactly the same way as Sean, I suddenly understood. The realization made me love him more and filled me with remorse. It was time to reconnect and somehow make amends. So I started looking for him and finally found him in my mother's herb patch. He sat crouched down, pulling out the weeds, although how he knew the difference between what were weeds and what were herbs was a complete mystery to me. When he heard me coming he looked up and immediately back down. “I hope you don't mind,” he said “No, of course not,” I answered, “I think she would have loved you taking care of her herbs.” For a while he said nothing. “She was very kind to me, you know. I liked her very much, and I think she liked me too.” “Oh, she didn't just like you. She loved you to bits.” “You think so?” This time he looked up smiling. “I'm positive.” “You know, often when I came home she asked me to sit with her at the kitchen table. She served tea and cookies and made

me tell her about my day. I loved those moments.” Ha, mother, her cookies and her vile brew. “You know what?” I said, “You finish up here and I'll make us some tea. I believe there are still some of her cookies left. They may be stale by now, though.” “Yes, I'd like that very much,” he beamed. And so we sat at my mother's kitchen table, nibbling old cookies and drinking one of her concoctions, talking about everything and nothing. Mother, the matchmaker, would have loved seeing us sitting there, I believe. I found myself back at Singer & Singer in the company of John for the reading of the will. The firm was still called Singer & Singer, but there was but one left as the venerable Mr Singer senior had retired. Geoffrey was at his most formal and after offering his condolences, read the will. It was a simple affair: mother had left everything to me. “So she has left the whole Ashton fortune to the boy?” John asked. “Yes,” Geoffrey said. “I've heard it being referred to as the Ashton fortune at another occasion, but it would be more accurate to call it the Burbank fortune. She and her first husband, just like you, were married with a prenuptial which left her in complete control of her own assets. There is some Ashton money, but I would hardly call it a fortune. Of course, that also goes to young Mr. Ashton after his eighteenth birthday. After which the combined assets effectively will become the Ashton fortune, I suppose.” “Where does that leave us legally?” asked John. “Well,” Geoffrey said, “your situation is a little bit unusual, though not overly so, but it boils down to this: legally young Mr. Ashton can't come into full possession of his inheritance until his majority, that is, until he is eighteen years old, which, if I remember correctly, is in about six months. You, by virtue of

your marriage to his late mother, according to the law, become his legal guardian until then. You are the head of the family with all that this entails. However, you are restricted by the terms of the will. That means you can't touch the capital, the investments or the house and its grounds. As executor of her will, they fall under my control. You can use the household accounts to keep things running. At regular intervals dividends are deposited into those accounts. There's quite a lot of money there.” He looked over his gold rimmed glasses at me. “As for you,” he continued, “I am obliged by law to look after your inheritance. Maybe you know that the bond between an attorney and his client is a sacred one. There are severe punishments, namely automatic lifelong enslavement, if an attorney were to betray that sacred trust. It almost never happens, I can assure you. Of course,” and he turned to John, “the same goes for you. In all other matters I am your attorney and I have to faithfully execute your wishes, in confidentiality and to the best of my ability. However, if that should not be enough of a guarantee for you, you are free to use your own attorney.” “I don't have an attorney,” John said, “and for those six months this will be satisfactory. What happens after he turns eighteen?” “He comes into full possession of his inheritance and he becomes his own man. In fact, you could say that he becomes the head of his own family. There remains a legal connection. Should something happen to you, for example, he would automatically become the legal guardian of your children that have yet to reach the age of eighteen. The law regards him as their stepbrother. Your assets, of course, go to your children unless you have made other arrangements in your will.” “Yes, yes,” John said, “what I meant is, me and my sons live in the house—” “Ah, yes, I see what you mean. Legally, young Mr. Ashton becomes the owner of the estate of course. In most similar cases some kind of an agreement is reached. If this should prove, ah, difficult, of course you are free to move out as you are no longer responsible for young Mr. Ashton. He, on the other

hand, can give you notice. However, as it is your legal place of residence for the moment, and because it was your home during your marriage to the late Ms. Ashton, the law gives you twelve months after being given notice before you have to vacate the premises. Which is, I would think, rather generous.” This was good news. It would be in John's interest to not make my life difficult. It felt good to have some leverage. “Very generous,” John agreed. For a time we discussed some minor details. When we said our goodbyes and John had already left the office, Geoffrey shook my hand. “Once again, my heartfelt condolences,” he said. “Your mother was a fine lady.” He kept holding my hand. “Take care, Andrew,” he said after a while, looking me straight in the eyes. Whatever happened to young Mr. Ashton, I thought. Life has this strange habit of evening out things. After rain comes sunshine, they say, and this platitude proved true for me. What she hadn't been able to do when still alive, she managed to do in death. Remembering my mother brought us closer together. In fact, it proved to be the most beautiful summer yet of my life. For Dan the death of my mother had been an annoying interruption in his otherwise glamorous life, but I must admit that he had been civil. He saw that Davey and I spent more and more time together, and I could see that it vexed him. I don't know if it was thanks to my threats, but he left Davey alone. Meanwhile we resumed our long walks on the grounds and in the wood. Gradually, very gradually he loosened up. In the beginning he had been careful to avoid all physical contact but now, once and again we touched, mostly by accident, and it

didn't seem to bother him. He began to let me more into his life. While I steadily strolled on, he sometimes enthusiastically told me about some trifling occurrence, using broad gestures, smiling, often laughing out loud, jumping beside me or walking backwards before me while imitating someone. I sometimes had the impression of walking a young, playful dog who constantly runs in circles around you, happily yapping. It felt good to see him laugh so much, to see him so unselfconscious. And those moments became longer and longer, and there were more of them as time went by. I never took the initiative, I never pushed, I never forced. I simply let him bloom. And I collected these seemingly insignificant moments. If you're not a collector, stamps are but useless little pieces of colored paper. For a stamp collector they are something entirely different. So it was for me and those occasions. I collected them in my memory. And like any collector I loved to browse through my treasures. I often played those little scenes in my head, cherishing them, classifying them, impatiently waiting until I could add a new one. Every time my collection proved to me that I was making progress. Some of those special moments I thought of as milestones, although to you they might seem as trivial as the others. One day, we were walking as usual, when I saw in the distance that the landscaping company was at work on the grounds. This brought back painful recollections of Eric and I fell silent, wrapped in somber thoughts. Davey sensed my mood and also quietened down. “You seem sad,” he said after a while. “Was it something I said?” “No, no,” I replied, “not at all. It's just an unpleasant memory.” We walked on in silence for a while. “Won't you tell me about it?” he asked, very softly. I didn't answer immediately. Then I started telling him about Eric. All the while he kept silent, looking at me with a concerned expression. Meanwhile we had arrived at my, now our, favorite

expression. Meanwhile we had arrived at my, now our, favorite place in the woods and had sat down under the enormous oak tree, with our backs against its trunk. “That's sad, Andrew. Poor guy. It seems so unfair,” he said, when I had finished. I had never told anybody but Sean, and it felt good to be able to share the distressing experience again with someone I cared about. I didn't cry this time. It happened a few years ago, after all. However, it still made me bitter. “It's not only unfair,” I said, “it's an unjust law. Maybe I overreact. After all he was just a kind guy who walked me to school. But at the time it seemed a big deal.” “It was a big deal. I know. He protected you, Andrew, like you protected me from Dan. It was a very big deal, believe me,” he said softly. We were silent for a while. “Have you ever heard of him again?” he asked. “Well, the next month, on the day they came, I stayed in the house the whole time. I wouldn't have been able to handle it, I think. The same for the month thereafter. But the month after that I wanted to see him again. I was not sure what I was going to do or even say. I had played with the idea of asking mother to buy him. To argue that it would be so much better to have our own gardener. But mother had almost a phobia of slaves. I could have told her the real reason I guess, but I'm not sure it would have done any good. Anyway, that day I went out on the grounds looking for him. They were working all over the place, sometimes on their own, sometimes in little groups. I didn't find him. Luckily I ran into the foreman again. He recognized me and again told me in long winded details what they were doing and why they were doing it, while I couldn't wait for him to stop so I could ask him about Eric. Eventually his long explanation was finished and I asked ‘Is Bibi around?’. I tried to make it sound casual. And you know what? For the life of him he didn't know who or what I was talking about. Me, he remembered, but in his eyes the slaves were just tools. You took care of them, of

course, but they were not particularly noteworthy. If a tool broke, you simply replaced it. So, I insisted: ‘You know, the boy you had to discipline. You showed me how nicely his wounds were healing.’ That jogged his memory. ‘Ah yes, that one. Wasn't a bad boy, not bad at all. But he hadn't exactly a green thumb, I seem to remember. You see, young sir, you can beat discipline into them, but not a green thumb I'm afraid.’ So they had sold him about three weeks after we had met. I asked if he knew who had bought him and he said that it wasn't his department, but he supposed he was sold to the wholesale trader company they usually worked with. They had contacts all over the world. ‘By now he could be anywhere in the country. In fact he could be out of the country. Even off the continent. Did you know there is a great demand for white slaves in some African countries?’ he said. So, it was hopeless. It had always been hopeless. Even the month after we met, when I stayed inside, he wasn't already there anymore.” “There was nothing you could have done, Andrew,” Davey said. “Yet, I tried. But ever since the Efficiency Drive of seventy years ago we don't keep many records anymore. Everything used to be very complicated. If you wanted something done you needed forms in quadruplicate, there were boards and committees who had to have their say and every step was documented. It was all very inefficient and it cost tons of money. There was a huge administration. With a world wide economic crisis looming on the horizon, and added to that the fact that the people were sick of an always growing bureaucracy and procedures that became ever more complicated, the pendulum swung to the other side. We now have what they call ‘small government’. The administration is limited to its bare minimum. You wouldn't believe what can be done with one simple form and the signature of a judge. And fast, it goes fast. Things, and I mean life changing things, that used to take months, take barely one day to arrange nowadays. Anyway, the system itself makes it complicated to trace a slave. You see, when a person is enslaved, he or she loses his or her identity. They get a slave collar with a code of, oh, some twenty letters and numbers. That is used on the Deed of Ownership and on invoices and so on.

But there is no connection between that code and the former name of the slave. That is deliberate of course. The former person literally doesn't exist anymore and the slave is a new entity. So, there are no lists where you could look up Eric Brennan and find his slave code. And of course, I hadn't noted it down.” “You probably didn't know then.” “Well, I'm not certain. It may well be that by that time I had read about it. It simply didn't occur to me to ask him to show me his collar and make a note of the code. Besides, I had nothing to write with and I hadn't my phone with me at the time. Stupid.” “Andrew, you were very upset at the time.” “Even so... Anyway, it is too late now. He is lost, untraceable. He might even be dead by now.” We were sitting next to each other. Davey slung an arm around my shoulder and rested his head against me. It was a strangely comforting gesture. Amidst all my somber musings I couldn't help thinking that even a week ago he would never have done this. I didn't move an inch, even when my muscles began to cramp. I didn't want to interrupt our connection. I was afraid to break the brittle construction I had so slowly and carefully built. Don't push. Don't force. Let him come to me. For his sixteenth birthday I wanted to give Davey something more personal than the previous year. I reckoned we were past the stage of gift cards. So, one evening when we were watching a movie in his room and he had gone to the bathroom, I looked through the stack of books on his desk. Davey, like me, read several books at the same time. A few chapters in this book, a few chapters in that book. One of the books he was reading was a Shakespeare play, Julius Caesar. I quickly looked at his bookcase and found his collection of tattered Shakespeare pocket books. He had quite a few, but far from everything. My decision was made. I would get him the complete plays. Next Saturday, after a relatively short search, I found the perfect

edition: The Oxford Shakespeare. It was a virtual antique, but in excellent condition. Absolutely not ostentatious, but solid, sturdy. I was certain he would be able to appreciate its distinguished sobriety. Back home I began to think about the dedication. I practiced on a blank piece of paper. I first tried: “For Davey on his sixteenth birthday, with all my love, Andrew”. After a few minutes staring at what I had written, I began to have doubts. The “with all my love” was too much, too direct, too soon. “For Davey on his sixteenth birthday, love, Andrew.” Better. But still a bit too direct. Should I use Davey or David? I tried several other variants and finally settled on a copy of the dedication in the anthology he had given me: “For Davey, Happy Birthday, Andrew.” With my usual lack of decision making power this had almost cost me two hours. After I had written the dedication in the book, I decided that something more was needed: a quote. I racked my brain, read in my own copy of the complete works and finally chose one. Making allowances for possible future vacillation, I wrote, this time in pencil: “Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Scene 1, 110-111”. I just hoped this wouldn't confuse him, for in modern editions this passage is indicated as Act II, Scene 2, 68-69. The next day, of course, I began to have doubts. He would immediately look it up and read it. And the meaning couldn't be clearer. No, this was worse than my original dedication, I concluded, so I erased it. Tired with myself, I wrapped the damn thing. But, I had been right. When I finally gave it to him he loved it. He caressed the pages as he browsed through it. And me he gave the most beautiful smile. I had to wait for late summer to arrive before a new milestone occurred. We sat, as we often did these days, beneath the big oak tree. I sensed there was something in my hair that wasn't supposed to be there. A twig had entangled itself. I tried to remove it, but it was really stuck there. “Wait,” Davey said, “let me do it.”

He got on his knees before me, one knee on either side of my outstretched legs, so that he could look down on my head. I felt his long, slender fingers move with delicate precision between my hair, carefully disentangling the twig. “Sit still, I don't want to pull out your hair. I've almost got it. Move your head a little bit to the left, in the sun.” The closeness of his body and the sensual touch on my head forced me to call upon the Roman emperors once more. At one moment he lost his balance and leaned with one hand on my shoulder to stabilize himself. I saw he was laughing carefree, totally comfortable with our closeness. When he finally had disentangled the twig, he let himself sink on my legs and showed it, triumphantly smiling, holding it between his index finger and his thumb. “O, wait,” he said and he began rearranging the lock of hair in which the twig had been stuck. “That's better,” he said with a satisfied smile when he had finished and sank back down again on my legs. It doesn't seem much, I know, but to me it was a major step. He had never come this close, he had never touched me so freely, so natural. It was the first time he maintained physical contact beyond what was strictly necessary. And he seemed happy, really happy. Why don't you kiss him? I thought. Nothing too serious. Just a light, impulsive brush of the lips on his cheeks. He won't recoil, not now, not anymore, he won't shrink back. Why don't you kiss him? But, I didn't. No pressure, no forcing. Yet, I was certain now. It was only a matter of time. And not much time at that. I just had to be there, make myself accessible in a non threatening way, and he would come of his own volition, because he wanted to, because he needed to. I was happy, for the time being, to leave it at that. It was enough. There was no comparison with the deadlocked Sean situation. This time I was firmly moving towards my goal. I was sure I was making all the right moves at the right time. Looking back, I should have kissed him. Then and there. But, I didn't.

Some ten days before my eighteenth birthday, on a Wednesday afternoon, I received a text message, from an unknown number, all in capitals: SAT 3PM IMP 301 GS

Well, if it was meant to be some sort of secret code it was not very hard to crack, was it?

Chapter 9:

A Warning

The text message I had received read ‘SAT 3PM IMP 301 GS.’ ‘SAT 3PM’ was obviously Saturday 3 pm. With ‘301’ I had some difficulty, then I vaguely remembered something, and my mind stumbled on ‘a room number?’. Of course, in combination with ‘IMP’ that meant the Imperial Hotel, room 301. Was that the room where I had been with Geoffrey? I couldn't remember exactly, but it must have been because it followed logically that ‘GS’ was Geoffrey Singer. So, translation: Geoffrey wanted to meet me at the Imperial Hotel, this Saturday at three in the afternoon. Yeah, fuck that. If he had something to say about my inheritance, he could invite me to his office. If he suddenly, after all these years, wanted a little repeat action, he forgot that I was not that fourteen year old boy anymore. I had made him promise not to seek a repetition of the occasion, and until now he had been as good as his word. Why come back on it now? Well, it didn't matter, he could wait till doomsday in room 301 as far as I was concerned.

I had begun to prepare my birthday party. I said party, but I meant more of a cozy get together with my friends. As always. In fact, it wouldn't be all that different from a normal evening between the three of us. Except some tasty, warm snacks, a few festive drinks and the added glow of celebrating something. Only, it wasn't the three of us anymore. Linda was slowly becoming a part of our little circle. I didn't mind too much. You know what they say. You only really stop mourning for a lost love when the next one comes around. In my case it had. Two weeks ago I had asked John if he would be needing the great living room on Sunday, 28th, the evening before my birthday. I was a little bit annoyed to have to ask him. After all, it was my family's home, but hey, I wasn't looking for trouble. “Why?” he asked. “It's the evening before my birthday and I'm having friends over. I could do it in my own room, but I'd rather have the living room.” He looked at me and for a moment I thought it would get unpleasant, but then he shrugged. “No problem. I'll be away from early in the afternoon. I'm dining with some friends at the club, and then I'll go play cards in town, like every Sunday evening. Dan is away for a motivational weekend with his team, I believe. He will be home very late. You'll have the house practically to yourself. If you don't count the little shrimp. But who does?” I thanked him. It costs nothing to be polite. I had totally forgotten that John had a regular hangout in the nearby town. He had begun drinking more and more over the last months, often from before dinner, and he was regularly brought home by a taxi at an unseemly hour of the night, barely able to walk. Dan being away as well was an added bonus. And the little shrimp I didn't mind. Not at all. I had already invited Sean and Timmy. Then I decided to also ask Linda. As I've already said, she was becoming a part of our little circle and my birthday party would be the first ‘official’

occasion she would be invited to. Even Sean's birthday we still had celebrated between the three of us. I had begun to like her and it was obvious that she made Sean happy. She was not only pretty and sweet, she was also intelligent and witty. And wise, I thought. There had been a warm summer evening when the four of us had been sitting quietly on a terrace, talking. Timmy had begun telling war stories from when we were little. You know the kind. There was that one time when we could barely hold our own against a much older, bigger and fatter bully. He was pummeling all three of us in the ground, until Timmy had started biting him in his calf. Sean, who had seen this, bit in his arm and I got his hand. None of us let go and he soon had enough, shook us off and ran away, afraid of being eaten alive. Timmy told it in such vivid detail that we couldn't help laughing out loud. Linda had smiled. “Must be boring for you, all this reminiscing,” I said, later, when Sean and Timmy were talking to each other. “No, I love to hear you guys talk.” “You must feel a bit left out, though.” She had shrugged. “I knew from the beginning, when I got together with Sean, that it was kind of a package deal. That you both came with him. You've known each other for ages after all. I always knew that there would be memories I could never be part of, simply because I wasn't there when they were made. I just hope you'll let me be part of the new memories we're making, like this evening. But I realize you have a special bond.” “You have no idea,” I said and immediately knew that I had overstepped myself. She smiled with quiet amusement at me. “No,” she replied, “I'm sure I haven't, and I promise you I'll never try to find out either. But I have eyes and ears and I can add two and two.”

I must have become red in the face, because she laughed. “Oh, Andrew,” she said, “you should know by now. Sean's heart is big enough. There's plenty of room for the both of us.” So, yes, I would invite her too. Because I had started to like her and because it would please Sean. As it turned out she and her family were visiting out of state relatives that weekend and would return late Sunday evening, so she couldn't come. Sean let me know that he appreciated the gesture nevertheless. I would also invite Davey. It was the perfect time. Of course, I wouldn't, I couldn't introduce him as my boyfriend. We had still some distance to travel for that. Until now I had kept both spheres of my world separated. Timmy and Sean knew what was going on in my home. Of course. They had seen Davey a few times when they were visiting, but they were never, let's say, formally introduced. I think they had a vague inkling that he was the only Ridge I liked, but that was all. I had never told them that I was in love with him. I would simply say that he was the guy who had his room two doors next to mine. Timmy would accept that at face value, and it would take Sean just under two minutes to see through that neutral statement. Give it another ten minutes and he would know practically everything there was to know. He would pick it up from the smallest gestures, from almost indiscernible voice inflections and the most furtive looks. Later he would explain it to Timmy. Good, I wanted them to know, preferably without me having to tell them. Sean would make Davey feel welcome. He would immediately sense that Davey could be tense around people he didn't know enough to trust, and Sean would find a way around that. He would charm the pants of him. Very, very figuratively of course. He would do it for my sake. But I was sure he would like Davey for his own sake as well. After all, Davey was also smart, nice and, at least in my eyes, just as sweet as Linda. All right, I admit it, I also wanted to show him off. I was equally sure that Davey would like my friends. If Sean could make our threesome into a

foursome, I would turn it into a fivesome. And so, slowly but surely I would draw Davey more and more in my world. Yes, it was time to begin merging both spheres. Things were definitely shaping up. My mind seems to be working in loose associations. Friday in the late afternoon I got a text message from Timmy, which reminded me that I should clean out my in-box, which reminded me of Geoffrey's text. Then something began nagging at me. There was something wrong with that message, but what? For a long time I couldn't put my finger on it, and just as I was about to give up it dawned on me. I had been wrong. It wasn't Geoffrey who had forgotten that I wasn't a fourteen year old boy. It was me who had forgotten. Why would Geoffrey want to have sex with me? I was indeed not a fourteen year old boy anymore, and Geoffrey liked them young. The simple truth was that I was way too old for him. So why did he want me to come to the Imperial? It couldn't be normal business. That could have been handled in his office. Neither could it be about sex. So what was it about? And why the secrecy? The message hadn't been that hard to decipher, but that was because I knew what I knew. For anybody else it would be virtually meaningless. I couldn't think of anything. The only thing I could do, if I wanted to find out, was keep the appointment and hear him out. So, that was exactly what I intended to do. I had to look up where the Imperial was on the Internet. At the time, Geoffrey had driven us there, and I hadn't been paying attention. When I left I had just taken a bus to the center of the city and from there a bus home. I was running a bit late when I entered the Imperial Hotel. I took the elevator to the third floor and knocked. “Enter,” I heard Geoffrey's voice through the door. I was in good spirits, thanks to all my pleasant prospects. “Ah, Geoffrey,” I said lightly, “what exactly am I doing here? I'm

much too old for you.” “Yes, you are. That's not why we're here. Please sit down,” he replied with a dry smile. He sat in an armchair and I sat down in the other. Between us stood a little table. The room seemed not much changed. “So,” I inquired, “why are we here then? And why all the cloak and dagger stuff.” “That will become clear in a moment,” he answered. “You're almost eighteen.” “Yes. In a week and two days I will be eighteen.” “Any idea what will happen then?” “Well, I'll be an adult. I'll come into my inheritance, and I'll be master in my own house. Which will be a welcome change from the current uneasy state of affairs.” “Hm. Have you given any thought to your domestic situation?” “As a matter of fact, yes. Well, vaguely that is. Broadly speaking I would like to get rid of John and Dan Ridge, and at the same time I would like David Ridge and my half brother Benny to stay with me. But how I am going to accomplish that, I don't know yet. I was thinking of tolerating the whole lot around until David is an adult as well. Then he can choose for himself. I don't think the elder Ridges are particularly interested in raising a child, so maybe I can bribe them to leave him behind. But, I must admit I haven't thought it through completely”. “Obviously.” “Well, I've got time, haven't I?” “Time,” Geoffrey replied while rubbing his nose, “is precisely what you don't have.” There was that dry smile again. “What,” he continued, “do you think John Ridge is going to do?” “I don't know. Monday 29th I will be eighteen. What is he going to do? Stop time with his hands?” He looked at me soberly.

“You really think John Ridge is going to wait until that happy day arrives, say ‘You're the boss now, Mr Ashton’, hand over the keys to the kingdom and disappear in the sunset, leaving you in your big house, sitting on your millions?” “There's nothing else he can do, is there?” I replied lightly, but I was beginning to worry just a little. “There's plenty he can do. In fact he has already done it.” Now I was really getting nervous. “OK, Geoffrey,” I said, “out with it.” “It's simple. He's going to enslave you.” Someone had just knocked me on the head. “What? You're joking,” I laughed, but even I could hear that it sounded forced. “Not at all. He is going to commit you into indentured service. In fact, last Wednesday, he had an appointment with me at two pm and he instructed me to prepare the papers. It was, he regretted, his civic duty. His conscience didn't permit him to allow you to be let loose in society. You were, after all, an arrogant egoist with criminal tendencies. I, of course, heartily agreed with him. By the way, after he left I checked a few things and then send you the text message from a disposable phone.” “But that's preposterous. I'm almost an adult. He can't do this. He's not even my father.” “Two fatal mistakes in one outburst. Almost an adult. That means not an adult. That means a minor. The law draws lines and you're either on this side or on that side. Almost doesn't count. He's not your father. That's correct. But he is your legal guardian. That means he stands ‘in loco parentis’, in the place of your parents, if you will. That means in the eye of the law he has all the rights your real father would have had. No discussion.” Now I started panicking. But of course it couldn't be true. It was too ludicrous. I knew these things, I had read about them.

