End of original BOYABUSE Stories – charges also included an unfinished version of Stand By America.

Warriors of Paradise
An Intifada Fantasy

My contact Youssef has arranged to drop me off in the restricted zone and provide me with an introduction to the legendary Kahil, a leader of the uprising who's inspired a generation of youngsters to revolt against the occupation their elders have accepted for so long. His daring exploits have helped bring his peoples' cause to the headlines of the world, and his moustachioed face is familiar to many from blurred, smuggled videos, but few if any outsiders have met the elusive Kahil.

Unobtrusively, I leave my hotel soon after dawn dressed in the local, loose fitting garb and meet Youssef in his battered truck in a nearby lane. We set off out of town on a soon dusty road and mumbling much practised curses in the local dialect I make it through the checkpoint, the soldiers barely glancing at my phoney I.D. as we enter the zone. I'm the first correspondent in many months to do so.

Youssef smokes incessantly, an anxious frown on his brow as we drive through the dry brown hills often following little more than tracks. It is still early when we sight beneath us in the valley the village which is the focus of the uprising. Surrounded by green fields and terraced orchards it seems idyllic from the distance, but my binoculars reveal that much of it is in ruins from the frequent punitive shellings it has received. We stop in a gully maybe two miles away - Youssef says he can go no farther - and he points out my rendezvous, an orange grove on a lower slope. He will return before the curfew at sunset to pick me up.

I set off on foot following the little gullies and rocky retaining walls staying away from the road and watching out for patrols. I have just entered the coolness of the grove when I hear an adolescent voice behind command me to halt. I turn to face two determined boy soldiers dressed in oversize fatigues. The older, a muscular, athletic looking lad with precocious wavy wisps for sideburns quivers at the trigger of an ancient Garand. His slender juvenile companion, big black Bambi eyes blazing with fanaticism, poses legs akimbo, a clubbing stick raised, a dagger at his belt. I intone the password Youssef had given me, "Praised be those who follow the Glorious Path to Paradise."

"So you're the journalist," the older boy sneers and signalling to the other. "Corporal, search him thoroughly."

I am made to lean against a tree and the boy first dumps out my pack examining my binoculars and little autofocus. Then approaching me warily his small dextrous fingers begin exploring every pocket and fold in my clothing, under my armpits, over my ribs and around my genitals, and then pulling my robes aside he begins probing my anal cavity. Indignantly, I shake him off.   SMACK    SMACK   His stick connects loud and painfully against my backside. "BEHAVE!" he barks, the delicate contours of his neck and chin taut as he glares at me.   SMACK    SMACK   The older boy threatens with his rifle and the other resumes his probing, thrusting his nimble fingers deep and feeling around, his other hand holding his dagger's blade to my balls. Satisfied, he ties my hands together, binds my arms around my chest and tugs the knots tight. I'm led down the slope to the flat bottom of a wooded ravine.

About a dozen boys, mostly dirt smeared and naked, are there engaged in martial exercises; wrestling on the ground, climbing ropes hung over and between high branches or fighting with sticks. My captors, Mahmoud and Bene I soon find out, turn me over to a lean, surly, stubble faced youth who tethers me to a tree and removes my shoes as an extra precaution. I ask him to loosen the bounds around my chest which are becoming quite painful. My guard looks at me disdainfully and refuses. Meanwhile, my captors report to a tall, soft featured, lanky boy of perhaps seventeen who has the merest smudge of darkening down across his upper lip. A tall youngster with an enormous thatch of red tinged hair stands at his side. Several more join them, all looking my way at least once before breaking up.

Mahmoud and Bene, their duties done and in much lighter spirits pull off their boots and doff their fatigues to cool as others have. Mahmoud stretches, a physique proud boy with a narrow waist and rounded ass, and he poses, showing himself off to his admiring friend, and finally leaps, does a flip and lands easily on his feet. Bene challenged, follows him, almost not making it but very  pleased that he does. Mahmoud hugs Bene and kisses him before playfully pushing him away.

