Date: Sat, 14 Oct 2006 16:24:20 -0400 From: Jeff A Subject: Boy Auction in the Old West Disclaimer: This story is absolute fiction, as can easily be detected after a few paragraphs. It is for adult use only, and not to be consumed by minors. The activities described herein are not endorsed or promoted by the author. Any coincidence between some name in this story and a living person is unintended and regretted. Dedication: I hope this story lives up to its catchy title (which probably drew you to it in the first instance). I shamelessly confess that I sometimes use these dedications as a thank-you to some readers who have taken the trouble to drop me a note after reading one of my stories. I reply to everyone, and unlike some, I do not resile from flames. In fact, I have never received one, so you have the opportunity to be my first, if the spirit so moves you. I dedicate this story to Mal, Bobby, rufdraft, Lagniappe, Jay, padawan, willingmike, Don, Tristam, mercurial, Bill, lazydaze, tallhairyjim, sam, Dilando, Wayne, Sack, Collegeboi, Timmy, hambone, Irish, chaosmega, Cy, and of course, my muse: Kent. * * * Boy Auction in the Old West by parrafan Times can be tough out on the open plains, especially when it doesn't rain for three seasons straight. Poor old Bill Jackson, folks said. He'd have to inherit a fortune just to be destitute, others remarked. If it weren't for bad luck, why, he'd have no luck at all, some observed sagely. And Bill was an unlucky man, in the most profound sense of that word. Since his wife died of a terrible cough six years back, it had been just Bill and his boys, trying to make a go of a farm that was mostly rocks. Then came that sickness, the one that took most of his cattle. Dumb old animals just dropped dead where they stood, with no amount of veterinary medicine doing the least bit of good. Not that Bill could afford to pay for the medicine - the Veterinarian just told him to pay when he could, and that he was willing to wait. Not long after the cattle keeled over - it was the very next season in fact - a wildfire ripped through Bill's hundred acres of nearly-ripe wheat. Bill had taken out a sizeable loan from the bank to pay for the seed, and now there was no return for all the work he and his boys had put in to that crop. The banker was understanding. He was Bill's late wife's second cousin (by marriage), after all, and he was prepared to wait for better times before calling in poor Bill's debt. Bill's farm was a long ways west of the Mississippi. Such a long ways, in fact, that it wasn't even in a State. Bill's chunk of dirt lay quite a stretch north of the Mexican border, and a good deal east of the Badlands. Folks out there just kind of pitched up to a place they liked the look of, settled down, built a shack and just started farming. Other folk came along later to supply the needs of these dirt farmers - bankers, grain merchants, blacksmiths, barkeepers. They formed small townships, each with their own town charter, lawman, judge and schoolmarm. Poor Bill's sons tried with all their collective and individual might to help their Paw keep his family together and scratch out a living on the unforgiving plains. Jody, the eldest boy, why he was a dab hand with all manner of fruit and vegetable growing. He maintained a garden plot at the back of the shack which provided greens for the table for his Paw and brothers. Not filling food, certainly, but nourishing and healthy. Jody spent near every day in an old pair of his Paw's hand-me-down biballs, having outgrown all the clothes his Maw sewed for him. Anytime you wanted to know where Jody was, why all's you had to do was look out the back door and there he'd be, tilling the rocky soil, pulling up weeds, pruning fruit trees, coaxing vegetable sprouts up through the recalcitrant soil. Every time Jody bent down to chip at the stony ground, another rip would open up in the seat of the biballs. Pretty soon the rips in the bum were going to meet up with the rips in the sides and the knees, and there'd be nothing left of the biballs but one big rip, Jody mused sadly. It was a common occurrence for Jody's private parts to fall out of one or other of the gaping holes in the front of the threadbare garment, so common that none of his brothers, or his Paw, thought it worth remarking upon. It near to broke Jody's heart when the spring that he used to water the garden went and dried up. That meant instead of a ten-minute stroll, a one-hour return trip to the creek was required every time he wanted to give his parched vegetables a drink. But the boy was strong, if wiry, and he saw that trip to the creek as a daily challenge, to be met and overcome. If his Paw could stick it out, then he was sure