“He has to have a reason. He can hardly say that the family is in financial difficulty. He can have no reason.” “John Ridge had a little paper from which he read the reasons he wanted me to use. It seems you are an arrogant, incorrigible aggressor who preys on weaker people and blackmails them. You have raped several girls and boys who you then terrorized so they wouldn't go to the police. But what really convinced Mr Ridge to indenture you is the fact that you raped his youngest son, David Ridge, a minor.” “Geoffrey, he's describing his own rotten son, Dan,” I cried out. “I know,” Geoffrey replied stoically. “Well, there you are. I'll prove to the judge that it wasn't me but Dan.” “Good luck with that. The judge doesn't have to hear you. In fact, I can guarantee that he will not hear you. Judges are overworked, understaffed and underpaid. John Ridge has access to the Ashton household accounts. Your mother never spent all that was monthly deposited in those accounts. Far from. Once, every three, four years she used the surplus for new investments. There has been money accumulating for about two and a half year now. It's a sizable, very sizable amount, I can assure you. All John Ridge has to do is find the right judge and make a donation to the right, ah, ‘charity’ and there will be few questions asked. None, in fact. Signatures and seals will be placed on the needed documents and that is that.” “I'll go to the police.” “If, and that is a big if, they decide to investigate, it will take months before they come to any conclusion. You have a week and two days. Believe me, you will be long gone before Dan Ridge is asked the first question. If a question is ever asked, that is.” “But... but... this is absurd.” “Maybe, but you see, the system works on the premise that parents will not enslave their own children, unless it is absolutely necessary. The parent is automatically believed to be telling the truth.”

telling the truth.” “John Ridge is not my real father so I'm not his own child, and he is a bastard”. “Yes, he is not your real father, but he has the same powers. You fall between the cracks of the law. He is indeed a bastard, but the instigator of this little plan is Dan Ridge. John is not the sharpest tool in the box. Dan, on the other hand, is fairly intelligent. I wish, Andrew, that your mother had trusted me more.” I had been staring at the floor as if a solution lay there. I looked up. “Mother?” “Yes, your mother trusted my father. When he retired she chose not to, ah, bestow the same trust on me. Which is a pity. After she died, I heard she has refused treatment and only took pain killers.” “She felt there wasn't any use in prolonging her suffering.” “If she had confided in me however, I could easily have shown her what the use was of living, let's say, seven, eight, months longer. Namely, to keep you out of this mess you're in now. You would have been an adult when she died. I'm certain she would gladly have suffered somewhat for you.” The dry smile again. “Yes,” I whispered, “I'm afraid you're right.” “Well, it's water under the bridge. She didn't confide in me. When she died I immediately saw the possible problems of the situation you were in. By the way, I tried to warn you, but I had to be careful. When we parted after the reading of your mother's will, I hoped that my look would convey that ‘take care’ was not just a formal goodbye, but that I meant it quite literally. However, I doubted that either way it would make a great difference. So I took it upon me to investigate a little. I work with a very good detective agency, Thomson & Meyer Investigations. In fact, I am a silent partner, and that has proven many times to be very useful. We investigated the Ridges. John Ridge has some money, just enough to live

modestly on. Of course, the last years he hasn't used any of it because he and his sons have lived off your mother's money. The youngest son seems quite harmless, although you can never be absolutely sure. John Ridge, on his own, would not be a great danger either. “One of our agents befriended him and kept the drinks coming. We learned a lot on his many, many drunken nights. He doesn't like you and was trying to find a way to rob you from the moment you both left my office. He seems to think that your mother's fortune rightly belongs to him. However, none of his schemes would have worked. “In the agency we have a young agent with a degree in psychology. That one we sent after Dan Ridge. He posed as a basketball fan and began to go to matches and to all the places and parties Dan and his team go. When Dan was used to seeing him around, our man befriended him. You would be surprised how even fairly intelligent people fall for a mixture of free booze and liberal measures of insincere adulation. Our guy is a psychologist, as I said, and it was not difficult for him to become the greatest fan and a good friend of Dan within a few months. Dan's hate for you is pathological, he says. He envies you the golden spoon you were born with and hates your disdain for sports. For him, that's personal. There also must have been at least one, ah, serious incident between the two of you, but we didn't find out exactly what it is. There could have been more.” I knew of course. The fact that I knew he had raped Toby, and then there was that time when he tried to rape Davey. “He was always threatening he would get you,” Geoffrey continued, “and he simply wanted to have your money. You don't deserve it, according to Dan. Dan himself, of course, does deserve it, according to Dan. Gradually we learned that he was working on a plan. Incidentally, he seems to hate his younger brother too, and he suspects there is a connection between the two of you. He's right, of course. I'm afraid we investigated that as well. His intent is to, ah, take care of him when you're gone. We suppose he will try to convince his father to enslave his brother as well. We never found out all the details of his plan —

brother as well. We never found out all the details of his plan — he was not that dumb — but we learned enough and filled in the empty spaces. It is he who has instructed his father what to do. He has looked up all the laws, precedents and what not. "I can't say I was very surprised when John Ridge made an appointment. I had been expecting it, more, I hoped he would come to me, rather than engage another attorney. Dan Ridge is diabolical in the details. He probably thought it funny to give his own, ah, state of service as the reason for your enslavement. I'm sure he wanted you to know that it was he who raped, but you who would pay the price. He wrote it all down for his father. He also wrote down the date and time for your enslavement: Sunday, 28th at eight pm. See, he not only wants to rob you of your money, your house and land, but he wants to do it—” “The night before my birthday. When I have my friends over,” I stuttered, not believing what I had heard. “Yes, John Ridge said you were having a little party. He thought that very amusing. Have you told him?” “I asked him if the living room would be free and I explained why I needed it, yes.” “Well that explains it. He must have told Dan when they were planning this. And Dan wants you to be enslaved, to be precise, four hours before you would have come into your inheritance. He wants you to know for the rest of your slave life that you came this close, but that at the last possible moment he snatched it all away from under you. He hopes that this will make your existence just that more miserable. I believe we may trust that at this very moment he is preparing your breaking in from the first to the last minute. As you know, those attending are invited to take an active role. It seems this way the new slave reaches the fifth stage more easily... Oh, and another thing, we got the impression that father and son have made a deal. Dan will get the money your sale will bring in. I'm sure he plans to inform you of this, before you are dragged out of what, by then, will have used to be your house. He'll probably also tell you what he plans to buy with it.”

By this time I was sitting as upright in the chair as was possible, my hands, with white knuckles, clamping the arms. This can't be happening, I thought. The feeling of impending disaster bounced around and around in my head. It was all too much. Not only was I really panicking, I also felt twinges of hysteria. “I want you to realize”, Geoffrey resumed in a calm, composed tone, “in just how grave a situation you are. I need you to be aware of exactly what is going to happen. John Ridge wants me to be the executor. I can not refuse him, as he is my client. I have to execute his wishes faithfully or face enslavement myself. “As things stand, Sunday 28th at eight o'clock I will arrive with three guards of the Bureau, a captain and two ordinary guards. I will invite all present to gather around. Then I will read the Act of Commitment into Indentured Service — that is essentially the petition submitted by John Ridge — after which I will declare that the court has granted this petition. Then I will instruct the guards to take you. They will grab you by both arms and the captain will begin to remove your clothes in front of all present, friends and enemies. You will try to resist. They always do. Even if you should try to be still and composed, you won't be able to stop yourself. You will resist. They want you to resist. Because it will be to no avail and it will ultimately help convince you of how powerless you have become. “While you're struggling against the guards, the captain will rip open the front of your shirt. He has a long, special, very sharp knife. If necessary he will cut your sleeves and the back of your shirt until it lies in rags on the ground. The guards won't even have to loosen their grip. Then the captain will grab you from behind by the ankles and lift them from the ground while the two guards lower you until you are lying down on your chest. They will remove your shoes and socks. They will put you back upright and the captain will put his knife in the side of your pants. He will cut through your belt, if you're wearing one, all the way along the seam down. He will do the same on the other side. Your pants will fall down, or the captain will yank them off. He'll do the same with your underwear. It will take less than

He'll do the same with your underwear. It will take less than three minutes. You will be standing totally naked, still held firmly by the guards, your most private parts on display for all. They will click the slave collar around your neck. You are now officially an indentured servant. “From now on, you have no name, no rights and everybody else in the room is your superior by far. You might think that you are comfortable with being naked. That might be true in most circumstances, but not in this one. Not in front of those who just moments before you thought of as your equals. Not when everybody else is clothed and staring at your dick. And they will. Some might make an effort not to. But still they will. They won't be able to prevent themselves. You have no idea what it will do to your sense of dignity, pride and self-worth. You will be feeling very vulnerable and ashamed. You will be devastated. You will try to cover yourself, but that will be impossible as the guards are still holding your arms. “Maybe you will loudly protest during the whole procedure. That also will not help. You will say it is all a mistake. You will try to browbeat them. But it is very difficult to gather the necessary confidence, to exude authority while your most intimate parts are loudly being commented upon in the most obscene terms. And they will be. If your dick shows the slightest deviation from the norm, you may count on it that those who don't like you will let their opinion be known and give a detailed description in the most vulgar terms. Old scores will be settled. Those who do like you will be blushing, will be ashamed and will try to avert their eyes. If you are susceptible to such reactions, the whole situation might cause your cock to swell or you might have an involuntary half erection or even a full erection. Of course that will cause hilarity without bounds. “Then they will show you a wooden paddle and turn you around with your ass to the public. They will bend you over. Now your hole will be visible for all. They will keep you a while like that to give everybody enough time to comment and to make you fully realize that you are standing there in your bare ass, with everybody staring at your unprotected, vulnerable entrance. Then they start smacking you on the ass with the paddle. Hard. Maybe you think you are strong. Maybe during the first, the

second and even the third blow you will be able to remain silent. Keep just a little of your self-respect. Refuse them the satisfaction. But never mind how strong you are, eventually you will cry out in pain. They will just go on until you do. They will keep going on until you do what they want. That is, cry and beg and slobber and implore them to stop. By that time the pain will be so intense, so unbearable that you will be prepared to promise anything, to say anything, to do anything, to debase yourself, if that is what it takes, if only they will stop slapping you. When they finally stop, they will also temporarily let go of your arms. You will rub your ass with both hands to try to alleviate the excruciating pain. You will not be able to stop yourself. Maybe you will hop from one leg to the other in the hope it helps quench the fire in your buttocks. Your enemies will find this very comical and laugh out loud at your undignified, ridiculous gestures and your red ass. “Your friends will probably be crying by this time, or they will have left, unable to see you being degraded in this way. You will plead, you will beg, you will cry, to stop this, to not do this. You won't care anymore about your dignity. You will promise anything if they just will not go through with this. If you use words they don't like or if you are too loud for their taste, the guards will slap you in the face. Hard. Repeatedly. Until you do exactly what they tell you to do. “What happens next depends on the creativity of those attending. If, for instance, there is a fourteen year old brat who finds it amusing to pull you along by your dick, you will let him and you will follow him obediently. If he wants to play with your balls, you will stand quietly while he plays with your balls. If he says he wants to see your hole, you will bend over for him, spread your butt cheeks and show him your hole. If he thinks it's funny to put something in there, a pen, his finger, the neck of a bottle, you will let him do it. And you will say ‘Thank you, sir’. Loudly. “If you're unlucky you will lose control of your bladder and your bowels. If, which is unlikely, you had still a shred of pride left, that too will be gone now. The guards will yell in your ear that you are a dirty boy. They will ask you if you are an animal,

relieving yourself like that before these good people. You will sob, like a little child, that you didn't mean it, that you couldn't help it. Eventually they will drag you away, still weeping, still begging, groveling, blubbering... “Andrew Ashton by then will have ceased to exist. They will bring you to the Training Center and there you will find that your calvary has only just begun, the only mercy being that your former peers are not present to witness your further debasement.” He took a deep breath. “Don't for one minute, even one second think that I am exaggerating,” he resumed in the same dispassionate voice, “or that I am making things up. I am a certified executor. I have seen these things. Many times. Incidentally, the fourteen year old brat was the kid brother of the young man being enslaved.” I sat paralyzed in my chair and I saw it all before my eyes. Try as I might, I couldn't stop my frantic thoughts raging through my head. They will cut away my clothes. And Davey will be there. Dan will make sure of that. And Sean and Timmy. No, thanks to Geoffrey I can still call them off. At least I can still prevent being enslaved before my best friends. I don't mind being naked in a one on one situation, with someone I'm about to have sex with. But under these circumstances I will die of shame and humiliation. No, the worst part is that I will not die. The worst part is that I will remain alive, fully conscious while they do all that to me. I will be exposed like a plaything, stared at, gazed at, and I will not be able to run away, hide, cover myself. Run away. Wait. I still have time. I can run away. I have some money. My allowance is direct debited each month to my account. It even continues after mother's death. How is that possible? No doubt, Geoffrey has seen to that. Another thing I have Geoffrey to thank for. I have never spent all of my allowance. Mother always paid for most things, membership of the tennis club, parking space, clothes, gas for the car, maintenance and repairs. I have quite a sum by now. Not nearly enough probably.

But they will chase me. I remember vaguely having read of the very, very exceptional cases of runaway slaves. They have all been caught in the end. They were punished severely. Castration. Cutting of the Achilles tendons. Public flogging. Do they do this with those who run away to escape being indentured? I don't know. I don't know. Probably. Most likely. I can't run away. Where would I go? I don't know how to evade the police. They will catch me and my fate will even be worse than what Geoffrey has described. Oh God, I will be beaten on the ass, like a naughty little child, only harder and in front of Davey and Dan and whoever he chooses to invite. In my own home that will be theirs soon. And I know I will cry out. I will yell and, yes, I will beg, louder and louder. Dan will make sure to invent the most degrading, the most humiliating, the most obscene actions he can make me do or undergo. He will torture me and enjoy it. And the guards will give him a free hand, will welcome it even, encourage him. It is all part of being broken in. Will he rape me? Will he order me to masturbate in public? Very likely. I know he likes to watch that. I will refuse. But the guards will beat me until I do. I will not be able to get an erection. But Dan will fondle my dick until I do. And I will have to let him touch me. My body will react, even if I don't want it to, and in front of everybody my dick will rise. And he will force Davey to watch me, to watch closely, while I stand there, naked, jerking in public, pulling my dick, again and again until I finally come, trying not to moan too hard, while everybody watches me squirm in the heat of my orgasm. And they will laugh. Whatever image Davey has of me will be erased, totally obliterated. There will be nothing I will be able to do to stop it. Within half an hour, sooner, I will be kissing Dan's feet, prostrate naked before him, sobbing, imploring his mercy, while he laughs and laughs and laughs... And I am barely eighteen. I could live to be sixty eight, seventy eight. More than half a century of being ordered around, being humiliated, being nothing, just a thing, having to take it all abjectly, having to undergo everything some perverse overseer or slave handler or evil master wants to do to me... And there is nothing I can do, nothing I can do, nothing...

A vision of Eric flashed before my eyes. My heart started beating faster and faster. I tried to control my feverish, nightmarish phantasms and think, think, think. Think, damn it. But I couldn't think for there was some heavy pounding going on in the inside of my skull and I couldn't control the gruesome images and I felt veins pulsing erratically on my temples. I forgot to breath and a cold hand closed its icy fingers around my wildly beating heart, pressing it, squashing it, harder and harder and harder still.

I fainted.

Chapter 10:

The Longest Week

I couldn't have been out for more than a few minutes. Geoffrey was dabbing my face with a wet towel. “Andrew, Andrew, are you alright?” He sounded really concerned. “O God, I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't know. I only wanted you to realize... Are you alright?” “Yeah, yeah,” I croaked. I wanted that wet towel from my face. Suddenly it all flowed back, but before the desperation could again overwhelm me it was overtaken by an unstoppable urge to revolt. Everything in me rebelled against the very idea that they could only think that they were going to do this to me. In fact, I was livid, raging with fury inside. And like a flash of lightning it came to me, all at once, completely formed. I had my way out and it was so simple. And I had Geoffrey to thank for it. If he hadn't warned me, I would have let Sunday the 28th arrive in

naive ignorance and they would have gotten away with it. All those terrible things my frenzied imagination had shown me would have happened. I shivered, but quickly shook it off. Well, it was not, not, not going to happen. If they had thought they would enslave Andrew Ashton and get rewarded for it to boot, they had another thing coming. I just needed one thing. One thing. “Geoffrey,” I asked as calm as I could, “can you get me a gun?” “I suppose so,” he replied doubtfully, “but—” “Can you get me a gun?” I interrupted him, and I heard the onset of hysteria in my voice. He had heard it too and he decided to do the only thing that can prevent a budding frenzy from developing into full blown panic: give in. “Yes, Andrew, I can get you a gun,” he humored me, “I can get you a gun and I will get you a gun. I promise.” That was enough to reassure me. I had my way out and I felt myself calming down, the onsetting hysteria ebbing away. I almost smiled. “Ahem, might I inquire what exactly you were planning to do with this gun?” Geoffrey asked. I would get them. It was as simple as that. Thank you, Geoffrey. Again. Oh, and thank you father. I used to be angry at you for not being there, for not teaching me things, but you've managed to teach me something after all. You gave me the most important lesson of my life, as it turned out. My plan was simple. No way was I going to allow them to humiliate me. Under no circumstance I was going to docilely hand over my birthright to those crooks. I'd rather die than let myself be degraded for their sick pleasure. And I meant it quite literally. I would serenely wait, one morning, soon, until that dirty rotten bastard John Ridge came down from his room. I would point the gun at him and quietly explain that I knew what he was planning. I would give him plenty of time to let it sink in that his

evil scheme had failed and to realize that his life was over. I would make certain that he knew that his foul son would follow him soon. Then I would shoot him through his alcohol drenched brain and I would patiently wait until Dan came home. At gunpoint I would show him the corpse of his loathsome father. I hoped he would try to talk himself out of it. That he would beg. I hoped his brain would splatter against the wall. At least some boys and girls would never be raped by Dan Ridge, star basketball player. And then I would go for my last walk. Just like my father had done. I would sit down under the big oak tree in my favorite spot in the woods. I've never known just exactly where they found father, I reflected. They only told me he was sitting under a tree. Is it possible? Have I all these years sat and dreamed under the tree where my father had sat down for the last time? Was it the same tree I had gone to so many times for comfort and to find peace of mind. Was it the same tree under which I so recently had almost kissed my love? Well, it would have to bear with me just one more time. The seventh Andrew Nathaniel Ashton would end his life there, just like the sixth had done. All it would take was one moment. It would be so quick that I would feel nothing. One second of courage would save me a lifetime of being defiled. One instant of determination would buy me eternity. And then, sweet oblivion, soothing nothingness. Let Davey have it all, the house, the money. He would take care of Benny. And once in a while, maybe, he would think of me. I must write him a letter to explain everything. To tell him I had loved him. I'll give it to Geoffrey to make sure he gets it. And I must make arrangements, a will, to make sure he gets it all. I told Geoffrey a shortened, sober version of my plan. “Yes,” he said slowly, “we'll call that, ah, plan B.” I looked at him blandly and he snapped his fingers in my face. “Come out of it, Andrew,” he said angrily, “Focus. Are you really going to give up? Are you going to let them win? You're better than that.”

“I don't exactly call blowing away their perverse brains letting them win,” I bit back, suddenly wide awake. “I call that taking revenge.” “Revenge? They are plotting to rob you of your inheritance. If you kill yourself the result will be the same: you not enjoying your house, your land, your money. And isn't there someone you're leaving behind?” Thomson & Meyer Investigations were good, I supposed. “Revenge?” he continued, “They too will be dead and will know nothing. It will be as if it never happened as far as they are concerned. Let me tell you, my young friend, revenge is a dish best served cold. Planned and executed with ice cold determination. Wouldn't you rather turn the tables on them? And stay alive to let them know you were too smart for them? That you outwitted them? Let them stew in that knowledge for years and years to come? Let them regret till the end of their days they had the audacity to try to mess with you? And then, then enjoy your birthright knowing you are safe from those vultures?” He had exhausted himself. I was surprised at the force behind his diatribe. “Look,” he resumed a lot calmer, “I'm sorry I scared you with my, ah, colorful description of what they were planning to do to you. But I had my reasons. I hoped to make you angry. I wanted you lusting for vengeance. I wanted you to know exactly how horrid, how gruesome, how cruel and how unjust the fate was they planned for you, because I hoped it would motivate you, make you resolved enough to do what has to be done. So, are you going meekly to your death or do you want to live and see your enemies destroyed?” Of course I preferred to stay alive. Was there a way? “OK,” I agreed, “I admit that your scenario is far more attractive than mine. But what can I do? John Ridge has access to a lot of money, and he has the law on his side, as you yourself so eloquently demonstrated. And I, what have I?” “You?” he replied, “You, you have me, of course.”

“You?” he replied, “You, you have me, of course.” All the time he had stood before me, the wet towel in one hand. Now he put it on one side of the little table and sat down in his chair. In the voice I was more used to, he began: “First of all: I have a condition. You can not tell anybody, and I mean anybody, what we are about to discuss. Not before, not during, not after. I've learned through bitter experience that it is unwise to volunteer information. Nobody can know. Not even your best friend, a soul mate, the love of your life or whoever else. You may think you know them. You may be right, you may be wrong. I have no way of knowing that. It stays strictly between us. I will need your word on that.” He was taking a gigantic risk and that made it seem fair. Besides, I had no choice, had I? “Rest assured,” I said, “I won't tell.” He didn't reply immediately. “Hm, the first time you said that to me, you were as good as your word. That's good enough for me. I trust you. Now, listen and listen carefully. I'm going to explain what we're going to do. We're going to play dirty, very dirty. We have a lot to discuss and a lot to plan. So, pay attention. You're smart enough. I want you to think with me every step of the way. We will need to be precise and keep a strict time table. And we will need luck.” Geoffrey explained to me that we were going to use two special procedures to get rid of John: voluntary commitment and direct export. “Never heard of them,” I said “That's why I am a fourth generation man of the law and you're not,” he replied dryly. “Whoever would want to become a slave of his own volition?” I asked. “Oh, you would be surprised. Granted, it is not very common. I believe last year there were only forty-three cases in the whole

country. In my book they are all at least in some degree insane. But it happens. The last case I handled myself dates from a few years back. He was a man who barely could support his family. His two children were growing up and he saw no way to pay for their education. He was brought up in the belief that a real man should be able to provide for his family. He wasn't very happy at work, or in his marriage. I suspect his wife partly nagged him into it as well. His children, on the other hand, he loved dearly, so—” “He went into voluntary indentured service?” “Correction: he voluntary committed himself into indentured service. Big difference. I assure you there is nothing voluntary about the indentured service part. Once indentured they're just as much a slave as any other. When he and his wife came to my office to discuss it, I immediately distrusted the woman. I doubted, if it was left to her, that the children would ever see a cent. So, I proposed that the proceeds should go to a trust fund, managed by me, that would pay for their education. The children are at college now and doing well. It was a mixture of being unhappy in his current situation, manly pride and love for his children. I also think he was partly unhinged. “But there are all kinds of reasons. Some have found religion and want to repair some wrongdoing or other. They'd rather do penance now than burn in hell later. If you really believe in that sort of thing, I suppose it can seem the better option. A colleague of mine once had the case of a boy who during his whole life had been emotionally put down by his mother. You know the kind of mother. Constantly telling the boy that he had brought her nothing but sorrow. That he was a good for nothing. That he would never amount to anything. That he was stupid. That he was unattractive and nobody would ever love him except her. That he was ungrateful. That one day he would be the death of her. And so on and so on. If you start that kind of treatment from a young age and keep it up long enough, you can drive any child stark raving mad. On the first day he could legally do it, the day of his eighteenth birthday, he voluntarily committed himself. The proceeds went to the mother. He wanted to make up for all the unhappiness he had brought her.

“You also have people with extreme low self-esteem. There have been cases of people who were convinced they were born slaves. That they needed to be commanded by a master. Who simply didn't want the responsibilities of a free citizen. A girl did it because she was dumped by her boyfriend. She felt her own life was over, but she wanted him to have a good one. So she donated the proceeds to him. As I said, there is something wrong with all of them. Almost every case is different. “For our boy, I have chosen remorse for a wicked lifestyle, and for good measure I added a pinch of the truth. I really enjoyed writing it.” “The other thing, direct export?” I asked. “Ah, yes. In some countries the demand for slaves is higher than the supply, so they're always on the lookout for an opportunity to import them. Some have specialized companies with branches in our country. They buy up slaves to sell in their domestic market. Now, think about it. Why should we go through the expenditure of breaking in a new slave and training him for thirty days, if it is certain that he will leave the country as soon as he's ready for the market? So, foreign companies can apply for a special license as accredited exporters of indentured servants. They regularly let the Bureau know what they are looking for and are supplied when the appropriate slaves become available. In the beginning it was meant as a way to get rid of dangerous criminals permanently. ”When someone is about to be convicted or otherwise committed to indentured service, his data are compared to the lists. If a match is found and there are no further legal objections he can be marked for direct export. He is then delivered directly to the exporter. No breaking in, no training. The only condition is that the slave must be exported within forty eight hours. Because it is guaranteed that they'll soon be out of the country, they are no longer our problem. The country of destination has its own rules and ways of dealing with new slaves anyway. ”That is not the only way they get their merchandise. Let's say

you are a farmer and you want to get rid of some slaves who are becoming too old for work in the fields. You can contact one of the foreign traders. They are in the classifieds. They won't pay you a good price, far from, but they will take them because the demand in their country is so high. Some countries or some companies don't care too much about quality.” I began to see the possibilities. We would have to trick John into signing his own voluntary commitment, and then we could get him out of the country within forty eight hours. It sounded terrible, but I must admit that I liked the idea of having him as far away from me as possible. “Why don't we use this for Dan?” I asked. “Impossible. John will sign the petition Monday. I'm required by law to present it to a judge within two working days. Without direct export you can set a date and time yourself, but with direct export he has to be out of the country within forty eight hours. That would mean that at the very latest Dan would be collected by the BIS next Friday. Don't you think John will notice something? Neither can we eliminate John first, we need him to get rid of Dan. So, you see, it all comes down to exact planning and strict timing. The two enslavements have to take place in quick succession and this is the only way I see how to do it.” “But we're still exporting Dan?” “Yes, but not by direct export. Dan is another case. He is not just some cheap laborer for some third rate company. Whatever you think of him, he is high class merchandise. My guess is he will go to some specialized market. Think of it like this: some countries import used cars and they drive them until they literally fall apart. That doesn't prevent them from also importing brand name cars. We're selling Dan as a brand name car and John as a used one. Different channels, that's all. Let me take care of the details.” “My God, Geoffrey, that's cold,” I reacted, shocked. “Yes, welcome to my world. Being the fourth generation of a family of attorneys will do that to you. In all those years we

have seen many things, been part to many secrets and shoddy deals and we made many connections that are, ah, rather shady. Shady, but useful of course. Father involved me in his business from a young age. It made me very good at my job, but it also made me despise people, I'm afraid. I've often thought that this is why I like boys in the last years of their innocence, just before they become corrupted by the world of grown ups. “Geoffrey, I'm so sorry.” I truly was. “Don't be. I live in a sewer, so I know I stink. After a while you don't smell it yourself anymore.” Geoffrey unfolded his plan in detail. We discussed every phase over and over until we were sure to have covered every angle. When we were done, I let room service bring coffee and sandwiches. The first one I ate fell as a brick in my stomach. The second was better. “There are a few crucial steps that will require an awful lot of undiluted luck,” I said, a little bit unsure. Geoffrey shrugged. “That's always the case. The personality of the persons involved, however, leads me to believe that a good outcome is probable. Not one hundred percent certain, but probable, very probable. It's called taking a calculated risk.” “And that doesn't bother you?” I asked. “It does, but I am used to it.” The wry smile again. “When you're me, you take risks for far more trivial reasons.” I thought I knew what he meant. “Any more questions?” he asked, sipping from his coffee. “Yes. Why?” “You know, they want your money, they are—” “No. Why did you decide to help me at the risk of your own

safety? You violated the sacred trust of your client when you warned me. That alone could get you enslaved. Now we have just planned to conspire against your client and we're planning worse, much worse.” “Oh, that,” he sighed. ”The short answer is that you spared me once from being enslaved myself, and I want to return the favor. I don't know if on it's own it would have been enough, once I had thought through the possible consequences, but there was also our second encounter, ah, in this very room.” “Oh, Geoffrey,” I said, embarrassed, “you know—” “I do know,” he interrupted me. “For you it was probably nothing more than a few minutes of dirty sex, engaged in on a dare. Hormones on the run. For me... Have you any idea what it is to be me? Do you know just how lonely I am? Do you know what they call me, the boys I pay, the boys I pay very well? Do you know how they make me feel? You can't imagine what it meant to me that a handsome boy, a boy I had tried to molest, sitting there in the sun on a bench, unaware of his own sexual magnetism, said to me ‘Hey, it's OK, I understand and I'll even give you what you want as far as I can bear it myself.’ And you were civil about it. How many times before or since, do you think, this has happened to me? Months later the mere memory made my life just that less miserable.” “It was—” “No. I know what you're going to say. That is wasn't that alone. That there was boyish curiosity involved. That you did it without thinking. I don't care. It doesn't matter. None of it does. I looked in your eyes and I saw compassion there. And I, ah, liked you for it, more for that than... than the other thing. Whatever you think it was also, for the greater part it was an act of kindness.” “You never knew it, but you touched my soul,” he added, whispering. He shook his head, stood up, walked to the door and in his normal, businesslike voice said “Please, wait ten minutes before you leave. Don't forget, we'll meet again, here, Monday evening

at seven.” “Geoffrey,” I stammered, deeply impressed, “thank you for this.” He stopped in his tracks, turned around and smiled. It was a full smile, not his usual frugal one. “You're welcome”. With that he went and left me with a feeling of a twisted deja entendu. Geoffrey. From the moment my mother died he had looked out for me. He had arranged that my allowance continued. He had kept an eye on the Ridges. He had warned me of their infamous intrigue and run an enormous personal risk. Without him I would have walked in their trap with my eyes open. And he was going to do more, much more to save me from my enemies. All because of the whim of a fourteen year old boy. So began the longest week of my life. Geoffrey had urged me to act as normal as possible, but that was easier said than done. My nerves were raw ,and my vivid imagination presented me with a myriad of possible ways our plan could go wrong. What if they had changed their mind? What if John went to another attorney? What if they brought the date forward and caught me off guard? I hadn't got my gun yet. Geoffrey would give it to me Monday evening. Until then I was defenseless. I knew that all my doom scenarios were highly improbable, but nevertheless they kept playing again and again in my mind. I stayed till late in the evening in the city, and when I came home I was as quiet as possible. Once in my room I lay on my bed. I tried to read but couldn't concentrate. After a few pages I noticed that my eyes had wandered over the sentences without taking in their meaning, and I had to start the chapter anew. After the second time this happened I gave up. I couldn't sleep. Furtive naps alternated with long periods of tossing around.