Two small boys, looking very tired and lugging a huge basket of ripe pomegranates between them, arrive and set it down by Mahmoud and Bene who each grab a couple and begin hungrily eating. One little boy, looking very annoyed, stands hands on his hips and demands, "And what about us?" Mahoud apologizes, picks up and hugs the boy, ruffling his genitals and teasing his neck. Bene cradles the other little boy and giggling they lick each others faces. Other boys arrive for their share and each caresses, kisses and fondles the little ones until at the end they are both proudly parading around showing off the tiny hardons sticking out of their pants.

But there are a lot of pomegranates, and from what I hear most of the boys are tired of them. Bene is the first and squishes a large mouthful of purple seeds and pulp over Mahoud's face and chest. He retaliates, spitting and smearing purple goop from Bene's face to his hairless genitals. Then they start throwing them with practised precision, splattering each other. The clothed wisely stay away and seven or eight boys take part in the free-for-all until the last pomegranate is gone. Laughing, they scrape the worst off themselves. I notice Bene cleaning Mahoud's prick until it's hard and they wander off, arms around each other's juice stained bums.

My surly guard shares his pomegranates with a cheerful, younger, one armed lad who's also the object of much affection. The guard seems to relax somewhat and tells me that he does not like outsiders, "But Kahil's orders." He hesitates before telling me his name is Abdul, and his friend is Ali. My bonds have become extremely uncomfortable. I begin to doubt if circulation can be restored but Abdul again refuses to loosen them and he shrugs off or ignores further questions.

I quietly observe the boys training and am continually surprized by the amount of unmilitary affection and casual fondling amongst them mixed with their vigorous training. Finally I comment on this to Abdul. He looks at me contemptuously, "Kahil says, 'Boys must rule themselves'." and after a pause adds, "We may live off the refugee camps or our families, but we don't let our elders," he stops to spit on the ground, "cowards and quislings mostly, interfere with our lives. We have power. We make decisions.... and for the men too. We are the new warriors who will free our people."

Two sweat, juice and dirt smudged boys about fifteen parry and grapple in freestyle combat. I'm surprised at the ferocity of the chops, kicks and punches which will certainly leave the gladiators sore and bruised. At length one lad has the other who's taken a heavy beating in a deadly breakhold and it's over. I look at Abdul who seems to understand my unspoken question. "We must become very tough ourselves, we must be prepared to lose, to be beaten again and again before we triumph over the enemy." The two boys brush themselves off and with one partly supporting the other they embrace briefly clasping each other's manhood before sharing water from a proffered cup.

Lots are drawn for the next bout and Bene has to fight Baba, the tall boy with the reddish afroed hair I'd noticed earlier talking animatedly with the lad who seems in charge. Baba grins broadly and jokes, making the others laugh as he steps out of his fatigues, his lean muscular body rippling and his long pendant cock swinging. Bene circles his opponent who makes exaggerated menacing gestures, and seeing an opportunity he darts in and delivers a sharp kick to the bigger boy's gut and dances away. It's not however an even match, or intended as such. Baba catches and pummels Bene vigorously a couple of times, visibly bruising him but Bene battles on determinedly. Finally, grappling, they stumble at my feet, Baba getting a neck hold and starting to choke the younger boy. Bene, desperate, manages to grab Baba's balls and squeeze, digging in his fingernails and stretching the tender sac with all his strength. For a moment both struggle in pain wracked agony but Bene weakens and is forced to yield. Still panting from the exertion they hug and embrace affectionately and fondle each other until both are semi-hard.

Soon after the boys pack up, Abdul checks and tightens my bonds and places a hood over my head which obscures all but the ground at my feet. I'm led for what seems like miles over uneven terrain, laying low a couple of times while enemy patrols pass nearby. Eventually we begin picking our way through rubble, I stumble a couple of times, and after crouching under and squeezing through small openings we enter a dimly lit space. We have arrived at "The Bunker", a temporary headquarters of the resistance I'm told. I'm anxious to get out of my painful bonds and at last interview the mysterious Kahil.