not going to let him down by crying over some ol' dried up spring. Many were the days when Jody could be seen trudging back from the creek, hands on a wooden yoke over his shoulders suspending two water buckets, determined grimace on his face, and his boyish tool and balls poking through any of a number of holes in the front of the biballs, wagging back and forth in the sunshine as he walked. Sure was a sight. Bill's second oldest boy, a year younger than Jody at thirteen and a half, was Tracey, called after his Maw's maiden name. Tracey took after his mother in more ways than just in name. He took upon himself the role of cook and housekeeper after his Maw passed away, and all his brothers agreed that Tracey worked absolute wonders with the meagre food that Jody's garden, and Paw's trapping, were able to provide. Tracey, like his older brother, had also grown out of the few garments his Maw had patched together for him before she passed over, so he made do with a few of his mother's things. None of his brothers, and for sure not his Paw, really minded when they saw Tracey wearing his Maw's apron over some bloomers and a blouse. Be a shame for those clothes to just go to waste, after all. And a cook needs an apron, whether he's a boy or a girl, they reasoned. Tracey did not really have the full hips needed to fill out a pair of bloomers, but they covered up what Nature gave the boy, and the blouse kept the sun off his fair shoulders. Myron, just turned twelve, was the middle child of Bill's luckless brood. Now here was a boy that any man would be proud to call his son. Myron could build a chair, or a window frame, or a bear trap, from just about any bits of scrap metal or timber that he had to hand. He could coax a catfish onto a hook with hardly any effort at all, and it was a pure pleasure to see him skinning a jackrabbit so neat, why, the poor dumb beast would surely have thanked him if its neck wasn't broke. He whistled to birds and they answered, and he had a way with bees that all his brothers, and his Paw, truly admired, especially as he was able to supplement Tracey's humble larder with a small earthenware jug of honey once a week. Myron's value to the family surely outweighed any concerns his Paw might have had about Myron's fashion sense. The boy had long outgrown his few garments, so he had asked Tracey to stitch together a few animal pelts in his spare time, and that was all Myron wore, mainly around his shoulders, knees and feet. Naked most of the day from thigh to chest, the boy frequently played with his stiff phallus and leathery scrotum. Jody told all his brothers, and his Paw, that it helped Myron concentrate, and all the males accepted that an unfocussed Myron would be of no use to anyone. It isn't easy being the fourth child in a family of five boys, but Ashleigh carved out a niche for himself in a way that only he could. The only one of Paw's offspring that had any success at letters, (a talent nurtured by his Maw before she went to her reward), Ashleigh was the family songbird. He was a boy who could sing a song right through, after having only heard it once, and when he felt the need for a new song, why, he just went right on and made one up. It was the same with his poems: none of the other boys ever made any headway with the alphabet that their Maw tried so hard to learn them, except Ashleigh. When he wasn't singing, he was writing poetry, reciting poetry, or memorising poetry. They were poems about the simple things he saw around him: mountains, clouds, trees and birds. Every evening, there being no other entertainment, all of his brothers, and his Paw, would gather round after supper to hear a new poem or song from Ashleigh. Many's the time they asked for a repeat of an earlier, much-loved song or poem, and Ashleigh obliged, favouring his brothers and father with his clear, piping voice. Many's the time Paw had to wipe a tear or two from his eyes, hearing Ashleigh's voice and remembering Maw's dulcet tones, born again in Ashleigh. The baby of the family was Willie. The poor boy was barely a toddler, just weaned months before, when his Maw turned up her toes. Willie was now ten years old, and still missed his Maw something terrible. Willie tried to make up for his loss by showing affection to everyone that he met, and since he only ever met his Paw and brothers, they were the sole objects of that affection. Willie was a hugger, and a kisser, and a stroker, and a patter. Stand still for more than a minute, and Willie was on you, hugging you around the waist, kissing any bare flesh he could find, stroking your arms or thighs or just about anywhere. He was a boy with an abundance of human warmth, overflowing and neverending. His fingers could