Sunday morning I felt like a wreck. And I had still eight days to go before I would be safe. Or dead. Six of them I could do nothing but watch the time slowly pass. That afternoon at the club I was absentminded. The horrible visions kept plaguing me. I didn't take part in the conversation and if I was forced to answer I spoke in monosyllables. Very soon Sean found a way to take me apart. “OK, Andrew,” he said, “something is bothering you. Something big.” I was in two minds. I couldn't lie to him, and neither could I tell him the truth. “Yes, there is something I must take care of. I am sorry, I can't talk about it. Not even with you, although there's nothing in the world I would rather do, believe me. I promised someone that I wouldn't talk about it.” Sean digested this for a moment. “Then you must keep your promise. Just two things. Do you have, whatever it is, under control?” “I think so. Look, as soon as I can I will tell you as much as I can. Sorry.” “No need to be sorry. Just promise me that if you need help you will come to me. No matter what it is.” “Of course. Thank you, Sean.” “OK. I'll see to it that Timmy doesn't ask awkward questions. Are we still on for next Sunday?” “Certainly.” Change nothing, Geoffrey had said. Sean patted me on the shoulder and didn't mention it again, but off and on I saw him glance at me with a worried look on his face. I managed to evade Davey during Sunday and Monday. Once he

knocked at my door, but I didn't open and after a while he went away. Monday evening I was back at the Imperial. Geoffrey stood waiting in the door of room 305 when I came out of the elevator. Room 301 was occupied. “And?” I inquired before the door had closed. “My God, Andrew, you look like shit,” he said. “Yes, thank you, I love you too, Geoffrey,” I quipped, but I wasn't smiling. “How did it go?” “All went well. He came at two in the afternoon. I could smell the liquor on his breath. I don't drink, but I always keep a few bottles at the office and I offered him a large whiskey. He asked if I would have trouble finding an accommodating judge and I let him understand, without really saying anything of course, that I knew a judge who would sign anything for a price.” “Did he believe you?” “Why not? It's the perfect truth. The Right Honorable Stephen Mulligan is as bent as they come. Then I let him sign four copies of the Act of Commitment. I had stacked the documents so that only the top one was completely visible. From the others only the place where he had to sign stuck out. The two top documents were those he expected. So I casually handed him the first to read. When he had finished I placed it back on the stack and he signed all four, without having read the bottom three. ”I'm always surprised how careless people are. He had read the first document, saw that the second looked more or less identical and presumed that the bottom two were also the same. Which of course they were not. When he had signed he remarked on the fact that there were four documents. He thought only two were needed. He was correct of course, but I told him that some judges wanted a copy for their own files and that most attorneys nowadays did the same. He didn't question that. On leaving he laughed and said ‘The arrogant little prick is going to have a hell of a birthday party. The rest of his life he is going to know what it is to do honest work for a change. His

mother has indulged him way too much. Well, that will soon be finished.’ I heartily concurred with him and said that it would serve that spoiled little brat right.” “You took an enormous risk. This could have gone wrong in so many ways.” “Not really. I know his type. They don't like administration and papers. And, naturally, he knows what terrible punishment is dealt out to the attorney who betrays his client's trust. Tampering with official documents is almost unheard of. People tend to trust their attorney implicitly. Why shouldn't they? In almost all circumstances they are right. Also, he has no reason to suspect anything. After all, he thinks that I loathe you. That he was in a good mood, mellow from the whiskey I gave him, helped as well. Excellent whiskey, I'm told. Finally, he is not a very bright man.” “What if he had insisted on seeing the two bottom documents?” “I would have looked at them myself first and, to my horror, I would have found that they contained mistakes. I would never have handed them over to him.” “And then what?” “We would have been in deep shit, and we would have had to think of something else. Of course, as a last resort, you still have plan B.” Only, plan B didn't look all that attractive to me anymore. He saw I looked unsure. “As it is, he signed without problems, and he is unaware of foul play, just like you were a week ago. There must be some poetic justice in there somewhere. It should reassure you he signed them so readily. It makes it very likely that you won't have any difficulties Saturday.” He reached into his briefcase and retrieved two documents. “These may interest you,” he said and handed them over to me. They were the two copies of the Act of Commitment into

Indentured Service that bore my name. These were the two top documents. I read the petition: “Because he is an arrogant and violent person; because it has come to my attention that he has sexually molested and raped several minor boys and girls; because he has threatened the life of these boys and girls if they should go to the authorities; because he has brutally raped my son, David Ridge, a minor...” There followed a lengthy, according to Geoffrey, fairly standard text that explained that it was to be feared that, once an adult, I would inevitably choose a criminal path, making many victims, and that it was in society's best interest that I should not be given this opportunity. “Therefore it is with a heavy heart that, I, John Ridge, his legal guardian, petition the court to commit Andrew Nathaniel Ashton VII, my ward, into lifelong indentured service.” Then followed his name and his signature. There were some boxes. One had all my personal details and one showed the printed sentence ‘Granted by the court‘, with a place for the date, the signature of the judge and his name. To make this a legal document all that was needed was to complete that last box and the seal of the judge. My hand had begun to shake so hard that I could barely read it to the end. Geoffrey had taken a lighter out of his pocket and presented it to me. He pointed to a big, ugly glass fruit bowl that stood on the table. I had to try four, five times before I got the lighter to produce a flame, and then, holding both documents together, I set fire to a corner. I watched them burn, and when the flames began to reach my fingers I dropped them in the bowl. I crushed the ashes, took the fruit bowl to the bathroom and flushed the content. Only when I saw the last bits of ash disappear I breathed easier. “Thank you,” I said as I handed the lighter back to Geoffrey. “I thought you might like to do that yourself. Feel better?” I nodded.

“Well, these will make you feel even better,” he continued and took two other documents out of his briefcase and handed them to me. “The two bottom documents.” At first sight they looked identical to the ones I had just burned, except where my name had been, now it read ‘Dan Ridge’. There were also small differences in the petition. The main part was the same, but it ended with “Therefore it is with a heavy heart that, I, John Ridge, his father, petition the court to commit Dan Ridge, my son, into lifelong indentured service.” His personal details replaced mine in the appropriate box. There was yet another difference. In a box marked ‘Transference of Ownership’ I read “to: Andrew Nathaniel Ashton VII”. It was followed by my address and National Identification Number. Under that it said “represented by: Geoffrey Singer; Singer & Singer, Atty.” and his address. I asked Geoffrey if this was really necessary. “I'm afraid so. We discussed this Saturday. This part is a bit of a mess, you see. If we leave that box blank, Dan Ridge, once indentured, becomes the property of John Ridge. He isn't enslaved because he was convicted of a crime or because there are debts to pay. So, John Ridge can do as he pleases. Put him up for auction, or sell him off directly if he finds a buyer. As we hope that soon John won't be around anymore, Dan becomes part of the Ridge estate. That goes to David and Benny Ridge when they reach their majority. In the meantime you will be their legal guardian, but you can't touch their inheritance. To make matters even more complicated: John has no attorney. His investments are managed by his bank. It is a legal nightmare to determine who can make decisions about Dan. “This is much simpler. You'll become the full owner of Dan Ridge. As your attorney I will sell him off Monday, first thing, just like we agreed. There is this trader company I have done business with before. Their main activity is buying up slaves domestically and exporting them. They'll want to go to the Center to examine and inspect the merchandise, of course, but I

expect no difficulties there. They will be glad to have him. Dan is in good shape. Your age class is the most expensive, but we'll sell him off far beneath his market value. After his obligatory thirty days in the Center he will be shipped immediately to one of their foreign branches. That will be the end of it. I want him out of the way for good, Andrew.” “And it won't raise suspicions?” “Of course not. On the contrary, this is one of the reasons why the system was invented. They will simply suppose that John owed you something and that this is his way of paying you. Besides, nobody is interested.” “Well, it's wrong to treat people like cattle.” “I agree. Just remember that this was exactly how they were going to treat you.” He was right of course. There was nothing else I could do, short of murdering them and bear the consequences. And those consequences would be to kill myself or be enslaved. I hadn't started this horrible mess, and if I wanted to get out of it unharmed this was the only way. That didn't mean that I had to like it, though. “I'll present the papers to Judge Mulligan tomorrow,” Geoffrey said. “And you are certain the judge will sign?” “Oh yes, why wouldn't he? The paperwork is in order. If he finds the petition reasonable, he'll sign. And I know his honor personally. He sees us as brothers.” “Brothers?” Geoffrey hesitated for a moment. I saw him vacillating between two of his rules. Which would he choose: ‘don't volunteer information’ or ‘take a calculated risk’. He chose the latter. “The judge likes little girls. We met, by coincidence, in, ah, a specialized establishment. We recognized each other, and since then he seems to think we have a special bond. Brothers in arms and all that. You could also say that we are joined by the possibility of mutual blackmail. Though to you they might seem

similar, I find there is a world of difference between having sex with willing adolescent boys and, ah, penetrating ten year old, screaming and crying girls. Nevertheless, I cultivated this quite useful, albeit distasteful connection. ” I didn't know what to say. Geoffrey looked thoroughly unhappy. “There is not much beauty in my life, Andrew, so you see, when once in a while it does come along, I appreciate it,” he said with a lopsided smile. “Anyway, the judge will sign, believe me. Then I go to the Center to book a squad for Sunday evening.” He went to one of the armchairs and brought back a brown paper bag. He took out a gun. “I promised you a gun. It's not very big, but it will do the job. It's a semi-automatic, 9 millimeter, with a box magazine in the handle that contains ten bullets. In the bag are two spare box magazines.” He showed me several times how to use it, where the safety was and how to load a new magazine. It was not very complicated, and after a while I was sure I could use it effectively. For the first time since this nightmare had begun I felt safe. Whatever they tried to do, I would at least see it coming with a few minutes to spare. I needed only about thirty seconds to escape them forever. I put it in the waistband of my pants. I felt its pressure on my belly, but I didn't mind, on the contrary, it gave me a sense of security, knowing that it was there. If I wore a sweatshirt it would be invisible. Geoffrey also gave me a container with tablets. “They will help you sleep and relax. They're rather mild, yet effective. Don't take more than seven or eight a day. Sorry, I should have thought of that last Saturday.” We made a new appointment for Friday evening to go over the last details of how I should handle John. I left the Imperial first and drove straight home. Once in my room I took four of the tablets. I put the gun under my pillow.

Soon I fell in a dreamless sleep. Although I had slept soundly, I woke up with a startle. I had the feeling, not of waking up from a nightmare, but of rising into one. The precariousness and the insecurity of my situation forced themselves immediately upon me. I tried to appease them with a warm shower, clean clothes, my gun in my waistband, a tablet and a few cups of hot coffee. I was just starting my third cup when I heard a knock on the door. Davey. “Andrew, are you in?” I could no longer avoid him, I decided, so I opened the door and let him in. He looked at me anxiously. “Have I done something wrong, Andrew?” he asked. “It's like you run away from me every time you see me and you don't look very happy.” Neither did he. Geoffrey had stressed the importance of keeping Davey in the dark. “You can't tell him anything. There are too many unknowns. You may think that he has no loyalty to his relatives who at best have ignored him, but you don't know how he will react when push comes to shove. Furthermore, a chance remark, an angry retort or a slip of the tongue may be all that is needed to wake their suspicion. We simply can't take the risk. What he doesn't know he can't betray, accidentally or on purpose.” I had to agree. A lot depended upon keeping them convinced that I suspected nothing. We couldn't risk even an unintentional indiscretion. I had known that this moment would come, and I had tried to prepare some plausible yet harmless reply. But I had been stressed the last days and nothing suitable had come to mind. At the best of times even something as trivial as writing a birthday dedication was agonizing for me, for heaven's sake. The net result was that I improvised. “No, you haven't done anything wrong, Davey,” I said. “It's me, not you. Do you think you could give me some time? There's something I need to figure out.”

something I need to figure out.” I know, far from brilliant, but I dared not be more explicit. “Of course, if you wish”, he replied evenly, but I could see in his eyes that he was not only disappointed, but deeply, deeply hurt. “I'll leave you to it then.” Without waiting for a reply he turned on his heels and left. I felt despondent, remorseful, guilty and very lonely all at once. For a moment I wanted to run after him, grab him by the arm, drag him back in my room and tell him everything, everything there was to know. But I knew I couldn't. Instead, I shouted in my head to hang in there, to wait, not long, less than a week, a few days. I had promised to tell nothing, even afterwards. Well, screw that. Monday I would tell Davey as much as was needed to take his hurt away, to make him see that I had not casually stepped on his heart, to repair whatever damage I had done. Still, I felt like a mean dog. Only later I realized that, to make things even worse, I had used a classic break up line. ‘It's me, not you.’ Indeed. During the rest of the week I didn't see Davey again. I sometimes heard him on the hallway, but he seemed to avoid me at all cost. Like I had avoided him.

I began to fear that in the end, however this turned out, John and Dan would manage to rob me of something priceless after all.

Chapter 11:

A Corrupt Judge and Other Criminals

The most horrible week of my life had seemed interminable, but finally Friday evening came along and we were back at the Imperial. We went in detail over what I would have to do tomorrow. He gave me a little bottle and asked if there was a place nearby my home where he could wait without being seen. I gave him directions to the place between the bushes in the driveway, where Dan had raped Toby. I told him he would be as good as invisible. It was Saturday morning. Finally. I hadn't slept very long, yet I felt energetic. I knew it would be a long day, but the hardest part of my job would be over around noon. This was it. One throw of the dice. All or nothing. Of course, the dice were loaded.

I felt strangely stimulated. I took two of the tablets Geoffrey had given me. Around nine o'clock, I put my gun in my waistband, put on a sweater and went downstairs, to the kitchen and made myself a sandwich and coffee. I usually drank coffee in my room, but today I wanted to be in the kitchen bright an early. Early for a Saturday morning, that is. I couldn't risk missing John, although I knew that on a Saturday he usually got up around eleven. He seldom deviated from his routines, but you never knew for sure with someone like him. The house was quiet. Dan had already left for the motivational weekend with his basketball team. I knew because I was awake when he left his room, and I had heard him pass my door. I went to the bar in the living room and took the little bottle Geoffrey had given me out of my pocket. I placed it behind some glasses. You had to know it was there to see it. The documents and the pen I had brought down I kept with me. The top document bore the letterhead of Lautner, Cavill & Pattinson. The letterhead was fake, the firm was real. Geoffrey had prepared them. I made a second sandwich, but didn't touch it. I turned my chair, so that I could see the great room that had no other function than connecting the others. On one side it led to the kitchen, on the other to the living room, on yet another to the hall, from which you could reach the left wing, where we youngsters had our rooms, and on the last side was a passage that led to the right wing, where John slept. I took my phone and dialed. I let it ring once and hung up. Almost immediately my phone rang. Once. That meant Geoffrey was already there. I waited patiently until John would arrive. Quarter to eleven I made a fresh pot of coffee. Around eleven I became a little worried. Had he left the house before nine? Unlikely. Some ten minutes later I heard stumbling coming from the passageway. I poured a cup of coffee and began eating my second sandwich. John appeared in his robe and slippers. He had already washed and shaved. He seemed unpleasantly surprised that I was there, but grumbled something that could be interpreted as good morning.

“Morning”, I said, “the coffee is fresh. Help yourself.” He muttered “Thanks”, made himself two sandwiches and sat down opposite me. I let him finish his breakfast and let him pore a second cup. “John,” I began, “I would like to have a word with you.” Now that he had something in his stomach he was in a better mood. “Sure,” he said, “what about?” “About our living arrangements. You know that on Monday I'll be eighteen, and to be honest, I want you and Dan out of my house.” This, Geoffrey had said, will prove to him that you suspect nothing. It will make him think that the only thing on your mind is planning your future. John raised his eyebrows. He could have easily brushed me off. As far as he knew I wouldn't be around anymore come Monday, but, as Geoffrey had suspected, he decided to play a little with me. Or maybe he decided to act just as I would expect him to, so as not to raise my suspicions. “You'll just have to give notice, won't you?” “Yes, but that will mean I'll still have you around for a year. I want you out by next Friday.” He looked at me with a mocking smile. “Furthermore”, I continued, “I want you and Dan gone, but I want Davey and Benny to stay. If you agree, I'm prepared to pay you a lot of money. You know mother involved me in her financial dealings. Before she married you, we had you checked out of course, so I know roughly what you're worth.” I reached for the documents. “I have asked Lautner, Cavill & Pattinson, my new attorneys, to draw up a legal document that makes it all binding. If you would like to look at the last clause,” and here I handed him the top document, “you will see that you will more than double your assets if you agree. I would think the choice is simple: leave in a week with a lot of money or leave in a year with nothing. And let's be honest, it's no secret that you don't

like Davey and that you don't care about Benny.” “I see you have thought this through,” he drawled. “There are three ways he could react,” Geoffrey had said. “He can flatly deny you and refuse to sign. In that case you threaten him with the gun. You will have to make it very believable. You must really make him fear for his life. If you succeed in doing that, he will sign. He has no reason not to. He saves his life, and he is convinced he will never have to honor the agreement anyway. He could try to evade and say that he must think about it, that he will sign later or something like that. You must insist he signs immediately. If he refuses, we're back to the gun. He could also decide to humor you and sign because he believes it is of no consequence anyhow. If he hesitates you could try to feign becoming suspicious. He will see that it is in his interest to not arouse your distrust. He wants you and your friends there on Sunday evening, and he wants the surprise to be complete, because that will bring him the most satisfaction. He may not be that smart, but he is cruel.” John was still reading the document. “Oh, by the way,” I added, “I need you to sign this now. I want to go to my attorneys first thing Monday morning and have it registered. Who knows if we'll see each other again this weekend. I also want to show it to my friends on my birthday party.” “I see,” was his only reaction. “I don't understand,” I insisted, “why you're still hesitating. My attorneys have assured me that this offer should be irresistible. You can't possibly hope to make that much money in fifteen years. I thought you would have jumped at it, seeing that the alternative is leaving with nothing in a year.” I remained silent for a few moments. “John, do you know something I don't?” I then added in a suspicious tone. He startled, but managed to keep himself under control. This was indeed the last thing he wanted. I saw in his eyes that he had made his decision. He was going to play along.

had made his decision. He was going to play along. “No, no, dear boy,” he replied quickly in an oily voice, “I was just overcome by the generosity of your offer. You're right, maybe we'd better put an end to this situation as soon as possible. Where do I sign?” “Come over here,” I said, not believing my luck. “The table is cleaner here.” I pointed to where the other three documents lay. I took the one he was holding and put it seemingly nonchalantly but precisely in it's place on the little stack. I gave him the pen and put my right hand firmly upon the papers, so that he could not inadvertently move them. With my other hand I pointed out the places where he had to sign. “There, there, there and there. Sorry, seems they need four copies nowadays”. “I know,” he said and in quick succession signed four times. “His own attorney has already explained why there are four copies. He will not be suspicious, on the contrary it will give him a sense that all is as it should be,” Geoffrey had said. John smiled at me. Maybe he meant it to be a charming gesture, but I saw crude triumph shining through. “You're right you know,” he said, “a man should be master in his own house. I understand that.” “I am glad you think so,” I replied, producing a charming smile of my own, while clamping the documents in my sweaty hand, “and what would you say if we celebrated our new understanding with a glass of fine whiskey?” Of course he couldn't resist. He was well underway to becoming an alcoholic by now. He was used to drinking his first glass before noon, and he must already be feeling the urge for a drink. I offered to fetch the drinks and went to the bar, taking the signed documents with me. I poured the contents of the little bottle Geoffrey had given me in a glass and then added whiskey until it was half full. In a second glass I poured about a finger's worth. The documents I hid behind some bottles. I was not going to let him change his mind at the last moment.

“Having one yourself, are you?” he remarked, when I handed him the fuller glass. “I'll be eighteen in two days after all,” I shrugged. “Right you are,” he grinned, “at your health and a very, very long life.” He gulped a third of the glass in one go. The son of a bitch was mocking me. “A man's eighteenth birthday is an important occasion,” he resumed, and I saw the evil flickering in his eyes. “The whole world opens up wide for him, and that's even more true for you with your fortunate background. You can look forward to a beautiful future.” He laughed and took another swig. Drink it to the bottom, you ugly dumb fuck, I thought, you've already signed your depraved son into slavery, and you just did the same with yourself and you don't even know it. He emptied the glass. “Well, I've got to go”, he said and stood up... and immediately sat back down again. He tried to get up a second time, slower now, swayed, sank back down again. This time he couldn't even remain seated. He grabbed the edge of the table, looking at me with surprise and suspicion, but he couldn't hold on and dropped to the floor. I took my phone and redialed the number I had called earlier. I let it ring three times and hung up. I rinsed and dried the two whiskey glasses and brought them back to the bar. Through the great windows I saw Geoffrey's car arriving. “Had any trouble?” he asked. “Not at all,” I replied calmly. Then he saw John lying on the kitchen floor. “Good, he's wearing only his robe and underwear. Where's the pantry?”

We had discussed this last night. We had to have a place to temporarily keep John. I had proposed the pantry, which in our house was a small room in it's own right. Out of the brown paper bag he was carrying, Geoffrey produced wrist and ankle cuffs. We had to roll John over so he could put the hand cuffs on. Then he fastened the ankle cuffs. We dragged him into the pantry, and I closed the door, locked it, and put the key in my pocket. Geoffrey had said he would be out of it for at least ten hours, but I wasn't going to take any risks. We sat at the bar while Geoffrey looked at the papers. He handed me the dummy agreements to destroy later. The two documents we were going to use were titled “Act of Voluntary Commitment into Indentured Service” in big black letters. Geoffrey had called Judge Mulligan yesterday, ten minutes before close of business. He had excused himself profusely and said that he had a petition that needed signing and that there was no way he could make it in time to the judge's chambers. He also stressed that the same client had entrusted him with a sizable amount of cash money, which said client wanted to go to charity, and that he didn't know how exactly to deal with it. He felt uncomfortable having it around. It was all rather complicated, and the client hoped that the matter could be concluded as soon as possible. So, was there any chance the judge could see him privately, let's say, tomorrow, Saturday? The judge had assured Geoffrey that he always had time to receive an old friend. “And to receive cash money, of course,” Geoffrey had added. He took a big, bulging manila envelope out of his briefcase. It was filled with banknotes. “I think dear Stephen will find this irresistible,” he chuckled. “By the way, I advanced the money, you will pay me back in small amounts over the next three years. Don't worry, you can well afford it. It's even sound business. You will get much more for John and Dan.” He put the manila envelope and the two Acts in his briefcase.

Then he went to see the judge. He would be away until late afternoon. I burned the two fake agreements in an ice bucket and flushed the ashes in the toilet in the hall. I had locked the door of the pantry, yet I didn't dare go too far away from the kitchen. After about half an hour I heard a noise coming from the stairway to the left wing. That could only be Davey. On the spur of the moment I decided to hide in the pantry, which I locked from the inside. It was unlikely he would need something out of it, but if he did, he would find the door locked and give up. He wasn't going to force the door for a tin of beans, was he? I heard him enter the kitchen and I tried to be as quiet as I could, sitting on the floor beside John's unconscious body. I hope he doesn't begin to snore, I thought. Do sedated people snore? There were a lot of different noises coming from the kitchen. I recognized cabinets opening and closing, drawers, the refrigerator, rattling of plates, the gurgling of the coffee machine. After a while I heard more rattling of kitchenware, water running, sloshing, drawers and cabinets. Finally I heard him leave. I waited a few minutes to make sure he was really gone. When I came out of the pantry I saw that Davey had cleared the kitchen table and washed up the cups and plates John and I had left behind. The place was spotless. I went to the living room and sat down in one of the chairs. I was just leafing listlessly through some magazines when I heard him coming down again. There was no time to reach the kitchen, let alone lock myself in the pantry, so I hid behind the bar. He didn't come in, but went out the front door. From behind the bar I raised my head just enough to be able to look through the windows. I saw him walking past with Benny in a baby carrier strapped to his chest. Benny was laughing and clutching a tiny fist around one of Davey's fingers while clawing at his face with his other hand. Davey was laughing too. He also had a bag on his shoulder. I knew, from experience, what it contained. Several things to change Benny should he need it, some snacks, something to drink and a book. He was going for a longer walk. Good, he wouldn't be back before five or six.

Good, he wouldn't be back before five or six. I'm an idiot, I know and I also know I had no right to, but suddenly I was jealous. I felt betrayed. He was going on our walk on his own. Without me. It bothered me, it stung. And again I was tempted to run after him, to explain everything. But again I came to my senses. It would have to wait till next week. Monday couldn't come soon enough. I followed him with my eyes, while he made his way through the fields, until I lost sight of him. Meanwhile, Geoffrey had arrived at the judge's residence. As he explained later that day in the car, the judge had opened the door himself and invited him directly into his study. He sat behind his desk and offered Geoffrey the chair in front of it. “So, dear Geoffrey,” the judge had said, “what can I do for you?” “My dear Stephen,” Geoffrey had replied, ”I have a bit of a problem. I have a client who wants to voluntarily commit himself into indentured service,” and he had handed the Act to the judge, “and I'm afraid I have failed him. You see, it is a very sad story. My client has led a life full of crime, but some time ago his conscience began bothering him. He sought and found spiritual guidance, and after many months of reflection he wanted to make amends for his wicked life. His eldest son has followed in his evil footsteps. Of course, he pleaded with him to mend his ways and to become an honest man. But the young man was stubborn and refused to change his disgraceful ways. At last my client saw no other solution than to commit him into indentured service lest poor, honest citizens should become his victims.” “Very commendable,” dear Stephen had responded. “This noble action however,” Geoffrey had continued, “stirred his conscience again and after consulting with his spiritual advisor and many hours of meditation he came to the conclusion that it would be hypocritical to let his son undergo his deserved punishment, while at the same time taking no such consequences himself. At long last he became convinced that to

save his eternal soul, he should go the same way that he had made his son walk. Before his repentance he had plotted to rob his ward of his rightful inheritance, and therefore he thought it would be proper that the proceeds should go to this young man.” At this point he had taken the manila envelope out of his briefcase, making sure the judge saw that it was full of banknotes, and placed it between them, in the middle of the desk. “A long time ago my client has swindled many honest people out of their savings. He has never dared put this ill begotten money in a bank, but has kept it in cash for the last twenty years. He wanted to give the money back, but he couldn't remember who he had stolen it from. It was such a long time ago, that it would be impossible to find his victims. It is doubtful that they're even still alive.” The judge heard: this cash money is totally untraceable. “So my client has entrusted it to me to give it to a worthy charity. But, Stephen, I must confess that charity is not my area of expertise. I would have to do a lot of research, and I am already pressed for time as it is. I seem to remember that you, on the other hand, are involved in a few charities yourself.” Mainly the Stephen Mulligan Support Fund. “I'm always glad to help if it is within my power,” Mulligan had assured him, eyeballing the envelope. “My client would like to commence his penance as soon as possible,” Geoffrey had resumed. “He is afraid that his resolve might waver. I meant to present you with his petition yesterday, but a combination of too much work and some unforeseen circumstances prevented me from being on time. My client will be very disappointed. For him every day that he hasn't begun paying for his sins is agony. I must confess that I feel guilty. I was wondering if you could sign his petition today. I had already prepared it and so it is dated yesterday. Would that be an unsurmountable obstacle?” He had laid one hand on the manila envelope as if making ready

to take it back. “Naturally, Stephen,” he had continued, “ I would understand if it were. You are the judge after all, and if you think this would be irregular—” “Irregular?” the judge had protested, looking at Geoffrey's hand on the envelope, “but of course not, dear Geoffrey. I am sure you did everything you could to be on time yesterday. I know how busy you are. The actual signing is just a technicality. Being a judge is not just a job, you know, it is an office, and you don't stop being a judge just because it is the weekend. No, it would be a shame to prevent this poor man from making amends. In my view it would be a perversion of justice. Who are we to stand between a man and his conscience?” Geoffrey took his hand from the manila envelope. “My client,” Geoffrey added, “also wants to do his penance as far away as possible from the scene of his crimes. He has begged me to be allowed to be exported. The added burden would comfort his soul, he says. Do you think we could indulge his wishes?” He handed the judge the Direct Export of Indentured Servants form. “I can't see why not. But, Geoffrey, won't that make things difficult for you? The Act is dated yesterday. That means he must be out of the country by tomorrow.” Geoffrey had assured him that he had the necessary contacts and that ‘his client’ would leave tonight. The judge had fired up his computer and checked the signature with the national registry. Then he had signed and put his seal on the documents. They had engaged in private conversation, about which Geoffrey didn't elaborate. When leaving the study he had left the manila envelope lying on the judge's desk, thanking him for relieving him of this burden. Geoffrey was back at my house around four o'clock. We carried John with some difficulty to his car and laid him on the back

seat. Earlier I had got my jacket and a blanket from my room. After we had draped the blanket over him, it looked as if he was asleep. “What if we are stopped?” I asked. “No problems, I have all my credentials in my briefcase. I'll just tell the truth. We are delivering a voluntary committed indentured servant to a company for direct export. Always tell the truth. As much of it as possible.” I looked in the direction of the fields, but I couldn't see Davey anywhere. We were leaving the driveway. I'm a criminal, I thought. I am abducting a free citizen, who I have conned into signing an Act of Voluntary Commitment which was countersigned by a corrupt judge, and I am going to sell him to some fishy foreign company, and all this with the help of a shady lawyer. But I also understood why Geoffrey had told me of Dan's and John's plan in such painstaking and horrifying detail. It made me feel better about what we were doing.