Although I lose my shoes again my bonds and hood are removed. I look around, the bunker is a large, irregular, partially underground space that has been excavated within the ruins of a large building, perhaps a mosque or church. Half fallen beams are propped in place and gaps in the crudely patched, collapsed tin roof allow in shafts of sunlight. There are more boys here, mostly nude, casually doing chores, talking or playing games, but none look older than my hirsute guard who says he's nineteen. There's no sign of Kahil and when I question Abdul he says, "Maybe later you will meet Kahil, or maybe not."

Except for a battered table and some odd chairs at the far end where the lanky lad, Baba and others sit the only other furniture I can see is an ornate, white and blue brocaded antique love seat in a nearby darkened recess. And seated in it is a towel clad youth talking and cuddling with a full lipped and titted teenage girl. She strokes and hugs him and after a while the youth, seemingly happy and reassured, leaves, and a prepubescent boy dances over to her smiling sheepishly. "You again?" the girl teases as he plops himself beside her. She caressed his shoulders as he nuzzles at her neck, then working up to her lips he insists on a kiss - a long deep one. His little rubbery rod elevates to a graceful arc as he smooches and her adept hand strokes his skinny form brushing surface energy to his groin, and then slowly she begins to stimulate his tiny shaft. After a particularly squirmy episode the little boy pushes himself away, "Enough, enough!" and then politely, "Thank you Lana.... maybe later?" Lana smiles, "You're most welcome private."

I turn in disbelief to Abdul who is sitting with his young one armed friend, a slim sweet faced boy. He looks thoughtful and then explains, "Kahil says, 'No boy is too young to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh, even with girls.... but as warriors we refuse actual intercourse with them until such time as we drive the enemy from our land. We are like what you call priests, only we marry the uprising, and we are all married to each other, Kahil says, 'It is best that boys be their own lovers but they should know the love of women too.' We all in turn serve at the girl's camp."

Ali winks at me, "'Recuperation', they call it." and laughs, "Girls make me sick!" Abdul joins in, putting an arm around his friend's shoulders and looks at me without his usual sneer. Ali places Abdul's other hand on his swelling boyish prick and invites me to touch him too. I politely examine his skinny but proud little prick that has only the skimpiest garland of hairs.

Across the bunker a young child's voice calls out and most of the boys scamper over excitedly. Two pretty young girls in peasant dress enter tugging a stubborn, scrawny goat. "FRESH MEAT!" and the cry resonates through the bunker. A wiry, curly headed boy knocks the goat to the ground and holds its head while another smashes the poor beast's skull with a chunk of rubble. The second boy, showing off, removes his shorts with a flourish before kneeling down to hack off the still twitching head with a machete-like knife. Blood spurts and pools around him as he labours until finally, bowing first, he holds the head high over himself like it's a trophy, with the blood dripping down his slender, pale body. Critics hoot and jeer so he playfully tosses the head to them, and a bloody game of catch ensues. The curious girls twitter as they're entertained.

The curly headed boy, stripped for the job, chops off the feet and begins expertly skinning the carcass with a fleshing tool. When he's finished he scrapes the hide while the second boy, with some help, hangs the carcass from a hook in a beam and guts it, the innards spilling onto his feet. Also a comedian of sorts, he picks up the slimy intestines, strings them around his neck like lei and shaking and wiggling his blood drenched body he performs his version of a Hawaiian hula. The bunker explodes with laughter. Success at last. A few of the smaller boys can't resist getting into the act. They smear themselves with blood and wiggle, fondling themselves and staring at the girls with stupid grins on their faces. The girls make silly faces, blow kisses and then first one and then the other girl pull up their skirts and briefly finger their cracks while sticking their tongues out at the boys. Modesty takes over and they arrange themselves primly with their noses high. The little ones are delighted and the older amused. Then the curly headed lad having scraped the hide clean presents it to the waiting, giggling girls who insist upon clasping his cock. They wrap the skin and leave waving back.

