The Masterpiece

“God!” I thought, stopping halfway through the door-so abruptly that the person behind bumped into me. “He’s beautiful.”

He was playing the video game that was just to the right of the entrance inside the 7-Eleven. The store was located on Highway 140 in White City. I worked on a ranch eighteen miles from there-toward Klamath Falls, on Highway 140. The 7-Eleven was usually my first stop on coming to town. I had been in there a hundred times. I had never seen him before. Him...I would have noticed-and I always checked out the kids-the boys. They came in after school to play video games. White City, no more than a few stores, a Pizza Hut, and a couple of fast food places at the crossroads of Highway 140 and the road between Medford, Oregon, and Eagle Point, didn’t offer much entertainment for kids, so there was always a group of them at the 7-Eleven, hanging out-playing video games. I’d gotten pretty good at one of the games myself. It gave me something to talk to the kids about.

Glancing over my shoulder at him-I couldn’t take my eyes off him-I walked over to the soda machine, picked up a Big Gulp cup and filled it with Coke. I even overfilled the cup because I kept looking at him. After grabbing a lid and a straw and paying for the Coke, I walked over to the video games, sipping on my soda. One of the kids, Steve, who I had met on earlier trips to the store, looked up at me and said, “Hi, Sam.”

Steve was OK, but only because he was a twelve year-old boy. Otherwise, he wasn’t that attractive. I had a thing for twelve year-old boys, who, just entering puberty, were on the cusp between being a boy and becoming a man. Their cocks were fully grown; their balls full; hair grew above their cocks; but, the harsh changes wrought by testosterone hadn’t yet occurred. They still had the soft features of a boy, not the sharp, angular features of a man.

I answered, “Hey, Steve. ‘Sup, kid?” Then nodding toward him-the kid playing the game-the game I was good at-the kid I’d seen when I entered the store, said, “Hey, he’s pretty good.”

The kid, too busy with the game to look around, said, “Good? I’m the best.”

“You’re good, kid, but the best-I don’t know...What do you think, Steve? Do you think he could beat me?”

“Shit, I don’t know, Sam. You’re good.”

The kid, curious now, looked back at me. He died-or at least his video game character died. “Fuck,” he said. Look what you made me do.”

“Hey, don’t sweat it, kid. It’s just a game. Look, I’ll pay for the next game. You wanna play against me?”

Looking at me-an adult-probably wondering if I was some kind of weirdo, he hesitated, but apparently not able to pass up the prospect of a free game, said, “Sure-I guess.”

I played him a tough game. I lost, missing a move I’d made a hundred times before-deliberately. I could have made it with ease. I could have beaten him-but didn’t want to show him up. I wanted to keep him interested. Steve looked at me strangely. I think that he knew that I could have made that move-suspected that I’d thrown the game, but Steve and I had our own contract. I’d traded money, drugs, and other favors for those that Steve had to offer. He wasn’t attractive enough to really turn me on-but, being a kid without money-or parents that cared-he was...available.

My strategy worked. Shouting, “All right!” the kid raised his arms, whooping, “I’m the man,” a broad grin on his face-his eyes sparkling.

“Shit,” I said. “I should have made that move. You’re pretty good, though. What’s your name, kid?”

“Shawn,” he said.

“Hey, Shawn-I’m Sam. Give me five,” I said, holding my hand out, palm up. He slapped it with his.

“Want to play another?”

This time, eagerly, he said, “Yes.”

“Wait,” I said, “Let’s make it interesting.”

He looked at me, one eyebrow raised, “What-what do you mean?”

“Let’s bet on it.”

“What kind of bet?”

“Hey,” I said. I’ll even give you odds-ten to one. I’ll bet ten bucks to your one that I’ll beat you this time.”

He hesitated, shifting his eyes to one side-apparently thinking. I figured that he didn’t have the buck; but, arriving at a decision-the one I thought he would-he was probably certain that he could beat me-he said, “OK-You pay me $10.00 if I win-and I only pay you a buck, if I lose-right?”