knead the tension out a back muscle, or a hamstring, quicker than you could say "Aah! That feels right nice, Willie". No-one was ever surprised to see Willie clenched in a liplock with Jody, or stroking Myron's bare buttocks, or massaging Tracey's tired shoulders, or even suckling at Ashleigh's little teats. Even Paw enjoyed a nightly footrub from Willie, who was glad to give it. Pretty soon, Bill Jackson realised that he owed money to most every person within a hundred miles. He could see no way out of his impecunious position. He could not continue as he was, for down that road ultimately lay starvation for him and his sons. Nor could he, in good conscience, walk off the farm and leave behind the mountain of debts that he had accumulated. He was a man of honour (that was about all he had left) and would not run from what he owed. But before he could navigate a way out of his problems, matters were taken out of hands by his creditors, specifically, by his late wife's relative, the banker Matthias Symes. He called a meeting of all interested persons to decide the fate of poor Bill, his children, and his farm. The veterinarian, Jonas Chalk, was the first man to speak at the meeting. "If the man has nothing, what is the point of demanding anything of him?". He was shouted down by several others, who loudly proclaimed that if they let poor Bill off, could not any man claim that he could not pay a debt and should be let off? "After all", declared the barkeeper Silas Shortpour, "Bill is not entirely without assets. He has five sons, don't he?" Wishing to inject a rational note of calm into the discussion, the town doctor Sam Cleamens inquired of the Chairman (Mr Symes) what the usual proceedings were in the case of a debtor whose liabilities far exceeded his ability to repay. "The matter is entirely within the hands of his creditors, who shall make among themselves a decision regarding the disposition of the debtor's goods and chattels as they see fit", he replied, relishing the opportunity to make a grandiose speech before his fellows. "So then, let us put it to Mr Jackson that he must make an accounting of all his property, both real and temporal, and permit us, his creditors, to bid for possession of said property, such moneys as are raised to be offset against his debts", Mr Symes concluded pompously. A few heads nodded cautiously, unsure what the verbose banker was actually suggesting. "Do you mean, we should hold an auction and sell him up?", Mr Shortpour summarised. "Precisely, sir", the banker replied. "I shall advise poor Bill that all his debts will shortly be acquitted, so long as he co-operates with us. As far as I can discern, the farm is a barren wasteland and the shack is worthless, good for firewood only. His sole possessions of value are his five sons. They shall be the Lots to be offered". Some muttering greeted this last pronouncement, but the majority were content with the outcome. Many of the men felt that even though they might not recover all amounts owing, it was better to resolve the thing than to have it hanging over poor Bill's head for the rest of his miserable life. The auction was set for Saturday morning next, precisely at ten o'clock. Poor Bill, beaten down by life's depredations, agreed immediately to the auction as soon as his late wife's cousin suggested it to him. Bill saw it as a way to salvage some small amount of self-respect, to square the ledger and make a fresh start. After all, the boys were the fruit of his loins, were they not? It was by his industry that they were fed, clothed and sheltered - who better than he to consent to their disposal? As for the boys themselves, they meekly accepted their fate when told of it by their father. They were even happy, in some small degree, that they would be able to assist their father to clear his debts in this way. Scrubbed and combed, their faces shining, the five boys stood mutely on a low platform at the front of the Town meeting hall, facing a seated audience of some thirty five well-dressed men, several of whom had brought their own sons along. Bill paced nervously at the back of the hall. "Gentlemen", Mr Symes addressed the group, calling them to order. "We are met here today to conduct an auction of the chattels of Mr Bill Jackson, the purpose being to relieve Mr Jackson of his several debts and to make restitution, to a greater or lesser degree as may be, to his creditors, most of whom are assembled here before me. The Lots being offered today are the sons of Mr Jackson, to wit, Jody, Tracey, Myron, Ashleigh and Willie. All of the boys are offered on an 'as is' basis, to be taken from this place by the winning bidder immediately on conclusion of the auction. I have drawn the