Things become quiet as many boys seem busy in some sort of preparations. Baba and the lanky lad confer intensely with most of the others joining in from time to time. I question Abdul who's cuddling his special friend and he tells me that Kahil will be here soon but that he'll be very busy.

Then strangely and piercingly, clear, competent notes of a violin saturate the air. A few teasing practice scales rapidly move into a wild, vibrant concerto which I feel must be familiar but can't place. "Bene!" Abdul's eyes brighten. I look around the end of a crumbling wall and there, still grubby, juice stained and bruised is my captor/prober, his clever little hands fingering a different instrument. Eyes half closed he appears lost in the music, playing with easy confidence and passion. Mahmoud watches entranced in adoration. The boy's genius is unmistakable and all are moved. It's many minutes later, after perspiration has formed clearer streaks down his natural form, when Bene puts down the violin and bashfully accepts his peers' applause and praise. Mahmoud embraces him fondling his softness. And the tall lanky lad, his eyes beaming, does the same saying, "Bene, you manifest our hopes for the future, and the freedom that only peace can bring."

A rumbling's heard in the distance, the boys hush.... It's only thunder, an early afternoon storm. The sky rapidly darkens as the sounds come closer until lightning is seen flashing through the gaps and the thunder reverberates deafeningly. Rain, proverbial torrents, come pelting down loudly on the tin roof. Trickles soon turn to showers and a minor waterfall cascades down near the middle of the bunker. From cautious silence the boys' spirits percolate and bubble up in manic joy. First two, then more, and some I've not yet seen, strip and cavort in the welcome waterfall.

Bars of soap miraculously appear and the boys lather, and lather each other in exuberant play which soon becomes sexual, boisterously, blatantly and promiscuously sexual. Giggles, moans, teases, laughter, all pricks proud as they celebrate their maleness, romping and piling on, groping, getting muddied and showering off again. As the deluge diminishes a certain pairing evolves; Mahmoud and Bene, the two smallest boys together, and the play becomes more slippery and serious but short of climaxing. Finally Baba strolls over and commands, "Enough, you horny bastards, we have a war to fight and win." The boys begin shaking themselves dry. "Be ready in five." Perhaps at last I would get to see Kahil.

The boys reassemble, dressed and eager, and the tall lanky lad addresses them. His eyes become intense and his naturally soft friendly features harden and droplets of sweat glisten in the hazy down above his lips. "We will show the enemy, and the world, that our people will not be cowed forever." He said they must be prepared to suffer and he ended with a call for "Victory and "Freedom", a fist raised high and his other hand clasped over his genitals. The boys follow in unison and he moves amongst them touching each one on his manhood and being clasped in return. Then Baba, grinning, comes up to him holding a cooking pot, "Haven't you forgotten something?"

"KAHIL, KAHIL...." the boys chant.

The lanky lad rubs his fingers on the bottom of the pot and then across his fuzzy upper lip and down his cheeks. The boys burst into loud cheers and Kahil smiles, "My boys, and the enemy, expect a moustache, I will not disappoint them." As they leave Kahil approaches me and says, "You've seen how we live, and now you're going to see how we fight.... and maybe you will want to write about it." Abdul places the hood over my head, ties my hands, loosely this time, and we set off.

I'm led some distance, up and then down, squeezed into a car with several others and driven for maybe ten minutes before my blindfold's removed. Abdul and I climb up to a point overlooking a narrow defile near where the main road enters the ruined but still inhabited village. The boys from the bunker with dozens of others and more streaming in dig and pry at the side of the defile lugging rocks and rolling boulders down to block the road. Kahil and Baba direct their efforts and work beside them as they sweat in the shimmering heat.. Then a column of about thirty boys, with a few girls among them, march out from the village chanting, "KAHIL, KAHIL.... KAHIL, KAHIL." and dump old tires and garbage on the road and set them on fire.

