Kevin was observant even at an early age. All kids are curious, of course, but Kevin was special. His eyes were constantly in motion, observing everything, and never still even for an instant. He didn’t excel in school and wasn’t considered to be particularly intelligent; it was just that he noticed things.

He would be eating supper and notice that his mother was fidgeting a little and he’d know right then that she’d suggest that they all go to bed a little earlier than usual. That okay by Kevin; he had his own TV and computer in his room and he’d just as soon hang out there as with his mom and step dad anyway. As a little kid he didn’t question the situation, but about the time his juices started flowing he began noticing other things too, like nipples and asses and camel toes and such, so now he crept out of his room and across the living room to his mom’s bedroom door. He didn’t open it and look in, but by the sounds of things it was obvious that they were carrying on just like the couples did on the web sites that he wasn’t supposed to know about. He listened for a few minutes before going back to his room and lowering his own white count.

Kevin was thirteen by then, old enough for a paper route, and he continued to notice things as he made his afternoon rounds. The wind always blew in the afternoon, so he’d slip the papers under the doormats to keep them from scattering across the yards. A lot of people foolishly hid keys under the mats, Kevin noticed. Also, some people leisurely scanned their papers as they unlocked their doors while others scurried inside to enter disarm codes into alarm systems, and Kevin noticed which houses also had a blue Security sticker on the windows and alarm speakers under the eaves.

Kevin noticed other things as well. The Johnson’s didn’t need an alarm system. Their property, according to the bumper sticker on their truck, was Protected By Smith & Wesson, and they were proud members of the National Rifle Association and were willing to fight to protect their Seconds Amendment rights. Kevin liked guns too. His mom and step dad wouldn’t have anything to do with firearms, but Kevin’s uncle had taken the boy shooting a few times and Kevin liked both the pop of the gun and the feeling of power that shooting one gave him. Kevin had a notice with his papers one day to not deliver to Johnson, as he was on vacation, and that notice enabled the thirteen-year-old boy’s first burglary.

His mom suggested that they go to bead early, so Kevin waited until they were rutting away and slipped out the back door. He went through the hole in the fence into Peterson’s yard, then climbed over their back fence into Johnson’s back yard, then silently eased along side Johnson’s house onto the front stoop, removed the key under the mat, and let himself in. He did it mostly out of boredom, but once inside he decided to take a look at Johnson’s guns. Fortunately, Johnson had purchased a large metal gun safe to protect his prize possessions against theft. Kevin noticed things though, and he remembered the bumper sticker and figured that Mr. NRA would keep at least one firearm handy. He got down onto his hands and knees and felt around and soon found the Colt 1911 .45 that was clipped to the bottom of the bed frame. On the top shelf of the closet was a Mossberg pump shotgun about like the one Michael Douglas had used to blast the bad guys in Romancing The Stone. It was new and still in the original box, and had apparently been a door prize at some kind of event. Kevin had never even touched a shotgun until his uncle had taken him to the local trap range, where the boy watched the introductory video and then went out on the sixteen-yard line and broke fifteen of the first twenty-five targets that he’d ever shot at, astounding everyone including himself. Kevin took the shotgun but left the old Winchester lever action that hung over the mantle and the Colt from under the bed. Both were valuable and would be sorely missed while the Mossberg could be purchased at Wal-Mart for a few hundred dollars.

Leaving the house, Kevin was suddenly aware of his erection. He tried to ignore it, but by the time he made it home with his loot he was so hard that it hurt and as soon as he got back into his room he stripped down and addressed the problem, one hand on the boxed shotgun and the other on his cock. It was the most intense orgasm he’d ever experienced and he didn’t t touch himself for the next ten days.

Several months later Kevin saw Johnson searching through the garage as if he’d misplaced something. The was no mention of his burglary in the paper he delivered and eventually Kevin determined that the old man must have figured that he’d misplaced the gun or he may have been too embarrassed to admit that his carelessness had gotten it stolen. Kevin used the successful heist as a springboard to other burglaries and continued the sport all through high school. He took nothing extremely valuable or irreplaceable or anything of obvious sentimental value and he never attempted to sell or fence the loot for cash, and most importantly, he never bragged about his exploits to his classmates. One year it was power tools, of which he no worldly use, the next was kitchen appliances. Who would call up the cops and report that their house had been entered and a toaster stolen? The thrill for Kevin was in the entry, and the orgasms afterwards. The stolen items stolen were souvenirs rather than items of value and he was never apprehended. He was a normal teenager and he expended his fair share of condoms during his high school years, but the erections and orgasms after his burglaries were far more intense than those that he shared.