Somewhat anyway.

Chapter 12:

The Brazilian Connection

It was a long drive. Geoffrey had taken the highway, and after he had told me about his visit to judge Mulligan, we drove on silently for a few hours with an unconscious John Ridge on the backseat. Once in a while I glanced over my shoulder, but he was still out of it. We passed the state line, passed a big city and some smaller towns. Finally, when it had begun to darken, we left the highway. “Just exactly where are we going?” I asked. “To a small export company I've done business with before. They represent about a dozen Brazilian companies that are always in need of new slaves. They are not picky, provided the merchandise is cheap. They don't care about rules, as long as they don't get in trouble. I call it my Brazilian connection. I've phoned them yesterday and roughly described the goods, so they know we are coming. For us the main advantage is that they have their own plane and that they have daily flights,

weekends included, to Brazil. In a few hours John Ridge, or the former John Ridge as he will be by then, will have left the country.” We passed a medium sized town and we arrived at an airfield. It was rather busy and I could see two planes waiting for take off. I thought we had reached our destination, but Geoffrey drove past it. After a mile or three he turned to the left, and suddenly we were on a small, deserted road. When we came at an iron gate, Geoffrey got out and walked up to a booth and spoke to the man inside it. While he returned to the car, the gate was already opening. Once inside I could see that we were at a remote corner of the airfield we had seemingly passed. Three dilapidated hangars stood side by side. Geoffrey slowly drove up to the last one, got out again and walked up to the side of an enormous door and pushed a button. Above the door I could see a name in badly peeling paint. ‘Something Something Export do Brazil’ was all I could make out. The door opened on its rail just enough to let a car through. Once inside Geoffrey immediately took a sharp turn to the right. Yellow lines indicated three parking spaces. Behind the big door a plane, that looked as battered as the hangar, was waiting. Its loading hatch at the back was open. Several mechanics were coming and going. Behind the plane, against the wall sat twelve figures on the ground, evenly divided between men and women. They were all naked and wore hand and ankle cuffs. The ankle cuffs were attached with a chain to a thick iron bar that was secured to the ground. Somewhat more to the right were three doors. In the middle of the wall stood a big rack with boxes and crates and all kind of loose parts of machinery. In the left corner was a little office with small windows. Roughly in the middle of the hangar was a square marked by thick red lines, painted on the floor. On the four corners stood short, thick posts. At the back of the area there were some crates and something that looked like a detachable shower head. Two laborers were coming towards us.

“Ah, Mr. Singer,” one of them said, “I think it's the first time that I've known you to make a delivery yourself. You have a boy for us, it seems?” The other one nodded. “Rick, Jack,” Geoffrey nodded back. Rick, the one who had spoken, seemed to be one of those born optimists. Geoffrey opened the back door of the car. The men dragged John, who was still unconscious, out of it. They removed the robe and threw it on the backseat. “Good,” Rick said, “he's already mostly undressed. Less work for us.” “You better gag him before you wake him,” Geoffrey said while he removed the hand and ankle cuffs. “We had to drug him to keep him calm”. “Thanks for the tip,” Rick replied. The men carried John to the left corner where the naked figures sat and shackled him on hands and feet. Jack opened one of the doors and yelled something. A scruffy looking man with a stethoscope appeared, went over to John and began examining him. “Come,” Geoffrey said, and we walked to the office. The manager of the place was a thick-set, balding man. It was clear that he and Geoffrey had met before. He rifled through the documents Geoffrey had given him. The doctor came into the office. “The boy is a bit out of shape,” he said, “and he has a swollen liver. He should stop drinking, but I doubt that wherever he's going they'll be serving champagne with his meals. Nothing else wrong with him. Should have a good few years in him. Let's say, an F.” “Oh, come on,” Geoffrey said, “he's at least an E and you know it.” The doctor shrugged and left the office. It was not his problem.

The manager and Geoffrey haggled for a while. “OK,” Geoffrey gave in, “I'll let you have him at grade F rate, but I want him to go to the Xavier Brandao Mines.” The manager consulted his computer. “Done,” he said and they shook hands. “We would like to see him off. Would you mind us staying till the plane leaves?” Geoffrey asked. “No, not at all. Be my guest. By the time you're ready to leave I will have your check, the invoice and the export certificate ready.” The great doors of the hangar opened just enough to let a little van enter. It stopped in the parking space next to ours, and a uniformed man got out. Rick came to meet him. They as well seemed to know each other. “Captain Tyler, what have you got for us today?” he inquired cheerfully while he opened the back doors of the van. “Ha, I see. Come. Come out, son,” he added. A boy of about sixteen years came out of the back and looked timidly around. He had thick, half long black hair and wore jeans and a shirt. He wasn't exactly handsome, but he had nevertheless a very pleasant face. I don't know why, but he reminded me of Davey, although he looked nothing like him. Maybe because they were about the same age. Rick led him by the shoulder to the area between the red lines. The captain took a clipboard out of the front of the van and walked to the office. Through the window I could see that documents were exchanged and signatures were placed. “He's all yours,” the captain yelled at Rick when he returned. He got in his van, the door opened a little to let him through and he was gone.

“Yeah,” Rick said to the boy in a regretful tone, “I'm afraid I'm going to need you out of those clothes, son.” The boy didn't respond, but looked nervously around him. Then he looked, almost pleading, up to Rick. “I've got to do my job, son,” he said. The boy still hesitated. “Listen,” Rick tried to help, “if it would make it easier, I can do it for you. You just close your eyes and pretend you're somewhere else. Just let yourself be handled. I'll be real quick and gentle about it.” The boy considered this for a few moments. “That's alright, sir, I'll do it myself,” he decided and slowly began unbuttoning his shirt. Rick watched him with his hands planted firmly in his side. Rick was not only a born optimist, but also a natural psychologist. Distract him, keep him talking, he must have thought. He could have chosen a better subject, though. “How come you're here, son? You don't look like a thug. Are you a little thief?” Coming from Rick it sounded kind. “No, sir.” He was still unbuttoning his shirt. “My dad and me, we live in a trailer. My mom has left us. Since last year dad has a new girlfriend. She doesn't like the trailer and she doesn't like me.” He took of his shirt. “Just throw it on the ground behind you,” Rick said. The boy did so. “It got ever worse,” the boy continued. “Lately they were always fighting. Why couldn't they live in a proper house, Monica said. Monica is my dad's girlfriend. And why can't he — that's me — live with his grandmother? But grandma is in and out of the hospital.” He knelt down to unlace his shoes. “And this morning, around eleven, Monica said she was going out, shopping. I

thought that was strange. She never goes shopping on her own on a Saturday. They always go together, in the afternoon, with the car. And my dad was very nervous. Shortly before noon he said he had to talk to me. He said he was deep in debt, and that he was very sorry, but that he had seen no other way out. I told him I didn't have to go to school, that I could get a job to help him pay off his debts. He said, sorry, but it's a done deal. And a few minutes later a van stopped by the trailer and they took me away. They put me in a cell the whole afternoon, and then they brought me here.” The boy took his shoes off and then his socks. He put one sock in each shoe. “That's a rough deal, son,” Rick said, shaking his head. “I think Monica and my dad will be moving into a proper house soon,” the boy sighed. Even Rick didn't know how to answer that. “Listen, son, you finish up while I go get your collar. You're not going to try anything funny, are you? You can't get away, you know, it's all closed up.” The boy shook his head. He wasn't going to try anything funny. Rick went to the office and returned a few minutes later with a collar. In the meantime the boy had removed his jeans and stood waiting in his boxers. He looked in our direction and quickly away again. Rick put the collar around his neck and tried to close it. “Christ. There must be some knack to these Brazilian pieces of crap, but I'll be damned if I know what it is.” Finally, with a dry click, the collar closed. “Finish up, son,” Rick said to the boy. “There are people...” the boy stated morosely and nodded in our direction. “Yeah, you see, the thing is, you're going to have to get used to that sooner or later. Sooner, I guess. So, why not right now?” “Couldn't I—”

“'Fraid not, son,” Rick interrupted, but you could hear that if it had been up to him he would have let the boy keep his boxers a while longer. The boy bowed to the inevitable. He tried to put a brave face on it. A brave, red face. He dropped his boxers very quickly, stepped out of them, shoved them with his bare feet behind him and covered his private parts with his hands before standing upright again. He looked apprehensively around him. At that moment the manager came out of the office. “Rick,” he yelled, “the last two arrivals are both for the Xavier Brandao outfit.” “And you tell me now,” Rick yelled back, “the plane leaves in half an hour. They're the ones that want them shaved, right?” “Yes. Sorry, Rick, I forgot. Jack will come help you in a minute.” I looked questioningly at Geoffrey. “Most of the Brazilian mining companies want their slaves hairless,” he explained. “It's an hygienic thing. Prevents lice and all that. Also, it makes them more recognizable. The work is very dirty and hard. Clothes get filthy real quick and wouldn't last long anyway. The climate permits to keep them naked all the time. So they economize on the cost of clothes. When they come out of the mines they simply hose them off. Being hairless makes that more practical.” I was dumbfounded and sure I had turned a few shades paler. Not that Geoffrey seemed to notice. Rick meanwhile had fetched working gloves and an electric shear from the rack which he plugged in an outlet in one of the poles. He put on the gloves. He sat down on the ground before the boy and began shaving his legs. The boy had quite hairy legs and arms, and surprisingly little hair in other places. “Oh,” the boy gasped. Rick immediately held the shear away from his body. “Have I nicked you, son? I thought I was being careful.” “No, sir,” the boy replied tearfully, “I just remembered I was supposed to meet my girlfriend this evening. Heather will be

wondering why I haven't shown up.” Rick shook his head and continued shaving the boys legs. “Turn around for me, son,” he said after a while and the boy did. When he had finished, he cleared his throat. “Do you think you could bend over for me, son, I have to shave you between your...” The boy meekly obliged. Rick tried to create an opening, big enough for his shear, between the boy's butt cheeks, but with only one gloved hand at his disposal that proved difficult. He groped around for a while with little success. “Work with me here, son, could you hold them open yourself?” With outstretched fingers the boy kept his butt cheeks wide apart. “O, there's not much there,” Rick said encouragingly, “I'll be finished real quick.” He was. “OK, son, you can turn back around.” The boy turned. He was covering his private parts again. “Sorry, but I have to shave you there,” Rick said. Completely demoralized the boy gave up his last shred of privacy and let his arms drop beside him. Rick shaved his underbelly. Before he began shaving his bush, he cupped the boy's dick in his gloved hand to protect it from the shear. The boy flinched and tried desperately to find with his eyes a point in the distance to cling on to. He bit his lower lip. Rick's well meant gesture had given him an erection, and it was showing. Silent tears fell down his cheek. “Don't be embarrassed, son. It would happen to any of us.” Rick said very softly, but you could tell that he himself felt that it was of little to no comfort. He tried to finish the job as quickly as he could, but to get to all the hairs he had to manipulate the now stiff dick and the ball sack in all directions. It didn't help the boy who kept silently

weeping while he had to let a stranger handle his private parts. When he had finished, Rick stood up and stretched. The boy tried to cover his erection by firmly pressing his stiff dick against his belly with both outstretched hands. “Yeah, you see, that's not going to work, son, I have to shave your pits. Lift your arms, please.” Now the boy gave up completely. With an agonized face he raised his arms and let his dick flop down. A passing mechanic saw his erection and whistled his approval loudly. The boy died inside. He tried to evade the gaze of the mechanic by turning his head and our eyes inadvertently crossed. Like a trapped animal he quickly looked away, as if searching for a getaway. There was none. Rick worked very fast now. “We're almost done,” he said when he had finished shaving the boy's arms and pits. The boy still had an erection, but his tears had stopped. But when Rick began shaving his head, and he saw the first thick strands of black hair falling to the ground before his eyes, tears of limitless misery started streaming again. Rick took a few steps back to look at his handiwork. The boy was slender, but devoid of all hair he looked more scrawny than svelte. With his shaved dick he looked for all the world a ten year old boy. A ten year old, softly crying, bald boy with a hardon. Rick patted him with his gloved hand a few times on his bald head, in what was, without a doubt, meant as a consoling gesture. “You've been very brave, son.” He slung an arm around the boy's shoulder, guided him to the other naked figures and chained him to the bar. Before turning his back on him he said “Good luck, son”, but his shaking head showed that he knew that there lay no such thing in the boy's future.

I had watched the whole scene develop with a confusing alternation of emotions. From pity to fascination. From anger to revulsion. He had reminded me of Davey. He could have been Davey. No, Davey would have been him. For if they had succeeded in enslaving me, Dan would have nagged and pestered his father until he caved in, and enslaved Davey as well. I didn't even know the boy's name and now he had no name anymore. From now on he would always be just ‘boy’. It had been like driving by the place of a terrible accident. You know that there must be bloody, horribly mangled bodies, but you can't prevent yourself from looking. So, Geoffrey had been right. Again. They will try not to look, but they will, he had said. I had tried not to look, but I had. The worst part was that the boy had seen me looking. And it had added to his pain. I could have spared him at least that. And I hated myself. Jack had joined Rick. “Sometimes,” he said to Rick, “I think you're too soft for this job.” “Yeah, well,” Rick replied, “the boy's got a rough deal.” “Life can be a pain in the ass,” Jack philosophized. “You've got to roll with the punches. Look. Woman in my street. Nice lady. Had a little daughter. Sweet and pretty as can be. Eleven years or so. One day a truck runs her over on her bicycle. Dead as a doornail in one second flat. Did I feel for the poor bitch? Sure I did. But I didn't let it spoil my dinner.” “Yeah, you're right, I guess. Still. A rough deal.” “Come on, let's prepare the last one of the day.” “O yeah,” Rick remembered, “Mr. Singer said we'd better gag him. I'll do that, you get a bucket of water. He's still out of it.” Jack disappeared behind a door and Rick went to the rack and

took what looked like a rubber ball with straps attached to it out of a box. He went over to John, opened his mouth and stuck his finger in to flatten his tongue. Then he put the rubber ball in his mouth and fastened the straps behind his head. Meanwhile Jack had returned with a bucket and splashed the contents over John. He shook and half wakened. The men removed his shackles, pulled him up between them and guided him to the area between the red lines. He swayed, but remained standing and even opened his eyes a little, but he didn't seem able to focus them. Jack went away again and when he returned he had in one hand a collar and in the other a large knife. While Rick fastened the collar around his neck, Jack began cutting away his underwear. In no time John was naked. “He's waking,” Rick said, “maybe we'd better cuff his hands behind his back.” Jack agreed, went to the rack, put the knife in a box and returned with handcuffs. He forced John's arms behind his back and cuffed him. He gave a light slap on John's buttocks. “Bit of a fat ass, this boy,” he chortled as he came from behind John. With his gloved hands he cupped John's breast. “And he has man boobs. Look, Rick.” Rick was cleaning his shear and mumbled something. Jack jiggled John's belly with both his hands. “Bit of a beer gut too,” he said. “Nice cock, though,” and he lifted John's dick by the tip with his gloved thumb and index finger. “And a fat pair of balls.” He let John's dick drop back. “Pity he's not going to have any use for them, where he's going.” By now John was becoming aware that someone was treating his body with less than respect. He tried to protest, but could only produce muted sounds. Jack had heard them though and slapped him lightly on the cheeks. “Easy, easy, boy, I wasn't trying to hurt you. Just a bit of fun.

That's all.” Rick had finished cleaning his shear and began shaving John's chest. Although still dazed, John was now aware of what was happening to him, and he didn't like it one bit. His hands were secured behind his back, but that didn't prevent him from trying to resist by moving his whole body and pushing it against Rick and Jack. “Struggler, struggler,” both men shouted almost simultaneously. Apparently this was some professional term, because seconds later two man came running out of one of the doors. John was strong, but with his hands cuffed behind his back, he was no match for four men. Two of them held him immobilized by his arms, Jack tried to keep his legs under control, while Rick continued shaving him as fast as he could. He moved his shear around so quickly that he tore as many hairs out as he shaved off. By now John was not only indignant about this demeaning treatment, he was also in pain, and he was fully aware of what was happening to him. Rick grabbed his cock roughly with his full, gloved hand and pulled it forward while he began shaving his bush. The muffled noises became somewhat more insistent. “Yeah, well, if you are going to be a struggler, you are going to get hurt, boy. You have only yourself to blame,” Rick growled at him. When Rick was finished with his front and his legs, the men had a problem. John had a hairy back and his cuffed hands and arms were in the way. After a short deliberation they decided to put him on hand and knees. John struggled and resisted as much as he could, but it was no use. They simply lifted his feet of the ground and lay him flat on his belly. They removed the cuffs, while firmly holding his arms. They dragged him upright, while at the same time a man kept his foot on one of his calves, which forced him in a kneeling position. Then they pushed his upper body down, so that he instinctively tried to support himself on his arms. He had tried to resist by pushing, and turning, and wriggling his body like a wild animal, and when they finally had him on his

hands and knees he was, quite by accident, facing us. Then he lifted his head and it became clear that his vision was also completely restored. He saw Geoffrey and me standing there, looking at him. His eyes bulged almost out of his head, and he began to whinny and neigh like a wounded horse. I wondered what he was trying to shout. Something like: “Take your hands of me, I am John Ridge, I am the master of the Ashton estate and the heir to my late wife's fortune, it is them, them, that need to be enslaved, that stuck-up, idle little brat and that treacherous attorney?” Probably. I saw in his eyes a delirious fury and a mad lust to strangle us both with his own hands. This expression changed suddenly to one of utmost surprise, followed closely by extreme outrage. One of the handlers had violently spread his butt cheeks as wide as he could and Rick had stuck his shear resolutely in his crack and was now shaving it. When he realized that we were watching his humiliation, he tried, ineffectually, to bellow his indignation and he doubled his efforts to resist. But he was being held fast, and the only thing he could do was shake his ass to try to get rid of the uncomfortable experience. Of course, this ungraceful movement didn't enhance his dignity. In addition Rick, whose work his erratic movements made more difficult, slapped him with a full hand several times on his buttocks. “Keep your ass still, boy,” he shouted, “I've had about enough of you.” When he had finished shaving John's ass, Rick quickly moved his shear over his back and when that was done, he sat upon John as upon a horse, and started shaving his head. When John's scalp was totally bare, he dismounted. I don't like to kick a dead horse, but the image was inescapable. Naked, completely bald, on all fours and with a sagging beer belly, John Ridge looked for all the world like a pig. “Pull the boy up, guys,” Rick said. As soon as they did, it became clear that John had exhausted himself. He was panting and not as difficult to control anymore. Rick looked him over from all sides and made some finishing

touches with his shear. The last area he inspected was his groin. He lifted John's dick, held it right and left and shaved off a few hairs that had escaped until now. When John saw that we were looking while he was dealt with like that, when he saw me, for whom he had planned the treatment he was undergoing and worse, when he saw the attorney who had betrayed him faintly smiling, when he felt the collar around his neck, when he noticed he was naked and shaved and restrained, he realized that this was real, that he was handled as property, that he was treated as a slave, that, in fact, he was a slave. For the first time I saw deadly fear and mounting despair in his eyes. He realized by now that I had drugged him and caused his present predicament. Good, I wanted him to know. “Not my best work by far,” Rick mused, “but under the circumstances it will have to do”. Out of a door in the back came four man in khaki uniform, carrying short whips. “Ah”, Geoffrey explained, “the Brazilian handlers. They're guarding the slaves during transport. They don't speak a word of English.” The handlers began unchaining the naked figures from the iron bar. They left the ankle cuffs on. When the slaves stood up, I saw that the chain between their feet was rather short and they could only take small steps. One of the guards grabbed the first woman by the shoulder and pointed at the ramp of the open hatch of the airplane. The woman didn't immediately understand what she was supposed to do. With a flicker of his hand he whipped her ass viciously three times in quick succession. The blows landed on practically the same place. He pointed again to the ramp, and the woman started moving with a strange, uneven limping gait. Then he

pointed at the second woman who started to move immediately. Only once more did he need his whip. The young boy, who was last, had closely watched the proceedings and started moving of his own accord when it was his turn, almost before the handler pointed at him. While two of the guards also climbed the ramp, the other two came to fetch John. One fastened the ankle chains and then pointed at the plane. John made as if to move in our direction. For his pains the two handlers began whipping his ass on both sides, effectively driving him, like a wild bull, to the plane. They kept whipping him, and John tried to avoid the blows by limping along faster, but the handlers easily kept up. Halfway to the plane one of the blows drew blood and another red streak appeared when he was going up the ramp. With a bleeding ass John Ridge disappeared out of my view and out of my life. The big door of the hangar began opening and, at the same time the hatch of the plane closed slowly. There was just time enough for me to see that the Brazilian handlers were chaining the slaves to the interior of the fuselage, and that one of them went around with a small box. I saw him take out a syringe and plant it in the buttocks of the young boy. He went out like a light. The engines began roaring and slowly the plane left the hangar. It made a slight turn and started taxiing up the runway, going harder and harder, lifting from the ground, higher and higher, becoming smaller and smaller, until it was but a dot that dissolved in the dark. Abruptly I realized: it is over. The worst is over. John was gone. I had seen with my own eyes how he was enslaved, how he was reduced to helplessness, how they had whipped him into submission. There was no way he could come back. There was no, conceivable manner that he could free himself. He had been the greatest threat. His son, though dangerous to leave running

around free, couldn't harm me directly. I inhaled the cool evening air. It felt good to be free from this nightmare. One more day to go. One more enemy to eliminate. Then I could return to problems of another nature. “Come,” Geoffrey said, “I'll take you home.” He first went to the office to collect some papers and a check. “Well, you won't ever have to worry about him again,” he said when we had got in the car. “He's going to a small branch of a small mining company, in one of the remotest parts of Brazil. Nobody there speaks English. He will be kept sedated for the whole trip. In a few hours he will have left the country, another few hours and he will have left the continent. When they land they will load him immediately, still unconscious, on a truck. When he wakes, he will find himself in a barrack, chained, naked, hungry, thirsty, with a massive headache from the sedatives and with his ass still hurting like hell. They will give him some time to recuperate. Not much. They will teach him his job in the same manner as they made him board the plane. They will point at a slave who is already doing it, then at his tools and then at the whip. He will understand instantly what is expected of him. To do the same thing the other one is doing. They're great teachers, Brazilian miners. They don't like their slaves to talk, because it is not necessary.” He fell silent for a while. “I've been told that they don't last very long. That's why they always need new slaves.” That poor boy, I thought, and I didn't mean John. We were already back on the highway and I was still processing the events of the evening. “You're far away. Are you worried about tomorrow?” Geoffrey inquired. “No,” I replied, “I don't seem to be able to get that young boy out of my mind. Don't think I'm ungrateful, but was it really necessary to stay that long? Couldn't we have left once we had

John delivered to them?” “I suppose so,” he said. “In fact, I could probably have done it by myself. But you needed to see this for two reasons.” “Needed to see this?” I said annoyed, “I could have lived a hundred years without ever needing to see what they did to that boy. What had he done? What was he guilty of? Except of being born to a cowardly, weak father without a conscience with a heartless, greedy bitch for a girlfriend.” “Yes, I agree,” he answered calmly. “You're a good man, Andrew Ashton, and like so many good men you like to walk in the sunshine. What you don't like is to look in the dark corners, the obscure nooks and crannies, the damp cellars. You know they are there. You just prefer to ignore them. And that is my first reason. You needed, really needed to see this. The dark corners.” “Surely, you didn't know this specific boy would be there?” “No, but I knew there would be someone like him. Listen. As far as I am concerned, you did what you had to do and you had every right to do it. You acted in self defense. You were given no choice. There was no other solution. You had to use the system against those who were using it against you. As a weapon. But still, you did use the system. And I felt that you needed to know exactly what your weapon was. And that it can be abused.” “Well, it is a rotten system,” I said dejected. “Rotten to the core. And it is used by corrupt men.” “Then why doesn't somebody do something about it?” “Lots of reasons. You like history, don't you?” Was the man clairvoyant, or was this simply Thomson & Meyer Investigations at work? “I'm a history buff,” I confirmed demurely. “Then you should be able to find the answer for yourself. History, after all, is the wide-angle lens of human experience. Study the totalitarian regimes of the first half of the twentieth century and why ordinary people didn't rebel. Try to find out

why decent people of rich countries bought clothes, made by children of poor countries, who were forced to work ten hours or longer each day. In most cases you'll find money is at the root of the problem. You can't imagine what people will give up for some economic security. What they will tolerate, just to pay less for what they need or want. If we were to abolish indentured service, prices would skyrocket. Do you think that we, as a society, are prepared to face that? If you're really interested, I have put some of my ideas in writing. You're welcome to read them.” “I just might take you up on that,” I said. “My second reason was that you had to see for yourself that the only man who could harm you before you become an adult is now incapacitated, drugged and high in the sky. I sense a deep seated insecurity in you, a need to be certain, and I knew that you had to experience this yourself, to be a hundred percent positive that you are free from danger now. I wanted you to have that sense of security and safety. Me just telling you about it wouldn't have been enough.” What was I to that man? An open book? Because he was right of course. Again, damn it. Seeing John being whipped upon that plane had quenched all my fears. The nightmares that had plagued me for a week had disappeared. Andrew Ashton was not going to be enslaved, or die by his own hand. I was drained, but, indeed, I felt safe. Well, safer. Tomorrow, we would get rid of the last threat, but already I felt as if that was just a formality. What we had done today had been much more dangerous than what we would have to do tomorrow. I had escaped a terrible destiny. So, why wasn't I more exuberant? Or just simply happy? Because, I understood suddenly, I was already worrying about the next problem, now that I knew that my life would continue as usual on Monday. With this problem Geoffrey couldn't help me. I would have to do it on my own.