Suddenly the boys all scamper taking cover, many behind a wall atop the opposite embankment, and from my vantage point I see a two jeep patrol of soldiers approaching up the road. They stop short of the barricade, cautiously get out guns ready. At a command from Kahil the boys rise up letting loose a hail of stones with many of the younger ones dashing in close to throw. A couple of rocks connect with some effect and the soldiers reply with volleys over the boys' heads. When this does not faze the jeering stone throwers the soldiers aim near their feet puffing up clouds of dust. The boys stand their ground, more and more appearing until there are well over a hundred taunting the troops.

Mahmoud and Bene fighting side by side circle around closer to me to pelt the soldiers from behind. Bene, more daring, runs in smashing a windshield being narrowly missed by a soldier who turns and shoots at him. They stand together jeering and making obscene gestures at the troops. Then three soldiers take after them with heavy nightsticks cutting them off from the rest. Mahmoud adroitly dodges one and smashes a rock into his helmet, but another collapses him with a blow to the head. He tries gamely to get up but is grabbed and slammed into the ground, his shirt ripping loose. Boots stomp into his belly and he is kicked again and again in the groin. Dazed, bent over in agony he is hauled to his feet while the other two club him with their sticks, blood spurting from his eyes and running down his still struggling body. Bene, hysterical, screams and continues to pelt the soldiers until two others force him back with their sticks. He can't help his friend and has to watch, sickened, as the soldiers pick up Mahoud's limp body and methodically break both his arms.

Meanwhile Kahil and Baba lead a charge of screaming, stone throwing boys as a diversion hitting some of the soldiers. Bene escapes. Then shots ring out - they've seen Kahil and are trying to kill him. Another shot in the confusion and Baba, perhaps protecting his leader and lover, is hit, blood blooming on his shirt and a blank look of shock on his normal animated face. Kahil and others grab him, drag him at an amazing pace up behind the wall as a wedge of soldiers follow swinging clubs. Then a new wave of boys run out, the youngest in the vanguard, entangling and delaying the pursuing troops. They get clubbed, beaten, stomped on, their tender flesh mangled and young bones crushed for their time buying efforts. Later I watch them crawl and limp away, often leaning together, buddy with buddy, for support. Abdul watches in horror and dismay, hate streaming from his eyes and angry frustration knotting his adolescent face. Only duty prevented him from joining in. The battle is over as more troops and a tank arrive.

Hooded on the much longer trip back I have time to ponder as the bloody images of the encounter refuse to leave my mind. 'Was the bravery of these boys as foolish as it seems?'

Several boys had made it back to the bunker before us bringing some of the wounded, most deep in agony, moaning, broken boned and beaten beyond sense or endurance. Anguished buddies cuddle and try to comfort them, others boil rags and apply rudimentary dressings. And the lovely Lana labours, soothing and bathing the battered young warriors and making soft places for them to lie.

Then Ali is carried in semi-conscious and Abdul rushes over almost erupting into violence in his grief. One side of his normally cheerful face is a lacerated mass, the eye swollen shut, and his remaining arm dangles awkwardly having been deliberately broken. Abdul, getting control of himself prepares a place for his friend and pulls off his shirt to make a pillow of sorts.

Then unobtrusively 'The Doctor' is there, an ancient white haired man in a conservatively tailored suit and speaking with an eastern European accent. All seem to know him and he immediately starts to treat the injured, cleaning wounds, applying dressings and most painfully - there's no morphine - setting bones. It's soon Ali's turn, and the boy now lucid for the first time faces his arm being pulled, manipulated, stretched and twisted until the bone is splinted in place. Ali bears it as bravely as he can but at times it takes most of Abdul's strength to keep him still as the doctor does what he has to.