boys' names from a hat to determine the order in which the auction shall proceed, and the first boy to be offered is...Myron". "Pardon me, Mister Chairman, Sir", the barkeeper interrupted softly, getting to his feet. "The Chair recognises our town's tavern keeper, Mr Shortpour", Mr Symes proclaimed generously. "I ain't never been to an auction like this before, no Sir, so I guess what I really wanted to say to all you good folk was, I'll be bidding for yonder boy, young Myron, and I mean to treat him well if I should win. I done seen him around from time to time, and I'm impressed by his industry, and he don't talk much, which is also a point in his favour, to my way of thinking". A few men chuckled at this remark, but Mr Shortpour continued. "Most of you men know, I ain't had the good fortune to be married. Tried a coupla times. Even bought me a mail-order bride once out'n a catalogue - she turned out to be a...well, let's just say it didn't work out. It's tough bein' a barkeep, and mayhap just as tough bein' married to one. Long hours, a bit o' danger, hard work, plenty o' liquor - no life for a pretty young woman...but a boy, well now, a boy might just be able to handle it, especially a boy what's already proved hisself to be strong, and tough, and dependable. But I don't want to force this life on a boy what don't want it - I want to give young Myron here the chance to accept what I'm offerin', that is, if I win of course, or to say no thank you. What say you, Mr Chairman?" Matthias Symes stroked his stubbled cheeks slowly, hoping that someone from the assembled men (and boys) would stand up and give some kind of response, but all eyes were on him, all voices stilled, awaiting his reply. "Well, now, let me see. A town man would be a fool if he bought a horse that wasn't broken, 'cause he'd never get the value from it. Likewise, no-one would buy a cow that didn't give milk. So unless Mr Jackson objects", (here he glanced at the back of the Hall) "I'm willing to let Mr Shortpour find out if Myron is willing to go with him, and be his...er, helpmate at the Tavern". Turning to the boy, he added "Do you understand that Myron? This is your chance to find a new life, and help your Paw out of his debts". The silent boy nodded. Mr Shortpour left his seat and walked to the side of the Hall. Beckoning Myron to him with a crooked finger, he faced away from the gathered group of men and undid the front buttons of his britches. Myron took one last look at his Paw, and walked right over to the barkeeper, knelt in front of him and took the man's tool into his mouth, bobbing his head up and down like a calf trying to suck milk out of its mother's udder. The men in the audience modestly faced the front of the Hall, averting their eyes, inspecting the four remaining Lots, but many of the boys present gaped open-mouthed at Myron's bravery and self-sacrifice. Within a minute, Mr Shortpour shuddered and threw his head back, gasping loudly. Myron took hold of Mr Shortpour's member and aimed it at his own face, its manly juices squirting all over the boy's cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He buttoned Mr Shortpour's drawers and returned to his place on the platform, the pearly liquid still adorning his proud, silent visage. "Well, er, I guess that sett-" Mr Symes began, but was interrupted by a call from Mr Shortpour. "Ten dollars!" the barkeeper declared loudly as he made his way back to his seat. "Twenty!" responded a voice from several rows back. Mr Shortpour turned quickly to see Doctor Cleamens also on his feet and bidding. "Twenty five!" came a call from the other side of the room, as Mr Chalk rose to bid. "One hundred dollars!" Mr Shortpour countered, still standing, which brought a gasp from a few men and boys. A good pair of horses and a fine new rig could be purchased for that sum. The other bidders resumed their seats, leaving only Mr Shortpour on his feet. Seeing no other bidders, Mr Symes sought to conclude the matter. "Very well, as both parties are satisfied, I declare Mr Shortpour to be now the legal, er, employer and, uh, caretaker of Myron Jackson". The boy left his place on the platform and strode to where Mr Shortpour was sitting. In a gesture that many of the discreetly watching men found quite touching, the barkeeper produced a large white kerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped the residue of his ardour off the boy's face, seating him on his lap to do so. Myron remained in that position, sitting quietly in the barkeeper's lap for the remainder of the auction, the tavern owner's burly protective arms around him all the while. "The next name drawn is that of Jody Jackson", Mr Symes declared loudly. Jonas Chalk, the town's