“Yep,” I answered. “That’s right-and I’ll even pay for the game.”

After I slipped a couple of quarters into the machine, we started the game, he at the controls on the left-and me at the controls on the right. I played him tougher-and I could see, when I glanced over at him during a break in the action when we changed levels-by his frown-that he was worried that he might lose; so I blew the game soon after starting the next level.

“God damn,” I said. “I fucking had you that time-but I fucked up. You are good, though...Shawn.”

My head lowered, as I pulled my money clip from my pocket, and pealed off a $10.00 bill, I raised my eyes to look at him and asked, “You live around here? I’ve never seen you before.”

Staring at the $10.00 I held in my hand, he answered, “Yeah,” and named one of the many trailer parks in White City.

Pleased, I smiled. Not only did he live nearby, but in one of the poorer trailer parks in the area. Not having money would make him all that much more vulnerable.

Greedily, almost snatching the money out of my hand, he took the $10.00. “Hey,” I said. “I want a rematch-but not today. Looks like I’m gonna have to practice some to beat you. Will you be here tomorrow?” I didn’t want to move too fast.

“Yeah,” he said-eagerly, I thought. “Yeah, I’ll be here. What time?”

“Bout the same time-say 4:00?”

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll be here. Same bet?”

“OK,” I answered, smiling, “but, if this keeps up, I might have to get a second job.”

He grinned. As long as he got the money, I’m sure that was all right with him. “Well,” I said, “I gotta run-gotta go into Medford. Maybe we can all go there sometime-to the mall-to the arcade-some of the games there really rock. See you guys.”

On the way out, I slipped Steve a couple of bucks. I didn’t want him to get jealous-to say anything about what he probably figured were my intentions-to Shawn. “See you tomorrow,” I said, empathizing “you” while looking at Shawn.

Looking back as I walked out the door, and saying, “Bye,” I got into my van and drove on to Medford, where I ran some errands, and did some shopping. I had intended to go to the movies, but all my thoughts were on Shawn. I could have never concentrated on the movie; so, I went home-stopping, of course, at the 7-Eleven in White City on my way back-but he wasn’t there. I was tempted to drive through his trailer park in hope of seeing him, but could think of no good excuse for being there-no way to explain my presence, if he saw me.

All the way home I thought about him, recalling the sound of his voice, the sparkle of the lights of the store reflecting in his eyes, the brightness of his smile, the music of his laugh-even his smell, probably-mostly-his smell, a combination of the slight tartness of his sweat-and that unique smell that only boys-boys just entering puberty seemed to have. It turned me on. My cock was throbbing. Unable to keep my hands off of it, I unzipped my pants, pulled it out, and began masturbating while I was driving. When I closed my eyes as I ejaculated, it was his face that I saw.

He was at the 7-Eleven the next day when I arrived-late because it had taken me longer than I had planned to finish my job, not getting there until almost 5 o’clock. He wasn’t playing the game. I supposed that he had already blown the $10:00.

“Hey,” he said, “I thought you weren’t coming. I’ve been waiting.”

“Hey, man. I’m sorry. I had to work. I couldn’t get away. I’m really sorry that I’m late.”

I wanted to convince him that I regretted being late-that I wanted to be with him. I figured that he was used to being disappointed by adults. I had to show that I was different.

“Steve was here,” he said, “but he left when you didn’t show up.”

Of that-I was glad. I didn’t want Steve hanging around, possibly saying something that would spoil my chances with Shawn.

“Come on. Let’s get a soda. I’ll buy.”

Walking over to the soda machine, I picked up two Big Gulp cups, handing him one. He selected Sprite. I did, too. Although I hated the stuff, I wanted him to think that we had similar tastes.

We set our drinks on the floor beside the game and started playing. Early in the game, probably from excitement-from his desire to win-making a stupid mistake, he lost.

“Shit-shit-shit--fuck,” he said. “That was fucking stupid. Give me another chance.”