Kahil, exhausted, staggers in half carrying the wounded Baba in his arms. The enemy believes they are still trapped in the refugee camp and are savagely searching there still. Baba's blood drained face exposes his tender years as Kahil weeping holds him closely and strokes his afroed hair. The doctor comes and washes his wound with a stinging antiseptic, probes it removing a bullet inches from his heart and tells him how lucky he is. He tells Kahil that they should take him to a safe place for recuperation. Baba's eyes open wide and with a trace of a grin, "Recuperation?" he tries to laugh, "The girls'll be the death of me." The others laugh too sensing he'll be all right. Tears of relief run down Kahil's cheeks and he gently kisses Baba's lips.

'The Doctor' having done all this and more, leaving the boys much mended quietly disappears. I glance over at Abdul who shrugs, "Many boys sweeten his nights though he be one of the enemy."

Bene meanwhile has made his way back after trying and failing to find Mahmoud and sits by himself weeping despondently. Then shortly after Baba is taken away to a safehouse in the hills three boys arrive with Mahoud's body leaving it near the entrance. He has taken the Glorious Path to Paradise. We go over to pay our respects and Bene collapses sobbing and keening on the corpse, kissing the battered face grotesque with death. Sitting back Bene straightens out his dead lovers hair and broken limbs, spits on a rag to wipe the dried blood from his face and examines the bruises and bloated testicles before patting the remaining torn clothing in place. Then he lies down beside him crying and clasping his friend's final erection. We leave them alone.

A little later I glimpse Bene kneeling over the corpse masturbating. He notices me and beckons me over. "For my beloved Mahmoud, he has given me so much of his juice of life, and helped make me strong. I offer him what little I can." He takes the small gob of semen on his fingertips and smears it on his dead friend's swollen lips and inside his mouth. "May it speed his journey to Paradise." He stands up, "I will cry no more." Two older boys arrive and wrap the body in a shroud; it will be returned to his relatives when it's safe.

Things settle down, a number of boys return to their homes or the refugee camp, and dinner is served. The goat I'd seen butchered earlier has been stewed with potatoes, greens and incongruously six tins of French truffles, loot from some rich man's villa. The boys scoop the stew from the large pot with old cans and share it out. Apparently it's a rare feast though the meat takes some chewing. The bones are gnawed eagerly after the rest is finished. Abdul patiently feeds his helpless friend Ali chewing the meat for him and passing it with a slurpy kiss.

Satisfied they relax and an older lad with slender fingers brings out a flute and plays a light enticing tune which becomes punctuated by the tambourine played by his young curly headed friend. Then the two small boys, the ten year olds who'd cavorted so enthusiastically in the thundershower earlier, reappear in gauzy, traditional robes and began sinuously losing themselves in the complex steps of the dance and the rhythm. The effect is erotic, teasingly and joyfully erotic as only those who have experience could perform. The boys lightly clothed against the evening chill watch intently and shift into clusters where their hands can wander freely, communing with their comrades bodies. The flautists fingers move more intricately as the tempo speeds up and the dancing boys seem to vibrate, their pale lithe bodies shimmering beneath the filmy cloth. The boys all hush, then some begin to hum, more join in the humming as they reach the precipice of orgasm and wait on the brink. And when it seems all are humming the music's beat shifts and the dancing boys explode with new energy, and in one vigorous second all boys cum, pulsing, squealing, spurting, exchanging tender touches with their buddies. Talk and banter quickly return and the boys begin drifting off, some in pairs or threesomes to the nests they've improvised in the ruins.

Kahil who has remained by himself lingers, and at length speaks to me, "I would be with Baba now.... but, now we will talk." He tells me that the enemy will seal off the entire area because of the disturbance and that I cannot leave until tomorrow. He has already sent word for Youssef to meet me at the drop off point at eleven in the morning. He says Youssef is one of the few elders he trusts.