It also had everything to do with what Geoffrey called my deep seated insecurity. For more than a year now I had been in love, deeply, hopelessly and totally in love, and I was still so far away from the moment that I could begin to conceive of saying “I love you, Davey.” First, I had to be sure. I had to be certain. Why couldn't I simply take the risk? It wasn't even that much of a risk. I was almost certain that Davey liked me. Or, at least, had liked me before this mess. So, why was this almost certainty not enough for me? What was I waiting for?

What the fuck was wrong with me?

Chapter 13:

A Star Reaches the Fifth Stage

We were almost home when things finally started to fall in place, and I had developed a little plan of my own. “Monday you will be my attorney, won't you?” I asked Geoffrey. “If you don't want to change attorneys, that is.” “No, I think I prefer to keep you on my side.” “In that case, gladly. Singer & Singer have been the attorneys for the Ashtons for generations. I'll be the first Singer who has an Ashton with real money as a client. How could I say no?” he chuckled. I explained my little plan. I was preparing a present for Davey and also for myself. A surprise. He gave some advice. “I'm sure it can be arranged,” he said finally. “A quick visit to Mulligan in his chambers is all it should take. Come to my office

Monday at eleven. We'll also have time to discuss that other business you asked about last Saturday.” When we were halfway the long driveway I asked Geoffrey to stop the car. I wanted to walk for a while. I went past the house, through the gardens, and only stopped where the fields began. It was almost full moon and a beautiful, pale light shone on the landscape before me. I've finally figured it out, I thought. All this week I had been asking questions of Geoffrey. “What if this happens?”, “What if that goes wrong?”. Deep seated insecurity. You could say that again. But I had learned something that I could use. Asking questions, looking at a problem from all sides was a good thing. But only in the planning stage. Once you have made a decision, and the time to act has come, the questions and the doubt must stop. So, that was what I was going to do. Monday I would act. This time, not to prevent a dismal future, but to create the one I wanted. I walked back to the house, and for the first time it felt as my house. Nobody could take it away anymore. In my house slept my love. That was how it should be. It was after four in the morning. I woke at three in the afternoon. I had slept almost eleven hours, and still I felt tired. After I had dressed and drunk a few cups of coffee, I went downstairs. Everything was quiet. No Davey. Good, because I had still one more thing to do. I went to John's room in the right wing. On his bed lay the clothes he had meant to wear to go to the club. On his nightstand I found his cell phone. Luckily it was turned on. I looked in his out-box to read some messages he had sent recently. Did he use capitals? Abbreviations? Punctuation? When I was sure I could copy his style, I wrote this message: “Something came up. Will be half hour late. Start without me. Can't be disturbed”. I sent it to Dan and turned the phone off. I had still some four hours to wait. My certainty of last night was

I had still some four hours to wait. My certainty of last night was gone. I felt uneasy and worried. I went for a walk on my own and took my gun with me. I don't know why, but the most horrible reasons why everything could still go wrong had begun plaguing me. What if it was all a double con? What if Dan and Geoffrey had used me to get rid of John? What if John had signed six copies, four with my name and two with Dan's name, and Geoffrey had let me destroy two copies with my name only to put me on the wrong track? But, no. John had thought that it was normal that four copies were needed for all kinds of official documents, hadn't he? Whatever I said to myself, this and other doom scenarios kept popping up. I decided that I would take the gun with me to the breaking in. If Geoffrey pronounced my name as the one to be indentured, I would have just enough time if I reacted quickly... I knew only after midnight, when September 29th had arrived, I would really feel safe. Once back in my room I took a shower, dressed in clean clothes, put my gun in my waistband and put on a sweater. At seven thirty I went downstairs. When I came in the hall, the front door opened and Dan entered, carrying his weekend bags, followed by Toby and two tall guys. One was enormous, and I recognized the gentle giant. “Ha, Ashton,” Dan said cheerfully, “making ready to celebrate your birthday? I think we may join you.” “I don't seem to remember inviting you,” I said as dry I could. “Well, after all we are stepbrothers, aren't we? I wouldn't miss your eighteenth birthday for the world. Guys, let Ashton make you comfortable in the living room. I'm going to put my things away,” he laughed mischievously. I invited Toby and his friends in. They didn't sit down immediately. Standing there, with on one side the big blond guy and on the other the lanky, pale guy with red curly hair, both a little behind him, he looked like a young prince with his two bodyguards. And his bodyguards didn't trust me at all. “Billy, Carl,” Toby said, “this is my friend Andrew. Say hello to him.”

Apparently that was all the introduction I needed. The red haired guy, Carl, patted me on the back, and the big blond guy, Billy, shook my hand. It disappeared completely in his. Toby hugged me. He must have had a growth spurt in the year and a half I hadn't seen him. He was still shorter than I was, but not by as much as I remembered. His voice seemed to have deepened a bit. “Oh, Andrew, I'm so afraid. When we returned from our weekend we went for drinks in the town, and Dan invited the whole team to come with him. His stepbrother was having a birthday party and had asked him to invite his friends, he said. It would be the party of the year, he said. There would be a surprise, he said. They would be talking about it for months, he said. They would be really sorry if they missed it, he said. I knew he was talking about you and his eyes were so mean, Andrew, so mean that I became afraid for you. Nobody wanted to come, but I said ‘I will come’ and Billy said ‘Better not go with Dan, Toby’, but I said ‘I will go, I will’ and then Billy said ‘All right then, but I'm coming with you‘ and then Carl said ‘And I will come as well’ and now we're here. Nothing bad is going to happen to you, is it, Andrew?” The stinking rat. He had hoped to degrade me in front of his whole team. But evidently he wasn't as popular as he thought he was. “Listen, Toby, whatever you hear Dan say: it isn't true. He's mistaken. Whatever he thinks is going to happen is not going to happen. So, promise me that you won't worry. Promise me that you won't be afraid.” I had managed to elicit the angelic smile. “OK, Andrew, I promise.” He seemed to trust me completely. I wished I had his confidence in me myself. I got them some drinks from the kitchen and we talked a while.

Dan came back. He had freshened up and changed his clothes. It was a few minutes before eight and Sean and Timmy still hadn't arrived. Which was strange because most of the time they were early. We heard a car arrive before the house. “I'll open the door,” Dan said to me. “You're both the host and the guest of honor, after all.” Geoffrey entered, with behind him three uniformed men. I recognized which one was the captain by the uniform he wore. One of the guards was carrying a big black leather case. They waited in the room that connected the others. The captain looked at the floor. “Good evening, gentlemen, I'm Geoffrey Singer, certified executor, and this is Captain Weaver and his squad. We're here on official business. A petition had been filed by John Ridge for a commitment into indentured service. The court has seen fit to grant this petition. Could you please all come here and introduce yourself.” We joined him in the connecting room. Toby and his friends introduced themselves. “So, you are guests. And you are...?” he inquired. “I'm Dan Ridge.” “And I'm Andrew Ashton.” “Not much of an attendance,” the captain said. “The floor is good though. Tiles.” “My father will be here in about half an hour, and, I almost forgot, there is someone else in the house,” Dan said. “A moment gentlemen, I will fetch him.” Dan quickly left the room. The captain shiot a worried glance at Geoffrey, but the executor made a reassuring gesture. It took a while, but eventually Dan came back with Davey in tow. “This is Davey Ridge,” Dan introduced him to Geoffrey. Davey's face was completely impassive, as if made out of stone.

Davey's face was completely impassive, as if made out of stone. I tried to read from it what Dan could have told him, but I couldn't get through the barrier he had erected. At that moment another car stopped before the house. Dan again went to open the door. “Ha, Denham, come in, come in. You're just in time. And you brought a friend. Excellent. It's going to be an exciting evening,” I heard him call out with fake enthusiasm in the hall. Sean and Timmy entered the room. Sean looked around, surprised at all the strange people, and Timmy explained their lateness to me. “Stupid car, man,” he shrugged. “Andrew, what's going on here?” Sean asked worriedly. “What's happening, Denham,” Dan intervened before I could answer, “is that my father has decided to commit his ward into indentured service. For being a wimp and being an insufferable, arrogant little twerp, I guess. So,” and he came to me and lay one arm on my shoulder, “Mr. Ashton here, who reckons to become the lord of the manor tomorrow, will instead celebrate his eighteenth birthday in a Training Center where they will teach him to be polite to real men like me. Of course I will teach him a lesson or two myself this evening. And to think that in only four hours from now this couldn't have happened to him anymore. So close, so close.” He turned to me. “But I assure you, Andy, we will take good care of your, oops, our house. Dad will have money enough for the upkeep.” I hate to be called Andy. I hate it. It's Andrew. Nobody, but nobody calls me Andy. Toby looked at me. I could see he was worried, but he kept silent. The jocks were surprised. Davey's face remained impassive, but I thought I saw fear in his eyes. Timmy didn't seem to comprehend what he had heard. Sean had become white as a sheet. We had discussed indentured service at several occasions. From a political, historical, sociological and even philosophical point of view. But I was the only one of us who had a basic understanding of the actual procedures. Otherwise he would have known that most of what he was going

to say was not very practical. Also, if he hadn't rattled on, but looked at me, I could have given him a sign that he needn't worry. As it was, he came standing between me and Geoffrey, as if he wanted to physically protect me. “You are the executor?” he asked. When Geoffrey had confirmed that fact, he continued, in a voice I had never heard. There was real authority there. “I am Sean Denham. My father is Senator Frank Denham. Just tell me how much you want for him. It doesn't matter how much, we'll pay it. I'll phone my father. He will transfer the money directly into any account you care to name. You will have confirmation within the hour. Our bank is open every day, all hours. No problem. I'll take him immediately with me, and everybody can go home quietly.” “I'm afraid that is quite impossible,” Geoffrey replied with a dry smile. “The newly indentured servant has to be broken in and has to do his thirty days. It's the law, I'm afraid. But if you will just calmly wait, and let me read the Act, I'm sure everything will turn out to your complete satisfaction.” That was clear. If you're an attorney, maybe, but not to Sean. Anyway, he had stopped listening after the word ‘impossible’ and had turned around to me. “Listen, Andrew, this is going to be ugly, very ugly. You're going to have to be very strong. Just tell me if you want us to stay for moral support, or if you don't want us to see you like that. I swear, the minute I get home I'll contact my father to overturn this thing. The Denham network reaches far, very far. I'll nag him, I'll terrorize him, I'll blackmail him until he has set the whole machinery to work to annul this. You've got friends, and they'll be working day and night for you. Remember that. Always. Worst case scenario, I'll be there at the auction. I'll outbid everyone, everyone, whatever it takes. Whatever they do to you, think of that. I'll be there. And I'll take you home with me and I swear, I swear I'll find ways to make you forget that this ever happened.” Oh my God, I thought, he's choking up, he's going to cry. I had tried to make reassuring signs but he was so wrapped up in his

own train of thought that he simply ignored me. So, when I saw that I was not going to get his attention otherwise, I got hold of him with one hand in his neck, pulled him toward me. “It's OK, Sean,” I whispered in his ear. “Dan is wrong. I would have told you. But you were late and they had already started. It's under control. If it hadn't been I would have come to you. But thank you.” I let him go. “You're sure?” he asked. I nodded. Dan hadn't heard a word of this interchange but had looked on with contempt. “Denham, Denham, Denham,” he snarled, “my dear, poor Denham. If I were you I would think twice before you squander your trust fund on your ex-lover. You're not going to get much pleasure out of him, you know, for after tonight his hole will be as wide as a barn door.” He turned to me with a vicious smile. “I personally guarantee it,” he added. Sean is maybe the least violent person I know, but for a second I thought he was going to rip Dan's throat out. I put my hand on his shoulder, and he calmed down. “So, Mr. Executor, isn't it time we got this show on the road?” Dan asked. “O, definitely,” Geoffrey smiled thinly. “Let me read the Act of Commitment into Indentured Service.” This was it. I had seemed very confident in appeasing Sean's fear, but I still had some lingering doubts myself. With my right hand I grabbed the handle of the gun. The palm of my hand was so sweaty that I was afraid that if I were to take the gun out of my waistband it would slip out of it. I quickly dried my palm on my jeans and took hold of the gun again. I was ready.

I was ready. Geoffrey had begun reading the Act. I heard him as in a daze, as from far away. Finally he reached the crucial passage. “Therefore it is with a heavy heart,” I heard him read in a sonorous voice, “that, I, John Ridge, his father, petition the court to commit Dan Ridge, my son, into lifelong indentured service.” I couldn't help it. I let out a long, long sigh of relief. I felt that my hand was still forcefully clamping the gun as in a spasm. I had to make a conscious effort to let go off it. I also saw relief on the faces of my friends. Dan looked stunned. “You're reading it wrong, you idiot,” he shouted at Geoffrey, “it's him, Ashton, you want.” “Oh, I can assure you that I read it quite correctly,” Geoffrey replied resolutely. “Guards, take him.” The guards took Dan, each by an arm, and dragged him out of the semi circle we formed. They positioned him so that he was facing us, immobilized by both outstretched arms. Dan wasn't going down without a fight however. “No, no,” he yelled, “you're wrong, you're wrong, it's Ashton you should take. I know. I helped my dad with the petition.” He turned his head to the door of the hall and shouted at the top of his voice. “Dad, dad, dad, explain it to them. Dad, dad.” Nobody came. He can't hear you, I thought, so yell all you will. Geoffrey, in his most oily voice replied. “It is your dad who has committed you, boy. He couldn't bear your criminal behavior anymore, and he repented that he had let himself be dragged into your evil plot to rob young Mr. Ashton of his inheritance. Besides, he couldn't help you anyway. Out of remorse for his own grave sins he voluntarily committed himself into indentured service. As such, the former John Ridge, your

father, doesn't exist anymore. Neither will you, Dan Ridge, in a few minutes.” The captain went up to Dan, and tore the front of his shirt open. Buttons were flying in all directions. Then he took a long knife out of the leather case and slit both sleeves open. He grabbed the torn shirt by the collar and yanked it off. “You can't do that to me,” Dan roared, “I'm Dan Ridge. I'm eighteen. Take your paws off me.” “You'll find,” Geoffrey said, “that you will be eighteen next month. That means you are seventeen.” “What's the difference, you moron,” Dan spat, “I'm almost eighteen, you can't do this anymore to me.” “Oh, I'm afraid, we can. We could even do it, let's say, four hours before your eighteenth birthday.” Dan looked at me with hate filled eyes, but also with dawning understanding. I'm afraid it made me smile. “No, no, no...” At that moment his legs were taken from behind by the captain and lifted upwards. The three men worked in perfect harmony. You could tell they had done this many times before. Once they had him on the ground, the captain took off Dan's shoes and socks. Then they put him back upright on his bare feet. Dan was disoriented for a moment by the unexpected sudden movements. “What are you doing? Don't you now me? I'm Dan Ridge. I'm the team captain of the basketball team. You must have read about me. I'm in the papers. Stop that, stop that immediately.” Without listening to Dan, the captain had put the tip of his knife inside the waistband of his trousers and was cutting all the way down along one leg. When he had done the same to the other leg, his torn pants fell down. Dan was struggling all the time to free himself from the iron grip of the guards, but of course it didn't make any difference.

The captain began cutting his boxers away. “No, no, not my underwear. Not in front of these people. Don't...” His boxers fell to the ground. Dan was wearing briefs under his boxers. They went the same way. The guards held Dan, completely naked now, up as if to display him. His face had become red as he realized that he was held stark naked, with his dick uncovered, in front of all of us. He tried to free his arms to cover himself and almost dislocated his shoulders in the process. When that didn't work he tried lifting one leg before his private parts. Of course that is physically impossible, not to mention tiring, and so he had to give it up. We were all silent, except Carl, who was laughing. “Hey, Danny boy, is that the thing you call your big sword?” he scoffed. “Don't look at me, you pervert,” Dan spat at him. “Wow, big words. What did you say, boy? Did you say ‘Take a good look at me’, boy? Why, I think I will... Oh boy, this is priceless. I can't wait to tell the rest of the team.” He shook with laughter. The captain took a collar out of the leather bag. When Dan saw it, there was raw fear in his eyes, and he tried to move his head out of the way. It was a futile effort, and in no time the captain had clicked the collar around his neck. Like Geoffrey had told me, the guards kept him like that on display for us. Whatever was wrong with Dan, it was not his body. He was in fact very handsome. It's surprising how trivial thoughts come in my head at such moments. I wondered why he had to rape them. I thought most boys and girls would willingly have sex with Dan. I also remembered that I had heard him say that he was certain his dick was much bigger than mine. As I could clearly see now, he was wrong. I figured we were about the same. He felt the looks upon his body, and his already red face

now turned scarlet. The captain stood beside. “Mr Ashton, this is your estate I believe?” he asked. Technically in about three hours it would be, so I nodded. “Is this the first breaking in you're witnessing?” What did he think? That this was my favorite Sunday evening pastime? I nodded again. “In that case, this should prove to be quite an interesting experience for you. It might seem a tad brutal, but it really is for their own good, you know. If we are permitted to do our job right, we could even bring him to fifth stage. But I guarantee at least the third stage of course.” I seemed to remember that Geoffrey had also mentioned the fifth stage at some time, but he hadn't elaborated. So, I looked quizzically at the captain. “Oh, it's really very simple,” he explained. “You see, sir, when a person loses his freedom he goes through the same stages as those of the mourning process: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. It really is best for them to accept their new condition. It spares them a lot of psychological torment and physical pain. When they accept the fact that they have to obey, they don't need to be disciplined as often anymore. So we help them as much as we can by trying to bring them to the fifth stage. The stages are not firmly separated. They flow into each other as it were. We just witnessed the first stage morphing into the second.” He went back to the leather case and took out a wooden paddle. He held it before Dan and let him take a long good look at it. “What are you going to do with that thing?” Dan asked fearfully, although he must have known. “I am going to paddle your buttocks, boy. When you've had enough, you just beg me to stop, using all the right words. But

first we're going to give these people a good, long look at your ass.” The guards turned Dan around and forced him to bend over. Dan held his legs together and clenched his butt cheeks to prevent us seeing his hole. There was still some fight left in him. “Let me go, you cocksuckers. I'll sue you. You'll regret the day you laid a hand on Dan Ridge. I'll get you kicked out of your jobs.” That was as far as he got before the first resounding smack landed on his ass. He didn't yell. Only a suppressed ‘humph’ came out. He held out till the fourth slap, when a painful ‘Ah’ escaped. With each smack he yelled louder. After a while he started shouting. “Stop, stop.” The captain kept on hitting him. “Stop, please, please, stop.” The captain continued at a steady rhythm. Dan sunk through his knees, but the guards kept him upright. “Stop, stop, I beg you, I beg you, stop, I can't take anymore, please, I beg you...” he finally whimpered. The captain stopped and the guards let go of his arms. Dan fell on the ground sobbing. The captain waited a minuted or so, then leaned over him. “Stand up boy, show the people your red ass,” he yelled in his ear. The guards immediately picked him up and made him stand upright. His ass was indeed fiery red, but the skin wasn't broken. As Geoffrey had predicted, he rubbed his butt cheeks with both his hands. He didn't do the little dance, though. Carl was having a ball. “The color suits you, Danny boy. Very flattering.” The captain took a look at Dan's groin, nodded satisfied and took a surgical glove out of the bag, which he put on his right hand. “Turn him around”, he ordered. Had Dan found the experience in some degree exciting? Or was

Had Dan found the experience in some degree exciting? Or was it a normal bodily reaction? In any case, Dan's dick was swollen. It was far from erect, but it certainly wasn't completely limp. The captain held his dick in the palm of his gloved hand and shouted in Dan's ear. “Does getting your ass beaten excite you, you dirty boy? Are you a pervert, boy?” Dan looked at him fearfully. The captain began rubbing his dick and... it was responding. “Please, don't do that, don't do that, not here,” he complained almost tearfully. The captain continued jerking him. He tried to look at the ceiling to distract himself, but his body reacted automatically. The captain let go of his cock, and arching his body in shocks, Dan Ridge came in public. The semen didn't spurt out, it just sort of gushed. “Not exactly Mount Vesuvius, are you, Danny boy?” Carl chortled. Dan hung, exhausted from the struggling and his orgasm, between the two guards, a strand of sperm still clung to his dick that was already getting limp. He didn't look up. We watched, torn between bewilderment, revulsion and captivation. Toby took his jacket off. “Could you hold this for me, please, Carl?” he asked. After Carl had taken his jacket, he went to the captain. “Captain,“ he asked with his most angelic smile, “could you turn him this way, please? I think the lighting is better.” “Of course, sir,” the captain said. He didn't have to give orders. The guards were already forcing Dan to move in the desired direction. We now saw him in profile, while Toby and the captain stood behind him. “Could you bend him over again, please?” Toby asked, and the

guards did so. “Just a little bit deeper, please.” Toby looked at Dan pensively. “That's it, I think. Could you make him spread his legs wider, please. I want him to show me his hole.” The captain gave two vicious kicks with his boot against the inside of Dan's bare feet, which forced him to adopt a wider stance. “Perfect,” Toby said and slowly began rolling up his sleeves. We all watched with mounting fascination. Dan meanwhile tried to see what was happening behind him. He first tried to look over his shoulder, but that was not only difficult to do, it was also highly ineffectual as the guards were keeping his shoulders lower than his ass. He then tried to look under his belly and he must have been just in time to see Toby's left hand appear and grab the stem of his cock in an iron grip, putting pressure on his balls. He cried out in pain. Toby put his outstretched hand with the middle finger against his hole. Dan was panicking by now. “Toby, my friend, what are you doing? Toby we're teammates. You can't do this.” Toby shoved his middle finger a little bit in his hole. “No, Toby, don't do that. Don't do that. Toby, please, come over here. I want to tell you something in your ear. Please, come here, Toby... Toby, I want to apologize. Come here, please.” Toby shoved his finger just a little bit deeper. “OK, OK, I know, you want me to say it out loud. OK, Toby. I'm sorry, you hear? I'm sorry for what I did. It will never happen again. I promise. I'm sorry, Toby. Very sorry.” Toby stuck a second finger in his hole. Dan winced. He was in pain now. “Stop, Toby. You're hurting me. You're hurting your team captain. You can't do that. We're a team. We learned that this weekend. A team sticks together. Toby? Toby?” Toby maneuvered a third finger in place and shoved it in. Most

of us were hypnotized by what we were seeing, except the guards and Geoffrey of course. Carl was smiling mockingly. Billy looked worried. Dan cried out in pain, and his voice became more insistent, panicky. “OK. OK. I see. I understand, Toby. An apology is not enough. I can see that now, Toby. I see that. You want more? I'll give you more, Toby. I'll suck your dick, Toby. Do you hear? I'll suck your dick. Dan Ridge will suck your dick. What about that, Toby? I'll do it, Toby. I promise.” His voice became still more urgent and the panic was slowly turning into hysteria. He didn't care anymore that we heard everything, that we saw everything. He just wanted those fingers out of his ass. But Toby pushed them deeper again and brought his little finger in position. Dan was yelling by now. “All right. All right. I admit it. I confess. I had no right. Do you want revenge, Toby? That is what you want, isn't it? I'll let you have revenge. I'll let you fuck me, Toby. That's fair, isn't it? You can fuck me. You can fuck me as many times as you want. How's that for revenge? Can't say fairer than that, Toby. I'll let you fuck me whenever you want. Wherever you want, Toby. Just say the word and you can fuck me. You'll have Dan Ridge at your beck and call to fuck whenever you want... And you can tell everybody, Toby. I won't even deny it. You can tell everybody that Dan Ridge is your bitch. That's revenge, Toby, real revenge.” But itBut it seemed Toby wasn't interested in his services. With sweat now beginning to drip from his face, he firmed his already rigid grip on Dan's dick, crushing his balls, and, using it as counterbalance, with one angry, powerful thrust he shoved his hand completely in Dan's hole. “Do you still think being raped is funny, asshole?” he roared, with the mighty, resonant voice of a trained singer. He emphasized each word, and with each word he thrust his hand deeper and deeper. Sweat was now gushing from his face, and wet strands of his wavy hair were glued to his forehead. An

angel of wrath. Between his balls being crushed and his hole being brutally split open, Dan let out a bellow like a large, wild animal that is gutted alive. Which is probably how he felt too. All the muscles in his body contracted, and in his cramp he raised his head, now was dark red colored. His neck seemed to have doubled in size, with its muscles bulging as cables and the veins upon them as thick cords. After a while Toby let go of Dan's dick and let his left hand drop by his side. He withdrew his right hand abruptly, but kept it at a distance from his body. From where I stood it gave him the strange silhouette of a wounded bird. He seemed to be completely in trance. We had all watched the horrible scene with incredulity, except the two jocks. Billy and Carl had constantly looked at each other with surprise and slowly dawning realization. At last they understood that Dan had raped their prince. Still as if under a spell, Toby turned mechanically to the captain. “Thank you, captain, I quite enjoyed that,” he said in a now flat, toneless voice, without smiling. Then he looked at me. “Andrew, I think I would like to wash my hands now, please.” “Yes... in the hall... bathroom...” I stammered. The gentle giant went over to Toby and lay his big, big hands lightly from behind on his shoulders. “Come, Toby,” he said softly, “I'll help you.” He steered his friend gently by his shoulders to the door. Carl, who was strangling Toby's jacket, more than he was holding it, wasn't laughing anymore. “I'll come with you, guys,” he called after them. The guards had permitted Dan to fall upon the floor. He lay on his chest but kept his ass raised to prevent putting pressure on his badly bruised balls. He was massaging his butt cheeks, hoping to relieve the searing pain in his invaded hole. They

hoping to relieve the searing pain in his invaded hole. They didn't give him much time before they pulled him up. With a wild look in his eyes he began to scan the remaining attendants for a friendly, or at least a familiar face. His eyes locked on Davey and he began to pull in his direction. The guards permitted him to drag them along. “Davey, Davey, we are brothers. Brothers, Davey. We should protect each other. Please, please, do something. Don't let your big brother—” “Tell me,” interrupted Davey in a voice both annoyed and frustrated, “tell me Dan, what is it exactly you think I can do?” Davey looked at me. “I don't want to be here.” I wanted to say “You don't need my permission to leave,” but got only as far as “You don't—” He was already leaving. For Dan there was but one person left he could hope to influence. Me. So, he dragged himself and the guards over to where I stood. “Andy, Andy,” he began. It grated on my ears. “Andrew, it's Andrew.” This seemed to encourage him. “Yes, yes, Andrew, Andrew. Listen. I know I've been bad. Very bad. But I can change. Just let me prove it to you.” Bargaining. He was still in the third stage. “Please, Andrew, make them stop. I'll be good from now on. You'll see. I'll be so good. If only you make them stop and let me stay. I am good, I am a good boy. I am a good boy.” He was crying. Suddenly he looked panicked again, and he began whimpering. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.” I saw him contract the muscles in his lower belly in an effort to

stop it. It was no use. Dan Ridge had started to piss himself. He doubled his efforts and tried contracting his muscles harder, at the same time moving his hips. The only effect that had, was that his dick started slowly swinging, and that he pissed on both his legs and feet. “Are you insane, you dirty, filthy boy?” the captain yelled in his ear. “How dare you piss yourself in front of these people. Are you an animal? Can't you control yourself? Are you going to shit yourself too, boy? Answer me, piss boy.” Humiliated, afraid and shivering, Dan stuttered in a small voice. “No, sir, I swear. It was an accident. I didn't mean to... I...” He began to sob uncontrollably. The guards permitted him to sink down on his knees, in the puddle of his own urine. After a while he looked up at me. He was still weeping, but he didn't try to hide it. He hid nothing anymore. Not his nakedness, not that he had been jerked off, had been spanked, had been fist raped or had pissed himself. He let it all shine through. On the contrary, it was as if he was saying “Look at me, take a good look at me, look at what they've done to me and take pity.” “Do something,” he said, looking me in the eyes. He wasn't begging, he was barely asking. He didn't believe in it himself. The captain, who had come to stand on my left side again, whispered in my ear. “Take care, sir, we've got him in the fourth stage. He has stopped bargaining, and he is realizing slowly that his condition isn't going to change. We've got to keep him in this depression for his own good.” II wanted Dan Ridge out of my life, I thought, but was this really the only way? For that matter was that boy that sat on his knees in his own urine still Dan Ridge? Did anybody deserve this? Or was it, like the captain said, really necessary? Would it make his life easier later on?