“Sure,” I answered, “but, if you lose, you’ll owe me $2.”

No way did he have it, but I didn’t plan to win anyway. I lost the game early, making an equally stupid mistake. I parroted his comments, “Shit-shit-shit--fuck. That was stupid,” but I handed him $9.”

“Hey,” he said, “the bet was for $10.”

“Yeah,” I answered, “but you lost the first game. You owed me a buck.”

“Yeah,” he said, conceding the reasonableness of my statement, but I could tell that he was disappointed that he wasn’t getting the full $10. “Want to play again?” he asked.

“Naw, man. Can’t afford it. You’re going to break me, but we can play again. I’m coming into town on Friday. We can play then-maybe even go into town-to the arcade-if you want.”

“Yeah,” he answered. “Sure. That’d be fun.”

“OK,” I said. “It’s a plan. I’ll be in about 5 o’clock. Is that too late?”

When he said that it wasn’t, I said, “OK, better ask your parents. We might not be back until 7:00 or 8:00.” I didn’t expect that he would really ask them.

I left, driving home, managing to wait until I was home before I masturbated, the memory of the smell of his hair lingering in my mind, his face before my closed eyes.

He was waiting when I arrived on Friday-precisely at 5:00 PM. “Hi, Guy,” I said. “Well, are we going to the mall? Is it OK with your parents?”

“Sure,” he answered. “They don’t care.”

I didn’t believe that he’d asked them. I hoped that he hadn’t. The less they knew about me-the better.

When we arrived in Medford, we went to the mall-to the arcade. They had some great games, but not the one that he and I had played at the 7-Eleven, so when he asked if we were going to bet, I said. “No, man. I don’t know these games well enough to risk money on them-but I’ll pay for the games.”

Some of the games we played together, but often I let him play while I stood behind him, drinking him in: his beauty; his excitement; his laughter-his smell-taking every opportunity to touch him, clapping him on the shoulder, or “high-fiving” him when he won. By his laughter-his perpetual grin-I knew he was having fun. We probably should go home, I thought, but couldn’t face the loss of his company, so I suggested that we go to a movie-also located at the mall. He wanted to see a movie, so I let him choose which one we’d see.

A comedy-a rather juvenile one at that-it wasn’t a movie I would have chosen; but, surreptitiously watching him, listening to his laughter, brushing against him as we shared a box of popcorn, smelling his smell mixed in with that of the popcorn, I paid little attention to it, anyway.

It was late by the time the movie was over-almost 9:00 PM. I was a little worried about getting him home so late-wondered what his parents would say-so, instead of dropping him off at the 7-Eleven, I offered to drive him home. Besides, I wanted to see where he lived.

His trailer, a ratty one, was at the last one on the street, at the back of the trailer park. It probably wouldn’t have been allowed in a better park. About 9:30 PM and late August, it was dark. Lights were on inside the trailer.

“Well, here you are,” I said, expecting him to jump out and run inside.

“Come on in,” he said. “My parents want to meet you.”

“Your-your parents want to meet me?” I stammered.

Most of the kids that I picked up never mentioned me to their parents, and, when some of them had, the result had sometimes been an ugly confrontation. Anticipating another, I didn’t want to go in to meet his parents, but he said, “Yeah, they’re glad I have a friend. They want to meet you. They said to bring you in when we got home.”

Although still worried, I walked up to the trailer house with him. If they were expecting me-if I wanted to see him again-I thought that I’d better meet his parents.

They were friendly-very friendly-apparently pleased that I was taking an interest in their son. I was nonplused. If I’d had a kid-if he had made friends with an adult he met playing video games-I would have been worried-but, then, I knew my intentions. Were they naive, stupid, or did they just not care? All three-I came to find out-applied.

I cultivated their friendship. It was easy. Neither of them worked. Each was collecting workman’s comp. Whether they were scamming or not, I was never sure. During the time I knew them, neither of them, mother or father, worked. As long as I bought pizza or loaned them a little money-which was never repaid-they were happy for me to spend time with their son.