Kahil relates how he started to resist five years ago after his family was killed in a punitive shelling after some minor incident. "I joined a gang of free living boys, we stole, bought and sold illegal goods, sabotaged enemy trucks and destroyed their property. A year later when I was thirteen we were betrayed by adult leaders, arrested, beaten and," he adds bitterly, "interrogated. My best friend did not survive. I decided then that boys must rule themselves. They must be each others parents, teachers, brothers.... and also lovers." This he feels necessary for the awakening and liberation of his people. Kahil goes on to outline his hopes and plans for victory and peace and I'm amazed by his shrewdness and confidence though expressed in boyish words and gestures.

Bene, still grief stricken wanders by and Kahil calls to him. He's soon cuddled in his leader's lap as the interview continues. "A lot more boys will die before we win. And soon we're going to need guns, and the only way we can buy them is with boys' lives." Bene's mouth nuzzles against Kahil's lean hairless chest, and with his eyes half closed he licks at the sweat on the older boy's nipple. Kahil strokes the boy's delicate neck and very lightly runs his hand over his groin. Bene's eyes close and his face relaxes. "Boys must free themselves. First they must be free with each other, know and enjoy each other in spirit and body, and live in freedom with themselves, doing what they want. Old superstitions and taboos must be destroyed." Bene's hand reaches down Kahil's waistband and finding it welcome he grasps the stiffening rod and soon finds his own secure in his leader's firm grip. They just perceptibly rock back and forth. "But with our struggle there's not much time for other things, there's so much I want to learn, I feel so ignorant." Bene feeling better reaches up and kisses Kahil, disengages himself and wanders off giving me a little smile.

Kahil, being very tired begs off further questions and leads me behind a wall where he has his bed, a queen sized Seeley Posturpedic mattress, another prize of war I assume, and indicates I can share it with him. He removes his outer clothes, looking very delicate and pale in the kerosene light, and young. Seeing him in action leading the others I'd stopped thinking of him as the boy he is, and a handsome one indeed. He silently passes me an old blanket, lies down and pulls a tattered afghan over himself with a sigh of exhaustion. I follow quietly but cannot sleep though tired, the events of the day tumbling through my mind, and his closeness erotically disturbing. Kahil mumbles, half rolls over on me and dozes, his gently heaving torso alive with the odours of dust, sweat, and his own animal scent. Soon he moves again and a grimy boyish arm flops across my neck. I run my tongue along his wrist tasting its spiced saltiness and when I reach his palm his hand clenches half way. My lips nibble on his unwashed fingertips as I fantasize more, much more. Later he rolls over again and snuggles his richly scented butt into my lap, settling into a deep sleep, and I finally doze off. 

Much later I awake, feeling and hearing Kahil sobbing beside me. The strain of the day, Mahmoud, Baba, and maybe little Bene, are perhaps too much for him to contain any longer. He welcomes my hand on his shoulder and soon I'm hugging him. His hand approaches my groin but hesitantly stops. Sensing some of his needs I reach down his shorts and take his slim hardening member in my hand as he returns the favour. We remain motionless for seconds and then slowly, rhythmically begin stroking each other. His pelvis begins thrusting and I know he wants to fuck. I pull down his shorts and run my hand over his round ass and lean belly feeling, and then dimly seeing, numerous round scars. "Cigarette burns, momentos of my interrogation. They let their cadets practice on boys." His body begins to quiver and only relaxes when I enter his moist narrow ass. He gently rocks, his movements meeting my own and becoming more vigorous. I can feel his muscles working beneath his skin and the tautness of his bone hard bone. I thrust harder and harder and it seems he can absorb all my energy endlessly. I try to slow down, to delay, but my galloping warrior lad will have none of that. He wiggles and squeezes me to an awesome climax that tingles along the length of our intertwined bodies.