Kevin graduated and went to the local community college, finally settling on a vocational program. Two years later, just shy of his twenty-first birthday, his mother died in a car wreck. It had been the other driver’s fault but the autopsy showed that she also had a tumor that would have killed her within six months. She left a will leaving everything to Kevin. Kevin’s step dad, it turned out, had never been married to Kevin’s mother; he was nothing more than her live-in lover. He tried to get himself declared as her common law husband, deserving a share of her estate, but the probate court ruled against him and determined that her only son was the sole heir. Kevin suddenly found himself in a peculiar situation: twenty-one years old, no obligations, a nice house that was paid for, and a trust fund that provided for all of his basic needs. He’d still need to work, but only to feather his nest.

The boy’s first act was to send his ex-step dad, or whoever he was, packing. He’d never liked the guy anyway, and now that his mother was out of the picture he couldn’t stand the sight of him. Next he remodeled the master bedroom. He was now master of the house, and felt that he deserved the more deluxe amenities of the larger bedroom with its private bath. He moved some of his clothing into the closet and placed several pairs of socks and some underwear into the drawers, but he continued to sleep in the twin bed in his old room. The same bed that he’d slept in as long as he could remember, the same bed where he’d first masturbated and later perfected the craft, the same bed where he’d hurt his neck trying to bend forward far enough to take his dick into his mouth, and the same room that contained all the hidden treasures from his burglaries.

The master bedroom served the same purpose as a motel room: lodging for visiting relatives, and more importantly, a private place to pollinate whatever flower happened to be blooming. The fresh sheets and towels and the clean bathroom impressed most girls, who were accustomed to the typical pigsty crash pads that most young men called home.

The sudden wealth didn’t spoil Kevin, he went to work everyday and spent evenings and weekends whoring around just like every other unmarried twenty-one year old stud, and it was almost a year before the urge to burglarize returned. Kevin wasn’t quite sure what the motive might be; he was getting plenty of action in the master bedroom and didn’t need the thrill that creeping houses provided, and now that he was semi-rich he certainly didn’t need the loot. It was mostly, he concluded, the challenge that hitting Jackson Buford’s house presented.

Jackson Buford was somewhere between forty and fifty years old and was a consulting engineer who specialized in industrial machinery design, and an avid miniature machinist. He spent all of his spare time in his garage workshop building tiny steam and gasoline engines and other mechanical mechanisms, many of his own design, and he had dozens of his creations scattered around his house. His whole garage was full of milling machines, drill presses, lathes, and even a small foundry. Kevin was fascinated by it all when he delivered newspapers but his mom had warned him not to get too friendly with lifelong bachelor. Some of the guys claimed that Buford was the type of guy that would hold your dick for you while you pissed and then shake it off for you afterwards. The guy never came onto Kevin, but he was still creepy.

The house itself was a fortress. Each door had double deadbolt security locks and the windows were adorned with steel grates that only could be opened from the inside, and everything was monitored by a good security system. Also, the old man rarely left his castle. He had no vehicle and didn’t even drive; a cleaning lady brought him groceries once a week and other needed items were usually summoned by taxicab. He only left the house for medical appointments and those were far and few in between. Kevin studied the house for a full month before discovering the chink in the armor.

The house had been built at the height of the cold war and included a concrete bomb shelter that could be stocked with food and water and lived in for a period of time, or used as a retreat in case a tornado couldn’t satisfy its destructive urges in the trailer parks. The bunker was under the house and accessed through a metal casement door. The bunker was empty and unused so the door was usually unlocked.