My job on the ranch, being seasonal, ended in the middle of September, so I arranged with Shawn’s parents to stay at their house, sleeping in my van parked next to their trailer. I paid them a little each week and gave them the food stamps that I got since I wasn’t working.

Shawn, who would have been in the seventh grade, didn’t start school that year. They said that they were home schooling him, but that was a laugh. Both mother and father were barely literate, and Shawn’s older sister was an idiot-and a slut besides. Shawn stayed home, doing nothing, but it meant that I got to spend a lot of time with him.

We often went to Medford, to the arcade, to the movies, or played miniature golf. Being enthralled with his beauty-not wanting to lose him-I had never made any sexual advances toward him, other than to-playfully-grab his balls when we were wrestling around, or when he was pestering me-as he often did.

Normally, instead of remaining in Medford during the winter, I went toNevada, either to Los Vegas or to Laughlin. Wanting to go there, and wanting time with Shawn, I asked him if he wanted to go to Reno with me. We went, but I had to take his parents-and his sister as well. It wasn’t a complete loss, however. I got to see Shawn-naked-for the first time.

It was in Reno. Only he and I were in the motel room. He was in the bathroom. The door was open. Walking in, I stripped, intending to take a shower. He looked at me-said, “You’re naked-cool,” and stripped off his shorts as well.

It took all my will power to keep from getting hard. Above his pubescent cock, a wisp of hair grew. His chest was smooth. Only fine hair grew under his arms. He was perfect. I didn’t want him to ever change. I wanted to-somehow-stop time, to keep him as he was-forever. As he was now, he was a masterpiece.

After we returned to Medford-to White City-I went to work-as a roofer, which I did until the weather got too bad; then I wanted to go to Laughlin. This time I suggested that Shawn and his dad go with me. I told his dad that he could easily get a job in one of the casinos. I planned to play poker, which I usually did in the winter. His mother, thinking of the money that her husband might earn, was for the idea. He was no longer collecting workman’s comp.

I had built a bed, elevated a couple of feet off the floor, into the back of my van. Shawn and I slept on it. His dad, Pat, slept on a mat on the floor. Occasionally, we stayed in a hotel. Generally, rooms, during the winter, were cheap.

Shawn slept deeply, never waking, although I frequently fondled him. He was always hard. Never, did I reach over to touch his cock that he was not-never. It wasn’t big. I measured it-with my hand, placing the tip of my fingers at its base, and noting where it came to on my palm. It was four and one-half inches long, but that didn’t matter. Big cocks didn’t necessarily turn me on. I loved his little cock.

Pat, of course, never got a job. I paid for everything. Eventually, since he wasn’t sending money home, his wife demanded that he and Shawn return. Paying their fare, I put them on a bus home. Poker was going well, and I wanted to stay a while longer.

In early April, I went back to Medford. It was time for me to return to the ranch. Of course, I stopped to see Shawn.

He started spending every weekend with me on the ranch, sometimes bringing along a friend-sometimes alone. One weekend, looking at him closely, I noticed that he was changing. The hair under his arms was thickening. There was more than a wisp of hair around his cock. Even the hair on his upper lip seemed to be getting darker. I imagined that his nose was getting larger. His face seemed more angular. It made me sick-what the testosterone being produce by his balls was doing-desecrating a masterpiece. I decided then-no matter what the cost-that I must do something about it.

The next weekend, when he came to the ranch-I was ready. I fed him some sleeping pills that I had. I didn’t want him to be frightened-or to feel any pain. First drunk from the effects of the pills, he giggled-laughed-thought everything was funny, but soon became drowsy. I pulled off his shorts. He was hard-as always. I had everything ready. I had taken an elastrator from the ranch. I had a sharp knife-antiseptic-bandages.