Geoffrey must have seen me vacillating. He came to me. “No, no, no, no, no, no, Andrew, no,” he hissed in my right ear. “Remember, if your roles were reversed, it would be worse, much, much worse for you, and he would be laughing loudly in your face at this moment. He's dangerous. Besides, there is nothing you can do.” He was right, of course. As always. I looked back at Dan. “Do something,” he repeated. “There is nothing I can do,” I answered barely audible. Dan let his head sink on his chest. “Very good, sir, very good indeed,” the captain whispered admiringly in my ear, “you may have pushed him into the fifth stage. Excellent, for your first time.” And my last, I fervently hoped. I turned to Geoffrey and now it was my turn to hiss in his ear. “End this... Now.” Geoffrey immediately made a quick sign to the captain, who snapped his fingers and pointed to the door. “Stand up, boy,” one of the guards said. Dan stood up without help. The guards didn't restrain him. It wasn't necessary anymore. One of them grabbed his cock and started dragging him to the door. He walked briskly, which forced Dan to hobble behind him. “Faster, boy, keep up,” the other guard said and slapped his ass. Dan hobbled faster. Some might have found it comical. That was the last I ever saw of Dan Ridge, star of the basketball team.

“Well,” the captain said, “that was rather satisfying. I had my

“Well,” the captain said, “that was rather satisfying. I had my doubts with such a small attendance, but I think I may safely say that it went very well. By the way, sir, once my men have secured the boy in the van they will clean up this mess. We like to leave the place just as we found it. We use first rate disinfectant.” I went over to Sean and Timmy and asked them to wait for me in the kitchen. I told them to take drinks and snacks out of fridge. Then I went over to Geoffrey. “I can never thank you enough,” I said. “I don't know how I can ever repay you.” “No,” he replied. “You owe me nothing. Your bill was settled a long time ago.” He made as if to turn away and leave, but then he added “Maybe you do owe a debt after all. But it is certainly not to me. A wise man once said ‘All it takes for evil to triumph, is for good men to do nothing.’ You're a good man, Andrew Ashton.” He was already through the door, when he said “I'll see you tomorrow in my office at eleven.” I went to the hall to look for Toby and his bodyguards. With the chairs that stood against the wall, they had formed a little circle, and they were happily chatting among themselves. When they saw me coming towards them, Billy pulled up a fourth chair. They had fixed Toby up, cleaned his face and combed his hair. When I sat down, he flew around my neck. “Oh, Andrew, I am so happy, so happy, it wasn't you.” “I told you not to be afraid,” I replied, smiling at him, and I took his head between my hands. “Are you all right?” “Yes, Andrew.” Billy looked at me with a big smile. “Toby has told us everything that happened that night.” Oh God, I thought, not everything, surely.

“He has told us how you found him, gave him your jacket, brought him to your room, treated his feet, let him shower, gave him clean clothes and brought him home.” That was indeed the official version. “That was mighty nice of you,” he added. Yes, I still belonged to the nice part of the world. Billy kept smiling at me, and I knew I had made a lifelong friend. I had saved their little prince after all. “Listen, guys, I've a favor to ask,” I said. “It will be known soon enough that Dan is indentured by his father, but I would prefer it if nobody told anything about what exactly happened this evening.” I looked at Toby, and for the merest fraction of a second I thought I saw a cool, calculating mind working at super speed. Then it was gone. “Of course we promise not to tell anything, Andrew,” he said, smiling as sweetly as ever. ”Billy?” “Yes, of course. It's better. I promise,” Billy said. “Carl?” Toby said in a voice that reminded me of Miss Drummond from kindergarten. That woman used to scare the shit out of me. “Oh, all right,” Carl muttered reluctantly, “I promise as well.” He saw with great disappointment countless nights of free beers, while telling the story of Dan's enslavement, disappear. I invited them to come to the kitchen for drinks and snacks, but they preferred, no offense, to go to a little place they knew. They still had a lot to talk about. I waved them off. The guards, meanwhile, had finished cleaning up and the captain took his leave. When I came in the kitchen Sean and Timmy flew around my neck and we stood for minutes hugging each other. “I was really scared for a moment, Andrew,” Sean said.

“Spooky, man. Yeah,” Timmy added. I apologized about a dozen times for not warning them in time, but of course they understood that I had the worst week of my life behind me. “I don't mean to pry, Andrew, but what the executor said—,” Sean began asking. “Is the official truth,” I interrupted. It was not so much that I had promised Geoffrey to tell nothing — although I took that seriously — but I had come to the conclusion that it was not wise to involve my friends, even after the fact, in all my highly illegal dealings and criminal activities. It was better they should remain ignorant and thus innocent. “Yeah,” Timmy said, “but I bet our boy has helped that creep repent in an awesome way.” “Timmy,” Sean warned, “we don't know that, and we are not going to ask Andrew about it. Ever.” “Yeah, OK,” Timmy replied with deep grooves on his forehead. “But you rule, man,” he added for my benefit. As it hadn't been much of a birthday get together, Sean invited us for dinner in a fine restaurant, his treat, next evening. He would bring Linda and said if we had someone special we should bring them too. Timmy regretted having a dry spell. I said “Who knows?” All would depend on how my little surprise worked out tomorrow. If it went as I hoped, I would be all too glad to bring Davey. Finally, good things to hope for instead of bad things to fear. They left around twenty minutes to midnight. I didI didn't immediately go to my room. I took another beer and hoped to wind down. Rationally I knew I had escaped a disastrous destiny, but emotionally it hadn't sunk in yet. And I didn't have the feeling it was completed yet. I had not only wanted to prevent a disastrous future, but also to create a

wonderful one. Maybe tomorrow. Suddenly, I felt very tired. Every muscle and every bone in my body was aching. Terrible images of Dan refused to go away. If it had been in my power to save him, would I have done so? Would I have taken the risk that he would revert to the old Dan? I didn't know. Dan I wouldn't have saved maybe, but that crying, beaten, vanquished guy... By accident my eye fell on the kitchen clock. It was six minutes past midnight. I was eighteen. Before the law at least I was an adult. This was my house. I was free. I was safe.

It was over.

Chapter 14:

Misunderstandings

I had set my alarm clock, but when it woke me I still felt so drained by the experiences of the last two days, that I reset it. And again. When I finally got out of bed I was running out of time. I had to be at Geoffrey's office at eleven. When Davey entered the kitchen, I was gulping down my coffee ,and my mind was partly occupied with pushing away ugly images, partly looking forward to the surprise I was preparing for him, while yet another part was checking if I had everything I needed, my wallet, car keys and such. Getting ready had taken me longer than I had hoped and now I was really running late. So, I ran out the door past him. “Sorry, got to go,” I said in passing, “I'm running late for an appointment with my attorney.” I was already in the hall when I returned halfway on my steps. “I'll be back this afternoon. It concerns you, so be here,” I

yelled in the direction of the kitchen. I heard him answer “If you wish.” In the back of my mind I vaguely noticed that it sounded somewhat gloomy. Then I left. Just a few more hours, Davey, and I will explain everything, take away all your worries and set you free from all fear, I remember thinking when I got into my car and sped away. What can I say? Yes, I was running late. Yes, I was still tired. Yes, I was still unbalanced from last week. Yes, I was preoccupied. And, of course, I had to have my surprise. But I could have known that last week hadn't been easy for him either. I could have known that seeing Dan being enslaved must have shocked him, no matter that he probably hated him. It had shocked me. I could have known that he would be worried sick. And I could have taken a few minutes to talk to him. I could have asked how he was doing. I could have shown some concern. At the very least I could have smiled at him. But I'm an idiot and I did none of those things. It was after three in the afternoon when I returned. It had all been arranged relatively easily. Even the showpiece of my little construction hadn't been too difficult. As usual Geoffrey had been right. The parent or legal guardian was believed on his word. First I went to the kitchen, carrying the documents in one of Geoffrey's manila envelopes, to look for Davey. He wasn't there. Then I looked for him in the gardens. Same result. Next I went up to our hallway. The door to Davey's room stood slightly ajar. Which was strange as it was usually locked. Maybe, I thought, he doesn't think it's necessary anymore now that all the demons were chased out of the house. I pushed the door open, but didn't enter immediately. Davey was sitting at his desk, reading a book. I could vaguely see some drawings, but I couldn't make out what they represented. “Come in, please,” he said.. I immediately sensed that something was wrong. He sounded depressed but resigned. I didn't worry too much, after all I had the medicine in my envelope.

“Are you alone?” he asked. “Eh... yes,” I replied. What a strange question, I thought. There had been a slight touch of fear in his voice. I was confused, but I thought it best to explain first what I had been doing at my attorney's office. All the rest would follow automatically from that. I waved my envelope. “Davey, I've been to my attorney, and I have made certain arrangements that—” “I know,” he interrupted me calmly, “you don't have to explain.” He knew? How? He couldn't know. What was going on? He slowly stood up and sighed. I got the eerie feeling that something was wrong, very wrong. He began to unbutton his shirt. What the fuck was he doing? “Davey,” I started, bewildered, “what is—” “Please, please, just let me do this,” he replied. And suddenly I was worried, very worried. For I had heard barely suppressed hysteria in his voice. I recognized it immediately, because I had heard it before. In my own voice. I remembered the time, nine days ago, when I had asked Geoffrey to get me a gun, and I knew I would have kept on insisting, with mounting urgency, with growing hysteria, until he promised me to do exactly what I asked of him. Interrupting or contradicting me would just have fed my frenzy. So I knew there was nothing I could do, but give in. “OK,” I agreed. He took off his shirt, folded it neatly and put it upon his chair. He gently kicked the sandals of his bare feet and put them next to the chair, facing the desk, and started to loosen the belt of his pants. He unzipped his fly and dropped his pants, which he also folded neatly and put on the chair. By now he was blushing intensely. It was not cold in the room, far from it, and yet I could clearly see goosebumps on his arms. I found it almost impossible to remain silent. Nor could I make

sense of my own thoughts and emotions. He had almost panicked when he thought I had seen a glimpse of his ass, and now he stood in his boxers before me. And he was far from happy. He was embarrassed. What did he want? Did he want me to undress as well? I too was embarrassed, because I couldn't help looking at him. I had never even seen him shirtless, let alone nearly naked. And he was a vision. He had muscles, but only just enough to accentuate the soft contours of his well proportioned body, and his skin was milky white for lack of sun, like fine porcelain. From his belly button ran a light blond happy trail into his boxers. He was gorgeous. And deeply unhappy. He removed his boxers and they went the same way as the rest of his clothing. By now his head was totally red with shame and distress, and it was all he could do not to cry. This is not easy, but I must confess that I found it hard to tear my eyes away from his body. This was one of the things I had hoped for, just not under these circumstances. I felt guilty as hell about it, but I couldn't help admiring what I saw before me. I also knew I had to stop this. “Davey,” I began, “what—” I immediately regretted it. “Please, you promised to let me do this,” he interrupted me, and what had been a delirious undertone threatened to break to the surface into real, full blown hysteria. “OK, OK,” I appeased him quickly. As Davey was staring at the floor I couldn't see all of his face, but I saw more than enough of it to notice an expression of resigned determination, intermingled with the devastation of utter humiliation. He kneeled before me on both knees and sat down between his heels, his legs slightly spread. Then he bent forward until his forehead touched the floor. His long blond hair fell into two curtains beside his head, making his face totally

invisible. With his right hand he pointed his member backward between his legs and then put both his arms beside him, backwards, so that his hands rested, palms upwards, beside the soles of his feet. I can't deny it. It was a disturbing, yet stunning sight. Vaguely I remembered that I had seen this before. I quickly went past him, to his desk. At one end lay a neatly wrapped package with a little card. “Happy Birthday Andrew”. I looked at the book he had been reading. I was right. ‘Indentured Service — An Owner's Manual.’ The book lay open on a page which showed drawings of the little ritual he had just performed. It was titled ‘The Position of Total Submission.’ It was sort of an exercise some masters made their slaves perform. It was specially designed to make them feel small, humble and powerless. It made the master tower high above their prostrate body. I quickly scanned the accompanying explanatory text to refresh my memory. ‘... induce a deep sense of helplessness and vulnerability... the open palms, the sensitive soles of the feet, the exposed member in an unnatural position, the unprotected back... also note that this position, when touching the ground with the forehead, forces the backside slightly upwards thus exposing, in combination with the somewhat spread legs, the anus, and at the same time making it accessible to the Master and extremely vulnerable. The indentured servant experiences this as humiliating, thus reinforcing his subjugated state. It is advisable to administer a few superficial taps on the anus with a long stick, or some such implement, to heighten the experience. The object is not to hurt or harm the servant, but to instill in him the knowledge that even his most intimate parts are not his to control, but are at the mercy of the master... The exercise should be exacted of the servant on a regular basis, preferably twice a day minimum and should precede any punishment to create a...’ This was not my proudest moment, but I admit that the simple mention of the exposed backside, made me look at him. I stood now behind him, and indeed, it was exactly as the book described. An angry voice in my head said: “Stop looking and go back to

An angry voice in my head said: “Stop looking and go back to where you came from. He can't see that you are reading the book. He's thinking that you went over here to stare at his ass. He's dying of shame, you fool. You're hurting him.” I felt my cheeks burn with shame and went back as fast as I could. I knew now what he was doing. But why was he doing it? So, I tried to ask him directly. “Davey, why—” “Please, please, hear me out,” he interrupted me again, his voice muffled. And now sobs were added to the already unhappy mixture. “Please, I beg you, keep me here with you. You may do with me... no, you can do with me... that is, I know you have the legal right to do with me as you please. I know that as of today you are my legal guardian, and that you can commit me into indentured service. I understand that... I know what my family tried to do to you and I know that you must think that I was their accomplice. But I swear I wasn't and until yesterday I knew nothing. “I also understand that we are not related and there is no reason for you to keep me here. But, please, please think of Benny. He is your half brother as he was mine. Please, let me keep taking care of him. He has always had me around, and he wouldn't understand. He would miss me. I promise you that I will never, ever presume upon our former relationship, or upon my former relationship with the young master. He is very young. He doesn't know that I used to be his half brother, and as he grows up he will see in me only the slave that takes care of him. I will never tell him, I promise, I promise. “I know I will have to be broken in, that they're going to do to me what they did to Dan, and that I will have to do my thirty days, but don't sell me, please don't sell me. Keep me for yourself. Use me in every way you want. I will never complain. I will never resist, whatever you want to do to me. Please, it is a good deal. Maybe you could buy a better caretaker, but you will never find a slave more faithful. You will never find a slave that is more devoted to you and the young master... Just keep me here...”

Where in heaven's name had he got that notion? So, that was it. He thought I was going to enslave and sell him. I had to put a stop to this nonsense. I had no time to think about what exactly to say. “Davey, I don't want—” I tried again. And again I was interrupted. “No, no, don't decide yet. Please, just let me stay and take care of young master Benny. See, already I don't consider myself to be his brother anymore. From this day on I will never again mention to anybody who I used to be. I will give anything, promise anything, do anything to stay with you.” “Stand up, Davey.” I had to say it quickly before he could cut me off once more, and this made it sound more like an order than the kind request I had meant it to be. Davy stood up and I saw that he was crying. His handsome face showed despair, misery, fear and a glimmer of hope. It had obviously taken him a lot of effort to say what he had just said. He stood at attention, with his hands beside his body. Careful, Andrew, very careful, I thought, but of course I am an idiot, and I began exactly the wrong way. “Davey,” I said as calm as I could manage, “I don't want you as my slave.” I opened the envelope and showed him two documents and a check. “Look,” I continued, “this is what I went to my attorney for—” “You have already indentured me,” he wailed, and now tears ran abundantly all over his horrified face. “That is a Deed of Ownership, so the other document is the contract with the auction company to sell me off,” he blubbered on, “and you already received a check as down payment for me and that means it is irreversible.” Alexander Pope once said “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing”. Davey knew these procedures because he had been leafing through the Manual, I guessed, but what he had retained only amounted to uncoordinated bits and pieces. Things could be arranged fast, but not that fast. Meanwhile I was rapidly

becoming desperate. I must stop this. He was going to talk himself into a heart attack if I let him ramble on. “Davey, shut up and let me finish,” I said, now with intended curtness. It was the only way I could think of to stop him. He looked up in surprise, and once again he chose to take my words in the worst possible way. “I am sorry, master,” he said, suddenly very meek, “you are right. I should know my place and accept the inevitable. Every punishment you think...” It was maddening. Was he ever going to keep quiet and let me explain? He looked so miserable. I tried yet another tactic and did what I felt I should have done months ago. I let the papers in my hand fall to the ground and took him in my arms. And again immediately regretted it. Under my hands I felt his muscles freeze, and in a matter of seconds I was holding a cold, marble statue. But I didn't let go. I was determined to hold him as long as was needed to thaw him with my body warmth. Words had always come easy to me, I thought bitterly, why did they fail me now? But after holding him for a few silent moments they did come after all. I stroked his hair and began to speak to him as to a young child that has just awoken from a nightmare, and that you have to console and convince, repeatedly convince that the monsters in his dream are not real. “None of it is true, Davey. I was never going to enslave you. I was never going to sell you. It just isn't true. I haven't sold you and I never will.” II kept on saying it in all kinds of variations on the same theme, over and over, as a lullaby, and I was prepared to keep repeating it, all day long and all night long and longer still if necessary, until he believed me. Slowly I felt his muscles relax somewhat and finally he lay both hands on my chest, looked up with exactly the expression on his face of that young child, terrified by his nightmare. “Promise?” he asked in a matching voice.

My heart broke then and there. I promised him again, and again and again, and when the sniffling stopped and he lay his head between his hands on my chest, I knew he finally believed me. The worst is over, I thought. But, of course, I am an idiot and I couldn't leave well enough alone. I had to ask. “Davey, how could you ever think that of me? I thought you knew I liked you.” “Nice evasion, Andrew, you almost used the word love, but managed to dodge it,” a nagging voice in my head said. “I even thought you loved me,” he sniffled. Oh God, he was sniffling again. “Because of the quote.” “The quote?” The moment I asked him, I remembered. “Y“Yes. The quote. In the Shakespeare you gave me for my birthday,” he sobbed. Oh God, now he was sobbing again. “I found it. Months later. I was reading what you had written, and I thought I saw something. So I took it to the window, and with the sun shining upon it, if you hold the page just right, you can almost see it. And I looked and I looked and I looked and then I could read it and I found it. And I read it and read it and read it until I knew it by heart, and I still know it, and it said “And what love can do, that dares love attempt; Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me” and so I thought, he loves me, and he won't let John and Dan stand in his way, and I just have to wait until he is ready, and I was so happy, so happy and then we went for a walk that same day, and that stupid twig stuck in your hair, and I couldn't wait, and I thought, I'll come so near him, I'll come so near, nearer than I have ever been, and then he'll take me in his arms, but you didn't, and then I thought, I'll pretend to fall, and he'll catch me in his arms, but you didn't...” I knew it, I knew it, I knew it. I should have kissed him. But I didn't. And now I had made him cry again.

You really, really are a genius, Andrew Ashton, I thought. How, in heaven's name, was this possible? I had been so careful, I had thought so long about every little, minute step I took. I had measured what I thought was progress in fractions of an inch. Where, where, where had this gone wrong? But if he knew I loved him, then why did he think I would enslave him? “But if you knew I loved you, then why—” “No,” he cried, “I didn't know you loved me, I just thought you loved me, but this morning I remembered, and then I knew you didn't love me anymore, and I thought he says I haven't done anything wrong, but I must have, I must have, he just won't say, and I tried to find it, but I couldn't, I couldn't, I couldn't...” Now he was crying harder still and I was utterly confused. “But, how—” “Because of the quote.” No, no, no, no. Back, back. Wrong direction. Back to ‘Quote equals Andrew loves Davey.’ “But you said yourself that the quote proved—” “Yes, but this morning I remembered,” he sobbed accusingly, “you had erased it. I had found it, but you didn't want me to find it because you had erased it before you gave me the book, and then I knew that you had loved me, and then I had done something wrong, and then you didn't love me anymore, but you are kind, and maybe you still liked me a little, but didn't love me anymore, and so you erased it and gave me the book anyway, and then I knew why you didn't take me in your arms or catch me.” I didn't know what to say. I cursed myself and my eternal wavering. I had spent hours of going back and forth, agonizing over a birthday dedication, only to accomplish this. And it got worse. “And then I remembered”, he rambled on, sobbing, “that Dan had told me when he came to get me last evening what they were going to do to you, and that he was this close, this close to convincing his dad to do the same to me, and that I should

watch closely so that I could think every day about what I had seen and prepare myself, and I was afraid for you and for me, and then it was Dan they took and not you, so I knew that you had been cleverer, but you looked so strangely at me, and then I thought this morning that is why he didn't want to speak to me the whole week, because he thinks I knew, he must think I helped them, and I didn't, I didn't, I really didn't, and now he wants all the Ridges out of his life, and you had yelled at me and ordered me to stay here, and you were going to your attorney, and it was about me, and so I knew you were going to indenture me, and sell me and I wanted to run away, but I have no money and I couldn't leave Benny alone, and I didn't know where and I didn't know what to do, I just didn't know what to do, so I ran to my room and began reading in the Manual to try to find out what would happen to me, and then I found the pictures, and I thought, I'll do that and I'll ask him to keep me, and I'll do anything he wants if he just keeps me, and I was so afraid, I was so afraid, I was so afraid...” He was beating with his clenched fists on my chest. Oh boy, I was going to have to explain so much and apologize so long. There would be no end to the groveling in the dust I would have to do. So, I held him closer and stroked his hair again and kept repeating “No, no, no, it wasn't going to happen, it was never going to happen.” Finally he quieted down to a soft sniffling again. I am an idiot and quite possibly a pervert, but when I looked down to see his face, notwithstanding his pain and misery, my eye caught the soft curvatures of his shoulder and his chest and I saw that, probably because of the friction with my jacket, the one nipple I could see was hard. He had seen me looking. “I'm sorry,” I apologized immediately, “I know you don't like to be looked at.” “Do you like looking at me?” he sniffled with the face and in the voice of the small child terrorized by his nightmare. I really couldn't help it. He was so endearing, so adorable and

shy and timid at the same time. “I love looking at you,” I replied with a big smile. He paused and seemed to think. “Then I guess you can look,” he shrugged, hesitantly giving in. He took a step backward to give me a better view, and he looked so sweet, so lovely and charming. But I saw that he was blushing. God, the boy could blush. So I drew him back to me to cover him. For the first time I felt that there would be more than enough time for this. I knew a corner had been turned. I collected my papers from the ground and I gave him the first document. It read, in great black letters ‘Act of Emancipation.’ He looked with great, wondering eyes up to me. Finally, the moment had arrived for me to shine, if I didn't manage to botch this up as well. “The power of a parent or a legal guardian,” I explained, “over their children or wards is rather extensive. This particular law is far less used than the Greenberg Act, but it is just as legal. A parent can, with motivation, petition the court to emancipate a child, that has reached his or her sixteenth birthday. If the court grants the emancipation the child becomes an adult before the law. And this is what I have done with you: I have emancipated you. Although you're only sixteen, for all practical purposes, as far as the law is concerned you are an adult. I've been your legal guardian for maybe thirteen hours, but I am not anymore. There is in fact nobody who could enslave you, let alone sell you, just like that. You are an adult. See,” and I pointed with my finger to the relevant paragraph, “this is written by my attorney and it makes me say how responsible you are and how mature before your years and more of that nonsense, all true in your case of course,” and he laughed softly, “and these first sentences are mine, where it says that I want you to be able to take full responsibility for our half brother and how you are already his main caregiver.” I have made him laugh, I thought deeply satisfied.

I have made him laugh, I thought deeply satisfied. “Another consequence is that you can inherit immediately from John, that's to say, your half. Benny gets the other half. My attorney is making the necessary arrangements with your bank. And this Deed of Ownership” and I put it in his hands, “that you were so afraid of is not yours. It's Dan's. I have transferred my ownership of him to you, starting next Friday. My attorney and me will sell him abroad and sign a contract to that effect before that, but starting Friday you are his owner and the proceeds will go to you. The check is what we got for John. I endorsed it to you.” He took some time to let it all sink in. “You're giving up a lot of money,” he said, absorbed in thought, “and that's not even counting what you could have gotten for me.” “Oh, well, it is one of the benefits of belonging to the idle rich. We can afford to lose some money. And besides, it is only fair that you should at least in this way profit from your relationship with them. Heaven knows you have never profited from it in any other way.” Then he asked the hardest question in the world. “Why?” I could have said “Because I love you.” But that would have been too simple of course, too direct for Andrew Ashton. “Because I didn't want you to live in fear. Your eighteenth birthday is more than twenty months away. All that time you would have lived in fear, every day, that I would indenture you, or at least that I had the power to do so. What kind of life is that? I've lived with that fear for nine days and it almost destroyed me. I couldn't let that keep hanging over you.” The bothersome voice in my head said “Tell him the truth, the whole truth.” “And I did it also for me. Sure, you would have been kind to me, why not, you've always been nice to me. But I would never have known whether is was because you liked me, or because you

feared me. And that was something I wasn't prepared to live with.” “The whole truth,” the voice insisted. “That's also why I wanted you to have the money. Being a free adult is not enough, not if you're dependent on me for food, clothes and a roof above you're head. I wanted you to be both free and independent. With your half of John's money you probably would have been able to support yourself, but just barely, now you are comfortably well off. In fact, if you were to decide to leave this house now and never come back, there is nothing I can do about it, and you have more than enough money to live on.” Davey kept looking silently at me with his big eyes. He is not going to make this easy for me, I thought. “Then tell it all,” the voice said. “I wanted this for you, but I also wanted it for me. Because I wanted you to be able to give me an answer that comes from you and not from fear or need.” “Stop dragging your feet,” insisted the voice, “for once in your life say it.” “Because I wanted your reaction to be really from you. See, Davey, I don't want you as my slave, but I do want you. I don't like to be surrounded by servants, but I want to be loved by equals.” Oh God, this is worse than torture, I thought. I had begun sweating and he still didn't move. “Then say it,” said the voice, “are you perhaps physically incapable of pronouncing it?” So, I closed my eyes. “I love you, Davey.” There. Satisfied? I've said it. I didn't dare open my eyes, but after seconds that seemed ages, I felt him standing with his bare feet on my shoes, pulling himself up by my shoulders and kissing me softly on the mouth.