Kevin crept up to the house one night and silently opened the casement door and then let it slam shut, then retreated around the corner of the house when Buford came out with his flashlight to investigate the noise. As soon as the old man went into the bunker to check things out Kevin wedged the door shut with a pre-cut length of lumber. He would let the old man fume and pound while he leisurely searched the house and selected his trophy, then he’d remove the wedge and run like hell.

Kevin felt the familiar tightness in his groin as he entered the home. The garage was full of tools and machinery, much of which Kevin couldn’t even identify. The living and dining rooms were both cluttered with engines and mechanisms that the old man had crafted, and these even flowed over into the office, most of which was occupied by a large drafting table, filing cabinets, and a computer system. The old man’s bedroom was similar to Kevin’s: Small twin bed with stained sheets and more general clutter. A short hallway led to what would usually be considered the master bedroom. A clean king-sized bed, tidy bathroom and adjacent walk-in closet. He was fully hard now and would need to select his prize and leave soon or mess his shorts.

Kevin was just reaching for the closet door when it opened of its own accord to reveal Jackson Buford brandishing a huge revolver about like the one that Dirty Harry favored. “Didn’t think there’d be a ladder between the bunker and the bedroom, did you? The old man said, bringing the huge gun to bear. He held the gun steady on the boy as he opened a dresser drawer and removed a pair of handcuffs. “Here, put these on. Nice and tight.” The startled boy had no choice but to comply.

“I notice things,” Buford said as soon as the handcuffed boy was secured to the bed. “I’ve been watching you sneak around the neighborhood at night for a long time and I’ve been wondering when you’d finally show up here.” He opened the dresser drawer and removed a stack of photographs. “Do you remember this night?” He asked. Flipping a picture onto the bed. It showed the pubescent boy lying atop his bed, fist tightly clenched around his cock. His other hand looked as if it were gently caressing the shotgun box that lay beside him on the bed. His eyes were clenched shut and a look of either pain or intense concentration was frozen on his face. The picture clearly showed the thick stream of semen erupting from the boy’s cock.

“Like I said, I notice things and I take pictures of them. Want to see some more?” He spread more pictures out on the bed. They chronicled Kevin’s growth just like the marks on the doorjamb that a record a child’s height. The series started with an immature nearly hairless man-boy and ended with him a fully developed young adult, large of testicle and thick of cock. Each picture also clearly showed the item that had been stolen, and could probably be enlarged enough to make the serial numbers legible. Kevin had no idea how the pictures had been taken, but he did know that they were an accurate representation of him, the loot, and what he did after each burglary.

“You’re just like I was at that age,” Buford said as the boy absorbed the pictures. “Always sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, taking stuff that’s not yours. And that, too,” he said, pointing to the bulge in the boy’s pants. “There’s enough here to send you to prison for a long time. You were just a kid in some of these, but since they’re so many of them they’ll combine them and try you as an adult. This state has a three strikes law, so you’ll grow old behind bars and that’s not a nice place for a pretty boy like you.”

Kevin was so rattled that it didn’t even register that he hadn’t been accused, indicted, or convicted of any crime let alone three of them and that none were actually felonies. “What do you want?” He finally said.

“ I got caught, not by the police but by a smart, caring neighbor. He offered me a way out of my criminal life and spared me going to prison. He also saved me the expense and aggravation of taking a wife, and that let me keep my mind focused on things that were really important. I’m offering you the same choice.” He then dropped his pants and shifted his soft cock and so that Kevin could clearly see the hairless void below.

Kevin’s whole body convulsed as he suddenly ejaculated. “You and me need to take a little walk, Boy,” Buford said eying the wet stain spreading on the boy’s sweat pants.

An early-morning jogger found the unfortunate youth and rendered first aid. The police soon found Kevin’s scrotum along with the knife that had severed it under a nearby bush. The brightly polished presentation grade knife bore an inscription that thanked the recipient for his thirty years service with the Case Company and congratulated him on his retirement. An alert detective, near retirement age himself, thought it seemed familiar and pulled his old files. The knife had been taken during a string of petty burglaries that had occurred over twenty-five years ago, long before the young man it had been used on had been born.

And so life went on, and Kevin continued to notice things. Like the fresh-faced young lad who’d just started delivering his newspaper. A nice looking lad with eyes that were always searching, observing everything.