“OI!”, it's Bene looking quite amused. Obviously he's been watching, and also obviously quite horny judging by the near vertical prick poking out below his ragged denim shirt, his only attire. He casually sits beside us, thighs spread open, and watches curiously as I withdraw still in a state of arousal. Bene whispers in the older boy's ear and Kahil kisses him almost solemnly on the forehead. Bene smiles smugly, throws off his shirt and practically leaps on Kahil's lap, putting his arms around his neck and kissing him. Then slobbering on his hand, spitting out the last bit, he moistens Kahil's rod and his own small orifice before wriggling down his bum. Kahil holds him close stroking his back, licking him around his ears and neck and lightly rubbing his springy twig. After a couple of giggles Bene closes his eyes and indulgently enjoys the double stimulation; in and out his little ass and up and down his sensitive twig, secure in his leader's embrace. He pants and moans in erotic pleasure for minutes. Then a sly smile crosses his lips, his eyes open brightly giving me a wink, and as if energized, he takes over raising himself up and down, a slow motion bounce, and works Kahil to a wild ecstatic orgasm that has him writhing. His eyes flutter as his own little prick pulses and once again produces a tiny pearl. His mischievousness quickly returns. "I'm going to keep you in me." he laughs, "I'll keep you hard forever." I hear little grunts as he squeezes his sphincter. But Kahil simply strokes the boy's now ticklish chest, withdraws and gives him a hug and a kiss. Bene falls asleep at his leader's side, sated, and no doubt soothed by the Seeley Posturpedic.

I quietly step out to pee, and not far away, caught by transient shafts of moonlight, I see Abdul kneeling devotedly before his beloved Ali now mercifully asleep in their nest. He doesn't see me. As I silently urinate against a wall the husky hirsute youth folds aside the blanket exposing the pale, moon illuminated torso of his brave lover boy and stares, meditates for the longest minute. Then hesitantly, as if breaking some taboo, he lowers his stubbled face and, tongue touching first, he kisses Ali's soft and shrunken but pretty little cock, and quickly pulls the blanket back. I return to the others and sleep soundly.

In the morning Kahil takes me aside, "I have been thinking, with Mahmoud his lover dead, Bene has no one special left. He has too much spirit, too much fire, to survive here long.... and I love him too much. His talents are for peace which I hope comes soon. We will need him for the culture we must rebuild.... and more importantly, build anew. We cannot think of trading all boys' lives for guns.... Take him with you when you go. Youssef can arrange papers to prove he is your son, and a mother to testify. He will do it, for Mahmoud was his son." I agreed to try.

As Kahil speaks privately with Bene I bid my farewells. Ali, his bandaged head raised and one splinted arm propped is looking better, and tries to smile with one eye and half a mouth despite the pain. He spreads his knees for me to clasp him, and after, not entirely helpless, he raises a leg and rubs me with his foot. Abdul, appearing more relieved, looks kindly at me for the first time and smiles, he has the rope and hood ready. Kahil returns with Bene who's stunning in a camel turtleneck and charcoal slacks. I have to look twice, he looks more dressed for England. Bene walks up to me, "I protested, I wanted to stay and fight. But it was an order and now I want to go you. I want to learn about your world." He cheerfully undoes my fly and his own and we hug and clasp til both are hard. And then he hugs and clasps all the boys there and a few come up to me.

And we share my bed that night and all next week while I make arrangements. I am not happy with the Kahil interview I submit to my esteemed Fleet Street employer. The truth would have been far more interesting, but you know what you can get away with, and what you can't. However, even the publisher likes it.

I spend much time waiting and have time to educate my new son, he devours knowledge like popcorn, I couldn't imagine even keeping him in comix and books. He wants a violin. And the questions he asks? I have to do a lot of thinking. And he insists that I pump my juice of life into him at least twice a day to make him strong for his new world, and he's very pleased when I sip what little he has to offer.

It's raining when we deplane at London's Gatwick Airport. Bene understands many things about the world he's entering, he knows many of our quaint customs and cures. But I've neglected to mention to him that things are rather different with and about boys.