You would think that this would be enough to still the fears of the most insecure man on earth, wouldn't you? Well, then you don't know Andrew Ashton, because for him it was not enough. For like the idiot he is, he had to ask an idiotic question. “So... does that mean you love me too?” I heard myself ask. He took two steps backward. “Andrew Nathaniel Ashton VII,” he shouted angrily, “if you still have to ask that question, you are the biggest fool I have ever set eyes on. Of course I love you, haven't you heard me say so? Haven't you heard me say that I wanted you to take me in your arms? Haven't I said that I would give anything, promise anything and do anything just to stay with you?” “But then you were afraid of me.” “Don't interrupt me. It's not polite. Of course I love you, you fool. I have loved you from the day you helped me move into this very room and we sat between my books and I thought to myself “That one is mine, all mine.” And I meant what I said. How dare you doubt me. But I will repeat it: I will give anything, promise anything and do anything to stay with you and I will always love you.” There appeared a mischievous glint in his eyes. “And if you still don't believe me, you leave me no choice but to prove it to you.” With a force that surprised me from someone two years my junior and which caught me totally off guard, he pushed me through the room and upon his bed. He jumped upon me and sat astride my legs, just like that day when he removed the twig out of my hair, except of course that I was laying down on a bed now and another little detail. And it was all there. All the things that I had so loved about him this summer. The great eyes, the carefree, contented smile, the broad gestures. He was totally unselfconscious and, not unimportantly, completely naked. He seemed to have forgotten, or maybe it was because he knew we couldn't be disturbed by his tormentors, or perhaps he just didn't care anymore. He took a deep breath and let the air slowly escape back again.

He took a deep breath and let the air slowly escape back again. “You've done good, Andrew, you've done good. You made us both safe,” he said. “And I had only to wipe out half your family to accomplish it,” I replied. He laid one finger on my lips. “John was not my father and he never acted as a father... and Dan... between the two of them they've made my life miserable for as long as I can remember. No, you've done good, Andrew.” I crossed that particular worry permanently of my list. And there was that enthusiastic, excited chattering, that I had so loved to listen to on our long walks. “Oh, oh, we can stay here, can't we? We are not going to move, are we? I know it is way to big for the three of us, but I love it here, the house, the gardens, the fields, the wood...” I loved it as well. “Yes,” I replied smiling. “Oh, oh, so we can bring up Benny together, can't we? I know you're not good with small children, but I am. And we must go look for a suitable kindergarten. You can't start early enough, you know.” He's one year old, for crying out loud. “Yes.” “Oh, oh, and can we change his name? I want it to be AshtonRidge. Benjamin Ashton-Ridge. With a hyphen.” “Or Ridge-Ashton, maybe?” “Don't interrupt me. It's not polite. Oh, oh, and can I meet your friends?” O yes, my trophy boy. Sooner than you might think. Like this evening. “Yes.” “Oh, oh, can we look in the house for a bigger room for us?

Where we can put all our books together? Mine on one wall and yours on the other?” If you think that all we are going to do there is read, you are sadly mistaken. “Yes.” “Oh, oh, can I have a dog? I always wanted a dog, but they wouldn't let me.” For all I care you can have an entire zoo, if it makes you happy. “Yes.” For a while my only purpose in the universe seemed to be to shut up while my love was talking and say “yes” when he stopped. I had some plans of my own. One of them, a short term plan, was set in motion today by Geoffrey, and I expected the first results tomorrow. The other, a long term plan, was at the moment nothing more than a vague idea. But I had time, all the time in the world to let it grow and see if it would ever become something worthwhile. For the moment I was perfectly content to let myself be ordered around by Davey. He seemed suddenly to remember something. “Oh, oh, I forgot, I must undress you.” With nimble fingers he began to unbutton my shirt, mumbling to himself “Me naked, you naked”. The sleeves of my shirt were still in those of my jacket when he threw them beside the bed. Well, I thought when he had finished, he seems to like what he sees, judging by that rock hard erection. I crossed another worry of the list. He sat back on my thighs and leaned over, engulfing me in a shower of blond hair. “Andrew,” he whispered in my ear, and I could have sworn I heard him giggle, “I may not be your slave, but you will still fuck me, won't you?”

“You can bet your ass,” I whispered back. “In fact, your ass is mine.” “And once and again I can still call you master, can't I?”. I give up, I thought and was about to say so, but it is very difficult to speak when somebody is French-kissing you as if his life depends upon it. And then...

But as Sean would say: it is really not your business.

Chapter 15:

The First

On that terrible Saturday Geoffrey had warned me of what John and Dan Ridge had in store for me, he had also formulated his plan, and he had explained to me what voluntary commitment was and how we were going to use it. I had wondered who would do such a thing and he had given some examples. I have written them down here, except one, because it didn't fit well and it was too long. But it gave me an idea, so I will tell it now. Geoffrey told me the story of two brothers. “My father often told it at dinner parties,” he had said. “Two brothers lost both their parents in a car accident. The oldest was eighteen and became automatically the legal guardian of his twelve year old kid brother. He was a good student, but he had to find a job to support both himself and his brother. “So, he put his studies on hold and found a job as a construction

laborer. He made good money and the years passed. The younger one was a brilliant student, but there was nowhere near enough money to pay for a higher education. So, they made a pact. The older brother would voluntarily commit himself when the youngest became eighteen to pay for his studies. Later the younger one would buy his brother and petition the court to set him free.” “You can do that?” I had interrupted. “As long as there is no criminal angle. The procedure takes between four and six months. If a master wants to set his slave free and there are no other obstacles, why not? That's entirely his business. It practically never happens, but in principle it is possible. It's a bother though to get the slave's original name back. The slave has to prove who he used to be, and with the kind of records we keep these days, that's not very simple. “When they discussed it with father, he first urged them to draw up a written agreement. That was not necessary, they both stated, because they had made a pact. My father didn't insist. One of the parties wouldn't exist anymore after he was enslaved, so the contract would be automatically null and void anyway. They didn't know that, and my father had hoped it would put some kind of extra pressure on the younger brother to keep his side of the pact. But they both kept insisting that it wasn't necessary. They made a file with the older brother's birth certificate, photos and a DNA sample, so later they would be able to prove who he was and registered it with a notary. Then they waited until the younger brother became an adult. “When my father, who was, at their request, the executor, discussed the case with the BIS squad he made sure the captain and the guards knew the whole story. Then they went to the little house where the brothers lived. There was nobody there except them. Father read the petition, declared that it had been granted by the court and ordered the guards to take the older brother. Procedures had to be followed, voluntary commitment or not. “Before a public of one person, his kid brother, the older one was stripped. The captain didn't rip his clothes off as he didn't

resist, but simply helped him undress. When he saw his brother standing there, naked and held by two guards, the younger one began to cry. They turned him around, bent him over and started to paddle him. The younger one cried even harder. ‘Stop crying, we have discussed this,‘ the older one said. But the guards' heart wasn't in it. My father used to say that with those kind of blows you couldn't have killed a fly. After seven slaps the guards had enough. If there is no cooperation from the attendants, the captain usually has some routines of his own, but in this case he too called it a day. So they took the older brother to the van. It was the strangest thing, my father said, the story must have gone around, because when they came outside the whole street was deserted. Nothing moved. Nobody was looking out of their window or standing in the door. It was as if the street had died out.” “I'm kind of glad for the guy,” I had said. “I'“I'm afraid his luck will have ended there. In the Training Center he will have been treated like any other new slave. Anyway, he was auctioned off, the kid brother got the money and began his studies. He became a doctor. It took him eight years to become a specialist in something or other. He was indeed brilliant, and immediately after his studies became the youngest partner in a group practice. Two years later he started his own. He was quite successful and after four more years he had enough money to buy his brother. “Meanwhile my father had kept tabs on the enslaved brother. Which in this case was easy. He had been bought by a small, family operated, furniture factory. They quite liked him and treated him relatively well. They hated to part with him, but after my father, who handled the negotiations, had told them the story they were prepared to sell him to his kid brother. Another six months later, and he was a free man again and had his name back. All in all, it had taken more than fourteen years.” “This could have gone so wrong so quickly in so many ways,” I had said, impressed. “Oh yes, the younger brother could simply have ‘forgotten’ about the pact. There was nothing the older one could have

done.” “They must have loved and trusted each other very much.” “Hm, I don't know about love, but you'll find that most of the trust came from the older brother.” “What happened to them?” “As the business was finished from a legal point of view, my father hadn't any contact with them anymore. But, he heard rumors. The older brother had been twenty-four when he voluntarily committed himself and was now thirty eight, almost thirty nine. Yet, he went back to college. He had been a good student himself and had only abandoned his studies to take care of his little brother, who now paid for his tuition and his upkeep. My father thought he became an architect.” “It's a nice story.” “Yes, it almost restores your confidence in the human race. But don't exaggerate. It is the only case of its kind I know of that doesn't involve crazy people. And even that is matter of opinion.” We had both been silent for a while. Then I had asked him some questions. “It will not be easy,” he had answered, “as there is not much to go on, but we can always try, I suppose. For the moment however, we have more urgent matters to attend to.” “I know,” I had replied, “but if I am still alive on my eighteenth birthday I would like you to set things in motion.” Excerpts (cut & pasted) from my email correspondence with Geoffrey Singer from: Geoffrey Singer, Singer & Singer to: Mr. Andrew N. Ashton VII re: different arrangements Andrew,

I trust the little arrangement we made was to the complete satisfaction of young Mr. Ridge. As regards the other matter. I've discussed it with Thomson & Meyer Investigations and they agree with me: it won't be easy, but they reckon there is a fair chance. They can guarantee nothing of course, and it certainly won't be cheap. I will sent you a provisional estimate of the costs involved, as soon as I receive it myself. They would like to meet you, preferably next Thursday at 2 pm. I will also be attending. They want to question you about what you remember. There could be elements that you have half forgotten, or think not important, but that could prove vital. They will present us with a plan of how they want to tackle this. Since you have seen fit to let me go on managing your estate, it is my duty to warn you. You can't keep spending like this. Between the costs I had to make on your behalf, you giving away the proceeds of two slaves (which would amply have covered said costs) and this new little project of yours, you have already spent more money in two days than your mother used to spend in a whole year. Not to worry, you can well afford it and we won't have to touch your investments. Still, I would advise some moderation. Regards, G. Singer P.S.: Not that it is my business, but this person must mean a lot to you for you to spend that much money on him. from: Andrew Ashton to: Geoffrey Singer re: TMI Dear Geoffrey, He has touched my soul. Besides, can you really put a price on

shining armor? Yours, Andrew PS: Thursday is OK for me. from: Geoffrey Singer, Singer & Singer to: Mr Andrew N. Ashton VII re: Brennan Andrew, I understood the first part of your message of course. Can't say the same for the second part. No doubt you will explain it to me some day if I need to know, but I understand that there is an emotional factor. We have booked a first, very small success. We have a picture of him! It was quite easy as it turned out. Your school still had the yearbooks, which in this day and age is almost a miracle, and they have given us permission to copy the photograph of Eric Brennan. Of course, he is fourteen in that picture and he must be twenty by now. It is not of very good quality, but TMI will try to age the face in the picture with a specialized computer program. What they can't account for is what six years of enslavement might have done to him. All specialists agree that there is a marked influence, but nobody knows exactly what it is. However, we have something tangible to work with. I'll keep you informed how the investigation develops. Regards, G. Singer from: Geoffrey Singer, Singer & Singer to: Mr Andrew N. Ashton VII re: Brennan

re: Brennan Andrew, Another small progress. The Evergreen Garden Services Landscape Company wouldn't give TMI access to their records. They only gave us the company they used to trade with. Brennan was sold to Western Indentured Servants Traders. They were a lot more compliant. We have all the collar codes of the slaves they bought within the relevant time frame. There were 473 of them. Of that number 21 were sold outside the country. TMI proposes to investigate the remaining 452 first. Sorry, but it will be a long process of elimination. Regards, G. Singer from: Geoffrey Singer, Singer & Singer to: Mr Andrew N. Ashton VII re: Brennan Andrew, Sorry this has taken over four months, but I told you that it would be a long process. However, TMI is practically certain that Brennan has been sold on to a cooperative, Delta Agricultural Cooperative. To put it simply: they buy supplies in great quantities at reduced prices and offer them to their members. They are located in the South and have members in three states. DAC bought 25 slaves. Since we have the codes it should be relatively simple to determine which members eventually bought them. Regards, G. Singer from: Geoffrey Singer, Singer & Singer to: Mr Andrew N. Ashton VII re: Brennan

Andrew, Sorry, we seem to have run into some trouble. First the good news. It is now (almost) certain that Brennan was in the group of 25 slaves bought by DAC. TMI has eliminated all the others. Of course, there is still a possibility that he was sold out of the country. DAC however has had a fire in their headquarters, and some of their records were lost. Can you believe they had only one backup? And that was corrupt. They have agreed to sell us their member list, which they regularly do anyway for direct marketing purposes. They have over 8,800 members. All of them are small, privately owned farms. This is a good thing. We won't have to negotiate with a big company, but just with the owner of a small business. Moreover, most of these farms are surviving from season to season. If we can offer a good price, let's say double his commercial value, they should be all too willing to sell us the boy. We will have to visit all the members separately. We estimate that one agent can visit between five and ten farms a day. As it is statistically unlikely that Brennan will be owned by the very last farm to visit, it may turn out better than you would think at first sight. TMI advises to put 20 field agents on the job instead of the five we have working on this now. They estimate to have a result, positive or negative, within three months. In attachment I enclose a spreadsheet with the extra costs. Please, give your instructions ASAP. Regards, G. Singer from: Andrew Ashton to: Geoffrey Singer re: Eric Brennan Dear Geoffrey,

Do it. Yours, Andrew PS: Don't refer to him as ‘the boy’ please. from: Geoffrey Singer, Singer & Singer to: Mr Andrew N. Ashton VII re: Brennan Andrew, We have him!!! Our field agent is positive. He was permitted to speak with him, and he has confirmed that he was Eric Brennan. The farmer is prepared to sell him, as I thought, at double his market value. No wonder as this will permit them to survive between three and seven bad seasons. I've already sent a contract to our field agent, and I am making arrangements for the payment. Regards, G. Singer from: Geoffrey Singer, Singer & Singer to: Mr Andrew N. Ashton VII re: Brennan Andrew, The deal has been concluded. So rest assured. There has been a mess-up however and I am afraid it's my fault. After concluding the sale our agent has put him on transport. The man meant well and was convinced that we would be pleased with his prompt action. So he contacted a company specialized in slave transport to collect him at the farm and to

send him here, with me as recipient. He has not spoken about this with Brennan. It is a cultural thing. You don't explain to a bag of beans that you are transporting it, or why, or how. You just transport it. I'm sure there was no malice involved. Brennan was taken from the farm without him knowing what was happening and put on transport. They have to collect and deliver at many stops on the journey. He will arrive in three days. I have contacted the local branch and given instructions that, immediately upon arrival, he is to be separated from the rest. He will be delivered to your house by special transport. If all goes well, you can expect him this Friday between 11 am and 1 pm. I'm very sorry. I should have anticipated this and given special instructions that Brennan was to be told that he was bought by you and that his conditions of life were changing for the better. He would have had something to look forward to. Once again, I'm deeply sorry for this mess-up. Regards, G. Singer PS: Could you please tell me when he has arrived. from: Andrew Ashton to: Geoffrey Singer re: Eric Brennan Dear Geoffrey, Don't blame yourself. I didn't think of it either. Of course I will keep you informed. Thank you for all the effort you put into this. Yours, Andrew from: Geoffrey Singer, Singer & Singer

to: Mr Andrew N. Ashton VII re: Brennan Andrew, Thank you for your understanding. I almost forgot. Whatever you do, don't try to remove his collar yourself. I'm working on the petition to restore his freedom and his name. At the very most that will take six months. When the petition is granted I will arrange an appointment with the BIS, where they will remove the collar. Please: Don't do it yourself!!! Regards, G. Singer I was too nervous with anticipation to stay inside, so I sat on the stairs before the house, when I saw Davey returning from the gardens. I still marveled every day about how much he had changed. It was a beautiful early summer day. Davey carried Benny on his shoulders and beside him walked his very young German Shepherd who was still a bit unsure on his legs and had a tendency to bump into all kinds of obstacles. The dog followed him everywhere. His name was Spartacus, but for daily use that was quickly shortened to Sparta. Davey was shirtless and wearing shorts. Was this really the same guy who last summer had worn a regular t-shirt instead of a long sleeved one as his only concession to the heat? When he saw me, he gave me his beautiful, big smile. “Still not here?” he inquired. “No,” I replied, “but it is only just past noon.” “I'm going to feed Benny and prepare him for his nap. Call me when he arrives.” “I will,” I said, and he smiled.

How could I not love him? I had explained everything, and I had apologized for everything, many times over. I had been prepared to grovel in the dust, but he wouldn't let me. I had told him everything, everything I knew myself about Andrew Ashton. I had told him about the most terrible week of my life, what I had seen, what I had felt and what I had done. I had told him about Geoffrey Singer from the first time I met him. I had told him about the Green Carnation. I had told him about Toby. The full story this time. I had told him about Sean. In a sense I had stood more naked before him, than he had stood before me. And I had let him gaze, long and hard, at my nakedness. Several times I had blushed under his stare, and each time he had taken me in his arms to cover me. And still he kept loving me. I had chased his real and imaginary monsters. And in my turn I had awoken numerous times at night, drenched in sweat and disoriented, to discover he was rocking me, softly whispering ‘Shh, it's only a bad dream, my love’ and ‘Won't you tell me about it?’ And this also I had told him. How I couldn't forget that boy whose name I didn't even know and who had surrendered without a fight, who had gone down, softly crying. But I had listened too, when on our long walks he told me how lonely he had been. How he hadn't dared trust anybody, and how afraid he had been, almost every day of his life. How his books had been his only friends. How he had tried to erect impregnable walls around himself. What it had cost him. How he had hungered for a kind word. How he had thirsted for a smile. How famished he had been for a little love. And I had held him in my arms and stroked his hair when he cried over his forlorn childhood. I was but two years older, but I had tried to be, maybe not a father, but at least a good older brother for him as well as a lover. He still grew mother's herbs, and he dried them and made tea from them. His brews tasted as vile as hers, but I didn't care, I drank them anyway, because he had made them. He always served them with cookies. And I learned all kinds of things about him, like how he loved fast cars and how generous and how inventive a lover he was.

We had become lovers on my eighteenth birthday and a few months later I noticed that, somewhere along the road, we had also become old friends. And I loved him even more for it. He had blossomed. One day he had come stark naked in the kitchen, fresh out of the shower, drying his hair with a towel. I had stared at him with open mouth. Was this the guy who, barely a year ago, had been embarrassed at the thought that someone had caught a glimpse of his ass? “What?” he had laughed, “I was thirsty and by now you must have seen it all, surely.” I had. I had repeatedly studied every square inch of him. “You know I love looking at you,” I had answered, and he had smiled and kissed me on the cheek. That first night I had taken him with me to the restaurant Sean had invited us to and introduced him to my friends. Timmy had made him feel as if he had always been a part of our little group. When he and Sean had looked into each other's eyes, I had the uncanny feeling that they knew each other from a long time ago and would need but a few minutes to catch up. But it was not that. It was just two big hearts that met and recognized each other. With Linda he connected immediately. They were the two newcomers in our little circle and that had created an instant, special bond. “They seem to like each other,” I had remarked to Sean, while they were talking animatedly to each other. “Yes,” he had smiled, “and doesn't that worry you just a little bit? They're talking about us, you know.” Later that night he had said “He must love you very much, Andrew, he lets you carry his heart in your hands.“ ”I'm afraid I might drop or crush it,” I had answered. “No, you won't,” Sean had smiled. “You never have.” I had unfolded my budding plans to Davey and we had spent several evenings discussing them and looking up some detail or

other. When sometimes I had become discouraged, he had heartened me, and when I thought I had made a minor breakthrough he had rejoiced with me. Besides a lover and a friend, he had become a companion for the road. What nobody else, including I myself, or even Sean could accomplish, he managed to do. One by one he made my insecurities disappear. Before his smile they went up in smoke. In his hands they dissolved. He killed them off with a kiss. The tree that probably had seen one Andrew Ashton kill himself, now saw another making love. I had never been happier, never been more at ease, never been more fulfilled. How could I not love him?

About thirty minutes after midday, a small van appeared out of the driveway in a haze of blue smoke. One of the two men in the front got out. “Is this the Ashton mansion, sir?” “Yes, I'm Andrew Ashton,” I replied. “We have a delivery for you. One boy?” he read from a document on his clipboard. “Yes.” “If you could sign here for delivery please and be so kind as to give us directions to the slave quarters? We will unload him there.” “That's all right, you can leave him here,” I said while signing his receipt. “You're sure, sir? It is no trouble at all, you know. All part of the service.” “Yes, I'm sure,” I said, becoming annoyed.

He called to his colleague and they opened the back door of the van. “Easy, Bert, don't damage the goods,” I heard him say. They carried a man out of the van. “Where shall we put him? Here?” “Just... just lay him down here, before the stairs. Easy, easy,” I said while they lowered him to the ground. I recognized him immediately. It was unmistakeably Eric. He seemed unharmed, but not in the best of shapes. He was completely naked. A strange, rusty contraption shackled his wrists and his ankles. It also kept his legs and arms at a distance from his back, so that he was arched like a bow. He was blindfolded and gagged with some dirty rags. The contraption made it somewhat difficult, but yet I could see some old scars of a whip on his back and an almost healed wound on his buttocks. He must have been disciplined recently. “Couldn't you put some clothes on him?” I snapped. “Oh, I'm sorry, sir,” the man said while rifling through the papers on his clipboard, “did you buy clothes for the boy? It seems they forgot to mention that on the form.” “No, no,” I replied resigned, “I just assumed...” I sighed. “Oh, get that wretched thing off of him”. “Of course, sir,” the man replied. He retrieved a key from his pocket and began unlocking the shackles, and when he had finished he threw the contraption in the back of the van. Eric kept lying in almost the same position. “How long has he worn that thing?” I asked indignantly. “And those rags?” “For the duration of the transport, I would guess, sir. Company policy. They don't want to take any risks. So they keep them shackled. And as for the blindfold, it's like with horses. What they don't see, they can't get afraid of. But don't worry, sir, they're not like you and me. They make them used to this kind of thing during their training.” “He seems totally out of it,” I half asked, half murmured to myself.

“That would be the sedative they give them, sir. We in the depot don't give them extra drugs, though. We know that most owners want to put them to work as fast as possible. You can use him today, sir, just let someone throw some cold water on him, maybe give him some grub, and the boy should be good to go. Anything else, sir?” “No, thank you. Go... go... just go.” He said goodbye, got in his van and they drove of in clouds of blue smoke. Eric wasn't moving. I tried to straighten his legs and put his arms in a somewhat more normal position. He let it happen, but it seemed to hurt him a little. No wonder if he had been forced in that cramped posture for three days in a moving train. I lifted him in a half upright, sitting position and sat down on the stairs myself, letting him lean with his back against me. The moment I started moving him he shivered. He shivered in the sun on a warm day. “Don't be afraid,” I said softly, “I'm just going to remove the gag and the blindfold.” The gag was knotted at the back of his head, and it was with some difficulty that I loosened it. When I finally could remove it, I saw that they had put another dirty rag in his mouth. I removed that as well and threw the filthy things as far as I could. He breathed easier. When I got rid of his blindfold, he opened his eyes and closed them again instantly. The sunlight hurt his eyes. I tried to get him to sit somewhat more upright. A feeling of despair came over me. It was like handling a life sized doll. I didn't mind that he was dirty and that he stank. It was just the pitiful state he was in that got to me. I heard Davey yelling from the hall. “Andrew, Andrew, Timmy has just called to confirm that he and Linda and Sean are coming to dinner this ev—” He came running down the stairs. “Is that him? Poor guy. Poor, poor guy. What have they done to him?”

“Transported him,” I said bitterly. Eric tried to keep his eyes open, but when he saw Sparta he cringed. “I'll lock him inside,” Davey said, “and I'll get a blanket. Come, Sparta.” “And bring a glass of water,” I shouted after him. When Davey had returned I held the glass at his lips, and Eric began greedily guzzling the water. Don't they give them anything to drink, I wondered. Davey meanwhile had covered him with the blanket and was trying to get part of it under him. It was not much, but it was a first step to restoring his dignity. Eric had begun looking around him, but he didn't seem to know where he was. His eyes fell upon Davey's handsome face. He studied it, as if there was something important he must read from it. “Hi,” Davey smiled, “I am David, and you must be Eric. Pleased to meet the hero of my man. Welcome to our home.” It was impossible to discern if any of this had got through to him. Davey caressed my cheek and wiped a tear away with his thumb. “You should be happy, love, you've got him back,” he whispered. “Yeah, I suppose, but look at the state of him. It will take months, maybe years before he will be a semblance of his former self again.” “We'll take as much time as is needed,” Davey comforted me. “And we'll begin today. We'll let him recover a little while longer and then we'll bring him in the house. We'll give him warm food, not out of a bowl to scoop up with his fingers, but on a dish, with a fork and a knife. We will let him bathe, and if he can't do it himself, we'll help him. We'll give him nice, clean clothes, and he can rest in one of the big chairs in the living room and we'll sit by him. And this evening he'll dine with us and our friends. Tonight he will sleep in a soft bed. You'll see, it will all come back to him.”

Eric had begun to turn his head nervously from right to left and back. “What is he doing?” Davey asked. “I suppose he's afraid some foreman or overseer will come and discipline him for sitting down instead of working or standing at attention.” Then I did what I hadn't dared do some three years ago. I hugged him. He stopped looking around, turned with great difficulty to me and looked up to my face. “Andrew?” he croaked astonished. He looked right and left again, frightened by the crackling of some leaves. I hugged him once more. “Don't be afraid, Eric, I'll protect you from the bullies.”

He was the first.

Chapter 16:

Epilogue

H., A quick note. I just finished reading what you call the Ashton Papers. You must have come to the same conclusion as I did: if this document is authentic we are sitting on a bomb! I almost wish it will turn out to be nothing more than an elaborate hoax. Before I discuss this any further: 1) Lock Ashton's personal laptop in your safe 2) Do the same with any copies you made of the file (I hope that the copy you gave me and your own personal copy are the only ones in existence) and don't make any more copies. (I don't care if they're doubly encrypted: we simply can't take the risk) 3) Don't involve any other members of the Board before I have had the time to do some basic research. (It's hard

enough to keep a secret between two persons; a secret shared with twelve is no secret at all — it will inevitably leak!!!) 4) Whatever you do, certainly don't involve outsiders 5) Look for more files in that hidden partition; the Ashton Papers end rather abruptly, and I can't help wondering if he wrote more 6) Look for any files by Geoffrey Singer I will need at least two days to do some (very basic) research before I can give you any estimate about the authenticity. Since you request it, I will also try to give you a motivated advice about what to do with this document. I will lock myself in my library during these two days to be able to concentrate fully on the research. Don't worry, I've done it before and it won't raise any suspicion. Once I went for five days into seclusion to solve some inconsistencies in the chronology of some Sumerian dynasty. I am regarded as an old fogy in the Department, so they won't pay too much attention to what I'm doing anyway. And of course, we historians are generally seen as tedious in the extreme. Nobody cares what we do. I can't help wondering, my old friend, how you brought Ashton's personal computer back to life. It's a museum piece! I didn't even realize they had enduring memory units in those days. You've always had a way with technology. And then to find a hidden partition within a hidden partition! (Is this correct?) Whatever gave you the idea? I like the name Ashton Papers, although I suspect that there was never any paper involved. Which reminds me: 7) Don't make any hard copies I'll do my best to give you a preliminary report in two days. In

the meantime let's keep this strictly between us. Affectionately, B.

Henry Friedlander, Chairman of the Board of Directors, SHD Dear Henry, My apologies, this is the best I could come up with in two days. The structure of my report is a bit diffuse, but that is because most elements have repercussions on several levels. So, sometimes it might seem that some elaborations are placed arbitrarily. I know history is not your strong point. When necessary for a clear understanding, I will go into some detail. Finally, I've come up, like you asked, with a conclusion about the advisability of making the Ashton Papers public. But, I'm sure, old friend, that you can already guess what that is.