Looking at his hard cock, I wondered if he had ever jerked off. Although we talked about everything, he had never copped to jacking off. Soon he wouldn’t have the ability. I decided to give him an orgasm-even if he were asleep-even if he wouldn’t remember it-before I took his balls-because that was my plan-to take his balls. It was the only way-the only way to keep testosterone from destroying the masterpiece.

I took his cock into my mouth. If he were going to cum-I wanted it. I wanted it to become part of me. I wanted to swallow every drop of it. I licked his cock-licked his soon to be gone balls, taking each one, individually, into my mouth, even licked his sweet hole; then, taking his cock fully into my mouth-it only went a short ways into my throat, I bobbed my head, up and down, pumping it. Before long I felt the head of his cock expand, and felt his hot cum-his sweet, hot, cum, gush into my throat. Even in his sleep, he began thrusting with his hips, driving his cock into my mouth.

Even after he came, he soon again became hard-almost with no effort on my part. Over and over I sucked his cock-draining him-draining his balls of their sperm. Eleven times he came before it became difficult to get him hard-and it was becoming late. Surely, I had exhausted his balls of their seed. He was moaning in his sleep-still slightly thrusting his hips when, taking my mouth from his cock, I lay on top of him, careful to support much of my weight-to keep from smashing him. I kissed him-forcing my tongue between his partially open lips. It was time.

His cock hung limply above his balls. One of the few times that I had ever seen it soft. Standing up, I stripped. I was hard-so hard. Watching him-as he lay on the mattress on the floor, I began masturbating, this time, keeping my eyes open when I came-so I could see him-his naked body-the real thing-not an image in my mind.

Walking over to a cabinet, and picking up the elastrator I had hidden there, a band already on its jaws, I walked back to where he lay, knelt down, pressed the handles, spreading the jaws, stretching the band. I worked the band over the bottom of his sack, reaching with my other hand to grab the skin at the bottom of his scrotum to pull it through. Then...I released the band. With a snapping sound, it tightened around the base of his scrotum-next to his cock. He groaned in his sleep-partially rising up off the mattress. It must have hurt. I forced another sleeping pill into his mouth-then waited. I didn’t want him to wake up when I made the cut-didn’t want him to feel the pain.

After about 30 minutes-his balls had turned blue-I decided to proceed. First, placing my nose next to his stomach, I took a deep breath, He still smelled the same-well, almost the same. There was another smell-the smell of his cum. Some had leaked from his cock onto his stomach. I licked his stomach. Again, I became hard-but there was no time. I had work to do.

I washed him, cleaning him the best I could-then spread iodine over his balls, his cock, and his legs around his balls. I placed another band below the one already on his balls. I didn’t want him to bleed; then, placing the knife below the bands-I cut. His balls, including the sack came away into my hand. There was little blood. The bands were accomplishing their assigned task. Placing his balls-and the sack-into a jar of alcohol, I saved them-for him.

He had screamed-in his sleep-when I cut, almost emerging from his sleep, but not quite. I felt certain that he would remember nothing-none of the pain. I bandaged him tightly, wrapping it around his crotch, forming a diaper, in case the bands, during the trip to town-to the hospital-came off. I was taking no chance that he might die. I intended to take him to the emergency room. Wrapping him in a blanket, and carrying him to my van, I laid him on the bed in the back-then drove to Medford. It took about forty minutes to get to the hospital, but I stopped a couple of times to check on him.

Stopping in front of the emergency room entrance, then, tenderly picking him up from the bed, I carried him into the hospital. He was asleep, slightly drooling-snoring softy. “He needs a doctor,” I said.

“What’s wrong with him?” asked the receptionist.

“He’s been castrated,” I answered, reaching into my jacket pocket, withdrawing, and handing her the jar containing his balls.

When they took him, I went to the waiting room, sat down, and waited-for the cops. I had thought about trying to run-but they would have caught me. I knew that they wouldn’t understand, that they would-figuring that I was some kind of pervert-think that it was all about sex-but it wasn’t. I’m a connoisseur. I was trying to preserve a masterpiece.