Preliminary Report on the Ashton Papers Are the Ashton Papers Authentic? I am inclined to say this document is authentic, i.e. in my opinion it was really written by Andrew Ashton. There is not one big reason to do so; it is more a myriad of little details that fit in with what we already know. It is as if the little

facts in this document bring more texture, more depth to our existing image of Ashton. Even facts that didn't seem to fit at first sight, were corroborated after all, once I had dug deeper. Then — but I admit that this is almost as tenuous — there are some little, nagging mysteries it solves. Also, the general style (but I am not a specialist) seems to be the same as that of his more informal writing (I mean e.g. the ex tempore addresses as opposed to the great speeches that have a more swollen style). I'll give just one example of the dozens of trivial facts that would have been very difficult for a falsifier to get right. Ashton uses throughout the document the word ‘house’ to describe the Ashton mansion. He himself, in an informal speech to his collaborators, said that his mother forbade him to call their house a mansion. Apparently she didn't want him to put on airs. But of course it was a mansion, and that was what everybody called it. Here are three cases I will go into a little deeper.

The Strathway Crash Some eleven years after the last events described in the Ashton Papers, the so called Strathway empire tumbled down like the house of cards it was in reality. Strathway Constructions was specialized in building residential towers all over the country. They always used the same design. What they typically did was build the first floor and use that to sell all the apartments of a tower that had yet to be built. As they built virtually exactly the same towers over the entire country, they could buy their building materials in enormous quantities. They never bought from the greater companies, but from smaller, or newly started, enterprises for whom Strathway was a very desirable customer. That enabled them to impose draconian conditions. Typically they would pay 10 % on delivery, 20 % in 60 days and so on. The result was that they received money for buildings that

weren't yet built, and then they built them with materials they hadn't yet paid for. This system worked for decades. It even survived short term slumps in the housing market. But then a long term crisis came along. The Strathway empire crumbled, and during the litigation it was discovered that the company had committed massive fraud. Timothy Strathway sat on the Board of Directors (frankly, he hadn't the brains) because he was the eldest son of his father. All the board members and executives were personally indicted. Although it was clear that Timothy Strathway had himself not been involved in fraudulent activities, had not known about them and in general only had a title and no practical power in the company, he was found guilty and sentenced to lifelong indentured service. Right after his conviction was pronounced, he was stripped in court, beaten and brought to a Training Center. Ashton and Denham had followed the proceedings, but were not present when the verdict was rendered. They knew what it would be, because the public opinion was so outraged that any other outcome was simply impossible. But they, and David Ridge, were there when Strathway was auctioned off. Edward Sandells, a journalist, describes the scene in his autobiography. (I'll summarize; the man is rather long winded) When their friend was displayed naked on a platform and they saw the wounds on his back and his behind, Denham couldn't hold back his tears. Sandells describes Ridge as ‘motionless and expressionless as a mannequin,’ and Ashton gritted his teeth. When the auctioneer announced the minimum bid, Ashton immediately bid double that amount. It was far above Strathway's commercial value. All other prospective buyers saw on Ashton's face that he was going to outbid them, no matter what, and none of them had the nerve to challenge the Ashton fortune (which by that time had increased already considerably). Neither did they see any profit in buying an indentured servant at an inflated price. It was over in under five minutes. The three immediately left the auction room to collect their purchase which, as usual, was delivered as is, i.e. naked. Ridge had brought a blanket which he draped around Strathway, covering also his face. Outside the building a throng of press

and a crowd of onlookers had assembled in the hope that, like one of his younger brothers two weeks earlier, Strathway's new owner would not have seen fit to provide him with any clothing and would drag him naked to his vehicle. They had shot a lot of juicy pictures and videos of one of the Strathway crooks, and they hoped to do the same at this occasion. They were bitterly disappointed when Strathway appeared, fully covered and flanked by Ashton and Ridge, while Denham cleared a path for them. They drove off in Ashton's car. Denham had been elected to Congress the previous year, and Ashton began to become known for his work in the SHD. Instead of publishing raunchy pictures of Strathway, scathing articles were written against both men. They were accused of having perverted the course of justice by buying their friend (Denham insisted on paying half) and allowing him to have a cushy life on the Ashton estate instead of undergoing his just punishment. The public opinion turned against them. They just didn't care. After eighteen months of litigation and two trials (all paid for by Ashton), the courts finally conceded that Timothy Strathway was far less guilty than his father or his brothers. It was a partial victory. None of his money or possessions was returned, nor was his enslavement overturned, but Ashton was allowed to set him free, and his name was restored, since the court deemed that his sale had brought in enough money to cover his part of the debts. The trials were widely reported upon. The fickle public opinion turned again. Now Ashton and Denham were seen as staunch friends who, against all odds, had defended someone who was basically innocent. Both their reputations as men of principle dated from then. It didn't end well. Ashton let Strathway live in his mansion and discreetly gave him an allowance. Ridge let him choose one of his five cars for his personal use. For a while Denham lived at the Ashton mansion to be available for his friend. They talked with him, tried to distract him and got him all kinds of

psychological help. Brennan, who still lived at the mansion at that time (he was not yet married), sat up with him during most nights, when Strathway couldn't sleep. Brennan had undergone the same treatment (and moreover had actually been a slave for six years, contrary to Strathway) and so could relate to his pain. They left him not a minute of the day or night alone. None of it helped however, and gradually Strathway became an alcoholic. He also became very fat. Ridge and Ashton put up with it, which was not always easy, since their half brother and ward, Ben, was only twelve at the time. Periods of alcoholic depression alternated with bouts of remorse. One night he didn't come home. He was found next morning, dead in his car, which had gone off a bridge not far from the estate and had landed in the river. It was never determined whether it was a genuine accident under the influence of alcohol or a masked suicide. As you can see this fits completely with what Denham promised he would do, when he thought Ashton was about to be indentured. All the details fit. Sadly, the only thing they couldn't do was make Strathway forget his horrible experience, but that was certainly not for lack of trying.

The Denham-Ashton Gay Affair The so called Denham-Ashton gay affair became a matter of speculation in the last months of Denham's bid for the presidency. Both men were in their mid forties and it was a matter of public knowledge that they were good friends. By that time Andrew Ashton was a household name in own right. By May of the election year the Denham campaign was in deep trouble. On the issues the Senator could easily hold his own against Governor Beckx, but as you know, politics is ten percent rationality (if that!) and ninety percent emotion. The Beckx strategists had systematically presented Denham as the scion of a political dynasty that was convinced that the highest office was theirs by right. They were very clever about it. They didn't

deny his intelligence or integrity, but they painted him as a spoiled, rich brat, with an easy smile and cheap charm, who was pushed to the front by the political machinery his father and grandfather had built. It didn't fool everybody, but enough people seemed to go along with this image. By May of the election year the DenhamLattimer ticket ran seven points behind. Whatever they tried, they couldn't close the gap. It was not that there wasn't any money coming in, just not enough to force a breakthrough. (Governor Beckx was once asked by a journalist why his lead wasn't greater, since his campaign attracted much more money than Denham's. He replied “I need more money than the Senator. I have to pay my staff. For Denham it is enough that he smiles at them in the morning and they will gladly work sixteen hours for free for him.” — That was an hyperbolic statement, of course, but there was some truth in it) At the end of May Denham took a long weekend off to rest, which he spent at the Ashton estate. Apparently, the two friends had talked, because in the first week of June Andrew Ashton announced that he had put his work for his own project on hold, for the time being, and was going to campaign for Denham. He took a lot of flak from his own people at the SHD who thought it unwise to attach his by then considerable moral authority to one politician. No man in his position had ever done anything like that, they argued. It would damage the independence of the organization. They needed politicians of all parties. It would harm his public image. As usual, when it concerned a friend, Ashton just didn't care. In the beginning it didn't seem to make much of a difference, but after a month or so the gap began to close slowly. Poll after poll showed a progress for Denham of a quarter point or half a point. The Beckx campaign began to panic. They dug intensely for dirt, but found nothing, mainly because there was nothing to find. Then one of their young strategists came up with a plan. They revived and old rumor that Denham and Ashton had an affair in their youth. They knew that few people would mind about the gay aspect. After all, there had already been an openly gay president. Furthermore, Denham had four children by then and

Linda Denham (née McIntyre) didn't seem to mind their continued friendship. On the contrary, it was generally known that she and Ridge got on very well. But that was not the object. The young strategist had noticed that Denham was asked about the rumor during his Senatorial campaign, and that he had point blank refused to answer the question. At the time nothing was made of it. They hoped that he would react the same this time and planned to attack him on his refusal to come clean one way or another. They hoped to argue that it showed that Denham had something to hide, thus subtly undermining his integrity, and that he couldn't be trusted to always tell the truth. It would also put Ashton's work for Denham in another light, they speculated, and make him appear as a man who campaigned, not because he believed in what Denham stood for, but because they were ex-lovers. It was grasping at straws and the Beckx strategists knew it. But they wouldn't need much, they figured, just enough to counteract Ashton's efforts. As they had hoped the Denham campaign, in a short press statement, let it be known that the Senator regarded this issue as a private matter that didn't pertain to his proposed policies and that he was not prepared to discuss it. (Or less politically put: it is not your business) When Ashton was asked, he simply referred them back to Denham. It didn't work. It was front page news for exactly one day, although it was widely discussed for weeks after that. The public opinion seemed to be divided evenly between those who thought there had been an affair and those who didn't, but in the end nobody cared very much. It was written off as an adolescent infatuation or youthful curiosity, if it had taken place at all. By election day Denham lagged behind his opponent by only one point. (Which is statistically insignificant) It was a close call and the result hung in the balance for a long time, but late in the evening Beckx conceded defeat. All analysts agreed that without Ashton it was very doubtful whether there would ever have been a Denham presidency. Questions about the affair lingered on in the background. Stand up comedians and late night talk show hosts used it regularly in

their jokes, but for all practical purposes it became a non-issue. It didn't play any role whatsoever in Denham's reelection campaign. His opponent went through the motions, but didn't seem to believe in his own chances himself and Denham was reelected, without needing Ashton, in a landslide victory. Within the SHD it was conceded eventually that Ashton had been right to support Denham. A lot of things began to change for the better during the Denham Administration. (Rampant corruption was tackled, record keeping was reformed, the power of parents was limited, commitments could be appealed, etc.) Denham couldn't erase more than seventy years in one term, but everybody agrees that he laid a firm foundation for wide reforms and that during his presidency the tide effectively began to turn. Opponents argued that it was a quid pro quo, agreed upon during the May weekend. Later studies demonstrated that it was just a case of two political views interlocking. Once and again the affair reemerged. Not that it mattered, but people seemed to find the mystery about it intriguing. They just wanted to know what had happened. Linda Denham was asked about it, shortly before her death, by a young journalist. She was eighty nine by then. This is her response. “The short answer is: I don't know. My husband has never told me, neither did Andrew Ashton, and I never asked. You must realize that they were already best friends for a long time before I met my husband. I sensed immediately that there was something special between them, but I had never any reason to believe that is was more than a deep friendship. I knew I could never come between them and I never felt the slightest inclination to do so. My husband had this wonderful quality of making you feel unconditionally loved, so I never felt threatened. “I know it drove you press people almost mad that my husband and I were such good friends with Andrew Ashton and David Ridge. I know you simply couldn't figure it out. Especially after my husband was murdered barely ten months into his second term. At that time Andrew and David were staying with us. I

don't know what I would have done without them. In a sense it was the hardest for David. I leaned heavily on him, as he was one of my best friends, and at the same time he had to support Andrew. I think I have never seen a man so devastated as Andrew Ashton. I felt as sorry for him as for myself. So, yes, there was definitely something there, but was it ever a physical thing? “Strangely enough, I've always had the impression that David knew the truth. I don't think he and Andrew had any secrets from each other. But David was very discreet and never told anything about their private life. As partner of Andrew Ashton he was a target for the press, but I think he gave all of three interviews during his life. The press must have wanted to ask him about the so called gay affair. He answered every request for an interview very politely and always added a list of two pages with questions he didn't want to answer and subjects he didn't want to discuss. Undoubtedly that included the gay affair. Most journalists gave up after receiving that letter. The only thing that remained to ask him was what he had eaten for breakfast, and he probably would have evaded that too, a journalist once said to me. He could have been right. “Sean used to call him the Instant Sphinx. I've many times witnessed it. When he felt uneasy in someone's company, or when he was asked what he considered to be an inappropriate question, you could almost literally hear iron doors closing with a loud bang all around him in a matter of seconds. Very strange... “After Andrew's death we kept each other company a lot and we went on vacations together. Even then, when it was all so long ago and it didn't in the least matter anymore, he never mentioned it. And, of course, I never asked him. But you know what I've always thought? If my husband ever had a gay affair in his youth, I hope for his sake that it was with Andrew.” And again the known facts are in complete agreement with the Ashton Papers. Ashton mentions that, even then, Denham already refused to answer the question. He also gives an

account of a short conversation he had with the then Linda McIntyre in which she promises him never to try to find things out that weren't her business (to use Denham's vocabulary). If the Ashton Papers are to be believed (and I see no reason why they shouldn't) the affair never took place. It was just a stupid rumor, started by some schoolboys, probably out of jealousy or spite. You can imagine what the people at the Sean Denham Presidential Library and Museum would give to lay their hand on this document!!! The gay affair question has always been a thorn in their side, not because they feared it could have been true, but simply because it was a loose end that they never could tie up. Whether they would have been as thrilled with another tidbit of information about Denham, I doubt very much. But more about that later.

Toby Manning I must confess that I have put far too much time and work in the research on such an unimportant figure. The only reason I include him here is because it demonstrates that the Ashton Papers turn out to be accurate, even when at first sight they seem to be wrong. Simply because Ashton mentions him (in a rather graphical chapter, I might add) and for completeness sake, I tried to identify ‘his’ Toby. I found thirty eight possible Tobys. It was not as easy as you might think. The records they kept in that time are scanty at best. Believe me, it is sometimes easier to identify a soldier of Napoleon's Grande Armée. They kept better records in Bonaparte's time. But still, very soon I had eliminated most of them and was left with only three possibilities. Further research showed that one of them was missing his left hand (he wore a prosthesis) and another had red hair. Ashton would surely have mentioned the hand if it was missing, and he does describe his Toby has having wavy, light brown hair. The only one left was a certain Toby Manning.

The problem was that Manning had died seven years after the last events in the Ashton papers, at the age of nineteen. That would have made him twelve when he met Ashton. He does mention that Toby looked younger than his age, but it seemed unlikely that he would have been mistaken by so much. Furthermore, although Manning professed to be seventeen, he could have been lying, but if he was not, he must have been nineteen, or almost nineteen, when he attended the indenture of Dan Ridge and have died shortly after. It was all very confusing. Then I found out that Manning had been a pop star!!! Ashton would certainly have mentioned that if his Toby and Manning were the same person. Toby Manning is totally forgotten now, and he was never more than one of these boys who make the hearts of thirteen year old girls beat faster. Although one serious music site, in a review of his first and only album, said that the songs were shit, but that Manning had made the most of them, so much so, that they almost became bearable. They even went as far as to say that he was obviously very talented, and that, with other and better management, he could become great. When I looked him up in the Internet Historical Archives it turned out there were quite some (short lived) fan sites at the time. I listened to some samples of his songs. (Not my taste; mostly sugary pop ballads) I have to admit however that he had a very good, pleasant voice. So, at least that seemed to fit. But there remained the age question. Was Toby maybe a pseudonym Ashton had used? Then the question was: why? In all other cases he uses real names (as far as he knew them — e.g. there was a real Captain Weaver active at the BIS in that time). Then I encountered another problem. On the pictures on these fan sites you can see a very handsome young man (I am a bad judge of these things, but nevertheless, even I could see that he was good looking), but I wouldn't have called him exactly ‘small boned’ as Ashton did. He had an attractive smile, but it was more a self assured grin, and there was no way you could interpret it as ‘angelic’ as Ashton does, several times.

It seemed that I was left with no Toby at all and I was about to give up, when I found one of these repulsive gossip websites (they still exist today, though not this particular one), you know, the kind that only publishes dirt of the worst kind in foul language and that doesn't care too much whether what they write is true or not. The title of the article was 'Toby Manning or Toby Girlling?’ Here is a relevant passage. (Sorry for the language) If your pussy starts leaking at the thought of studly Toby Manning sticking his dick in it, think again, girls. Handsome Toby will fight you for any dick swinging around: he prefers them up his own ass! And he doesn't care too much what is attached to it. That's right, ladies, Toby Manning, the boy for all girls is in fact the girl for all boys. It goes on like that for several paragraphs. It was crudely put, but nevertheless this seemed to fit again. There were two pictures of Manning accompanying this prose. Kind of 'before and after’ photographs. On one you could see Toby Manning with his guitar, very similar to the pictures on most sites (the caption read: ‘Toby the Stud’). On the other was a more childlike, frail young man with longer hair and with a smile you could, I suppose, describe as angelic (caption: ‘Toby the Whore’). They were unmistakably of one and the same person. I was sure to be on the right track again. When I found a site dedicated to the history of record companies (they still called them that) everything became clear. DreamStar was specialized in boy bands and handsome young male singers. Their target audience were girls between ten and sixteen. They selected their stars mainly on the basis of their vocal cords. All the rest they built themselves. Crooked teeth? They gave them caps. They gave them new noses and jaws, if needed. They slimmed them down with pills, exercises and liposuction if they were too bulky, or made them gain weight and develop muscles if they were too skinny. They taught them to walk, talk and smile. They instructed them which words to use and which not. In short, they were a factory of ready made dream objects for young girls.

Could it be, I wondered? And, yes, in the case of Toby Manning they had not only buffed him up and taught him to grin instead of smile, but they also had shaved five years of his age. It took some while to find this out, once again because in that time the administration was a shambles. Once the promotion department of DreamStar proclaimed him to be a certain age, everybody took it at face value and repeated it. Manning already looked younger than his age, and I have no doubt that DreamStar will have reinforced that effect artificially. So, the young man buried as a nineteen year old, was in fact twenty four. Subtract seven years, and Manning would have been seventeen when he met Ashton, exactly what the Ashton Papers report he claimed to be at the time. There is more. He seems to have suffered from pulmonary hypertension, which is fatal if allowed to run its course. It's perfectly curable nowadays, but at that time they could only bring the disease to a standstill with medication and a few treatments a year in a hospital. In most cases that would keep it at bay indefinitely. Manning was not so lucky. It became active again when he was twenty four, and he died six months later. One fan site, ‘The Toby Manning Eternal Shrine,’ had more than seventy pictures of the burial. He must have been quite popular. His grave itself was literally buried beneath flowers and plush animals. Most pictures figured mourning and crying young girls, but there was one picture very different from the others. It was of low resolution, the lighting was all wrong and the figures were standing in the shadow of a big tree, and as a result the faces were as good as unrecognizable. But you can make out a group of young men standing at Manning's grave. One of them is taller and broader than the rest of the group. Next to him stands a young man who is shorter than the others. Like you, I must have seen thousands of pictures of Ashton, and I know I said the photo was very unclear, but I could have sworn, from the posture and the general outline of the figure, that this was him, standing at Toby Manning's grave to pay his last respects. (Of course, I could be wrong; I'll have the picture digitally enhanced, but I don't know if it will do any good).

if it will do any good). This was the only incident I found in the Ashton Papers that appeared not to fit with the known facts. And even that checked out after some research.

Should We Make the Ashton Papers Public? As an historian it is my conviction that all information is important. Even the most trivial facts help us better understand the how and why of historical events. So, from that point of view, but only from that point of view, I would have to advise publication of the Ashton Papers. Even more so, because they don't contain only trivialities. In fact, every history of the period, every biography of Ashton, every history of the movement would have to be rewritten or at least amended. It has always been accepted that it was the Eric Brennan case that lighted the fire. Every school child knows the story of the knight in shining armor (albeit not exactly this version). It was always thought that after freeing Brennan, Ashton considered at first liberating more slaves himself, but eventually came to the conclusion that he couldn't buy them all, and that even if he could, this still wouldn't solve the fundamental problem and so a more systematic approach was called for. It was never a very good explanation for his actions. (I admit that I make this observation only because I now have a better one) He was after all a privileged kid with almost nothing on his mind but his love life. In normal circumstances, he would probably gladly have joined the ranks of the idle rich, without having the slightest scruple. Organizing a search for Brennan (i.e. paying somebody else to do it for him) and freeing him would have been all that was needed to appease his conscience, after which he would have cheerfully returned to his luxurious lifestyle. Of course, the Ashton Papers change all that. It is now clear that

the whole problem became very personal for him, even traumatically so, when he discovered there was a plot to enslave him. We knew that Ridge's father had committed himself, after committing his elder son, into indentured service, and naturally it was cursorily researched. Although rather unusual, there were more cases of voluntary commitment, and the Acts seemed to be quite in order, so no further questions were asked. And besides, it concerned Ridge's family and so had only an indirect bearing on Ashton. To this day nobody suspects that John and Dan Ridge fell into a trap of the making of a shady attorney, helped by Ashton. Which brings us to Geoffrey Singer. What a strange man!!! He is obviously a misanthrope. He clearly states that the system is rotten to the core and that the men that use it are corrupt. He evidently despises the whole human race. Yet, it almost seems he has a double agenda in helping Ashton. I don't particularly doubt that he really wanted to help the young Ashton and that the reason he gives, namely that it was simply a payback, is real. He says he had seen compassion in Ashton's eyes. I wonder if that was all he had seen. In any case it is clear that at every step of the road of their counter plot he guides Ashton to an inescapable conclusion. Did he plan this from the very beginning, from the time when he began to suspect there could be a plot hatching against Ashton? Or did he only conceive of it after that first evening, when he betrayed Ridge's intentions and proposed his plan? Was he inspired (maybe even moved) by the fact that, although himself in grave danger, Ashton found it in himself to think of someone else's plight and even went as far as to give instructions to look for Brennan in the event he escaped the fate those horrible men prepared for him? Was it maybe then he began to see that Ashton had greater potential? We will probably never know, but from then on he begins to stimulate Ashton to think for himself and brings him to ask himself some hard questions. He does it quite openly too, although for Ashton, who had his own imminent downfall in mind (and who could blame him?) it may not have seemed like that. Singer makes him go along when he delivers John Ridge to the exporter, and he admits

when he delivers John Ridge to the exporter, and he admits freely that he could have done it by himself and that Ashton was likely to see some grueling scenes. (Ashton admits having had nightmares of them months later; I can't help wondering if he ever did anything to free that nameless boy, or tried to find out what his fate had been — the document ends too soon) He repeatedly states that he thinks Ashton is a good man, with his heart in the right place. But he also declares him guilty by default, and most importantly, guides him towards a solution by making use of his love for history. That is also why I asked you to look for documents by Geoffrey Singer. (He had written down some ideas) I'm almost sure that Ashton will have asked for them after he had come to terms with his ordeal. (As an historian I would give my right hand to know what was in them) Whatever the truth of the matter, about two years later Ashton began his mission. We always assumed that it was Brennan telling about his experiences as a slave that finally made Ashton decide upon his course. But it originated much earlier, and we could have known that, but it simply didn't occur to anybody. Even while searching for Brennan, Ashton must already have had a concept of a more systematic and much wider ranging plan. I know that what follows is very tenuous and I don't want to see too much in it, but it simply can't be a coincidence. While waiting for Brennan to be delivered, Ashton mentions in passing that Ridge returns from the gardens, accompanied by his dog Sparta. You must keep in mind that Ashton describes himself as a history buff and that Sparta was an abbreviation of the dog's real name, Spartacus. Ashton doesn't mention it, but isn't it possible, or even likely, that he gave Ridge the dog and maybe even suggested its name? Spartacus was a Thracian slave who started a rebellion in 73 BCE against the Roman republic, quite successfully in the beginning. At its height the army of Spartacus counted more than hundred and forty thousand runaway slaves. Ultimately he was vanquished, but he remained an icon of resistance against oppression. I can't help thinking, that already then Ashton (and Ridge probably, since Ashton mentions that he discussed his plans with him) had much further reaching designs than saving an individual slave

here and there. I'm sorry for Singer. It seems that the man laid the groundwork, and nobody knows it, or gives him credit for it. Maybe he wouldn't have cared anyway. It was thought at the time that, as Ashton's attorney, he was responsible for the enormously profitable investments that made Ashton's personal fortune swell to unheard of proportions. (Ashton himself was also a shrewd investor — he seems to have inherited it from his mother, according to the Ashton Papers) Geoffrey Singer sold his firm and disappeared some twenty years later. It was far easier to disappear in those days than it is now, but still, not a single thing was heard of him again. And he not only erased all traces of where he went to, or his new identity, but large chunks of his past were wiped out as well. Whoever tried to research the man, be it his future from then on, or his past, came very soon to a point were all traces ended. And of course, none of this can be known by the public. (Well, you asked for my opinion) Ashton himself was careful to conceal this file on his personal computer in a hidden partition within a hidden partition (if I have understood you correctly). I can only imagine that he wrote it as a sort of personal exercise in catharsis, to get it all out of his head. He can never have meant to make any actual use of it. It focuses too much on his personal turmoils and is to unspecific in hard data for that. So, I'm sure his own wish would be that it never became public. And that has to count for something, doesn't it? It's not so much what it would do to Ashton's name if his youthful romantic (and erotic) experiences became public knowledge. I'm sure his reputation would survive it. It might even make him more human in the eyes of some. It's also not a consideration that Sean Denham must have known (even Timothy Strathway guessed the truth) that Ashton had been involved in the enslavement of two free citizens and did nothing about it, and what this would do to Denham's reputation. (Let

the people at the Sean Denham Presidential Library and Museum worry about that; it's not our responsibility) No, it's Ashton's life's work I am afraid for. We can try to spin this as much as we want. We could argue, as Singer does, that Ashton acted in self defense. That anybody would kill to prevent being killed. That Ashton was put in an impossible situation. That there was no other way out. That the times were different. That it happened before his mission began. That what John and Dan Ridge had planned for him was unjust, morally reprehensible, that it was evil and diabolical even. That by his later actions he freed countless numbers of slaves, and that by today untold millions owe him their freedom. And yet we wouldn't survive it. We simply can't take the risk. Not now, not when we are so close, not when the end goal is so near that even we, old fossils, may live to see it. Not when everything Ashton worked so hard for is within grasping reach. I can't begin to estimate how effectively our opponents and enemies would use this. I can't begin to calculate what it would cost the SHD in membership fees, donations, moral authority, credibility, influence and political alliances. I can't imagine how far back it would throw us and what the damage ultimately would be if it ever became known that Andrew Ashton, founder of the Society for Human Dignity, father of the modern Antislavery Movement and the greatest social activist of his time, was himself involved, instrumental even, in the illegal enslavement of two free citizens. We simply can't take this responsibility when still so many slaves count on us for their freedom, never mind that their living conditions are much better than in Ashton's time. We can't let his youthful confessions, this unburdening of a young man, destroy what the mature man dedicated his whole life to. The total abolishment of slavery is near, maybe very near. It would be irresponsible, criminal even, to endanger that in any way.

On the other hand, I can't bear to see the Ashton Papers destroyed. What I propose is simple: do nothing. Let it rest where it is, hidden on his personal laptop, and erase all copies made. Maybe, someone in the future, when the time is ripe, when slavery is just a bad memory, will discover them. Then they will do no harm anymore. I am an historian, but in this case I think history can wait. I also have a personal view. I know you think of me as an old romantic fool (and you are right of course) and I won't even try to deny that I have, for obvious reasons, a personal stake in this. Believe me, I've read some passages with tears in my eyes. But, whatever they may have become, a great president, one of the most revered reformers, and even, why not, a pop star who could have been great, after all is said and done, when all this happened they were just boys who tried to get through life as best as they could. Couldn't we let Andrew Ashton's youth rest in peace? I think he has amply deserved it. And anyway, it all happened more than hundred and twenty years ago. Affectionately, your old friend,

Benjamin Ashton-Ridge V