vet leapt to his feet to get the banker's attention. The vet's son, a sickly-looking ten year old boy named Percival, sat squirming alongside his father. "Mr Chairman, Sir!", he declared loudly. Mr Symes nodded at him to signify that he had the floor, so the horse doctor continued. "Sir, I thank you for the opportunity to speak. Like my esteemed friend Mr Shortpour, I too confess this to be a most unusual auction, but valuable nonetheless. I have only recently been encumbered with a most difficult dilemma, Sir, to which I only now begin to see a solution. I arrived home unexpectedly yesterday afternoon to find my son Percival", (here he gestured towards the uncomfortable boy sitting next to him) "lying on his bed naked, stroking his male organ with two fingers and-" "Papa, please don't tell them", wailed the boy, who had begun sobbing. "Hush, boy, mind your manners. I'm speaking to these gentlemen. Now where was I...?" "Er, your boy was lying naked on his bed polluting himself with the Onanistic perversion", Mr Grimes, the town's apothecary, helpfully reminded the vet. "Ah, yes, thank you Sir, I am in your debt. Now as I was saying, the boy - who clearly has been under the influence of his mother for far too many hours each day - was fondling his phallus with two fingers, as no more were necessary or indeed capable of fitting on the tiny object-" (here several boys in the assembly chortled, before being silenced by their fathers) "and at the same time, a tubular metal cigar holder, which I recognised to be one of mine, was being vigorously pumped by his other hand, in and out of his-" "Papa!" interrupted the boy in a loud wail, "I'm sorry, Papa, please, don't tell them, please Papa, I won't do it again, ever, please Papa", the inconsolable Percival bawled. "That is twice now that you have interrupted me, Percy. You would do well not to do so again", Mr Chalk warned his son sternly. "As I was saying, the cigar holder was rapidly plunging in and out of the boy's derriere, in a manner that suggested extreme pleasure was being had thereby". Percival hung his head as his father continued. "Now I am not a cruel man, nor do I forget my own childhood. Every boy, when left to his own devices, will manipulate his generative organs for the base pleasure which such activity produces. I could overlook that. But the intromission of the cigar holder, well my friends, that is another matter" Mr Symes cleared his throat. "Fascinating as this subject is, Mr Chalk, I feel we should rather be attending to the business at hand, namely, Jody Jackson". "Indeed Sir, I shall soon reveal the reason for this interlocution. The cigar holder reminded me of an episode in my own childhood, wherein my dear late father caught me in the act of smoking at age eight, and forced me to smoke a cigar a day for a month, to convince me of the folly of that misdeed. I have decided to teach Percy here a lesson he will not soon forget, and my purpose in coming here today was to obtain the services of a sturdy youth, possibly Jody here, to give that lesson. Following Mr Shortpour's example, I only need verification that Jody is up to the task, with his father's, and this gathering's, leave". Poor Bill only followed one tenth of what the Vet said, but it seemed alright, so he nodded. Further nods of assent from the crowd of men and boys settled young Percy's fate. A chair was placed at the head of the centre aisle, there being no need for privacy as unlike Mr Shortpour, these were only boys, after all. Jonas Chalk assisted his reluctant son to kneel backwards on the chair, holding its back, facing the rear of the Hall. He then called Jody Jackson from the stage to stand behind his son. In this position, Jody's waist was level with Percy's bottom. "I believe we have all seen Myron Jackson's nakedness - it seems only fair to reveal Jody's", Mr Chalk reasoned, and his suggestion was met with nods all round. A quick slip of the shoulder strap of Jody's threadbare biballs allowed the whole garment to fall right down to his ankles, and a stifled "ooh!" from several of the boys in the assembly caused Percy's eyes to widen in terror. Percy himself could not see the eldest Jackson boy behind him, but the gasps from the boys (and a few men) in the audience suggested that something momentous lurked just out of his view. Jody's now released virile member hung almost halfway to his knees, though quite slim, and was now pumping into erectness with each of the fifteen-year-old's heartbeats. "Now, Jody, if you would be so kind, please pull Percy's pants down", Mr Chalk commanded. The youth complied, lowering Percival's britches down to his knees and exposing a curvaceous white bottom which those in the front rows could easily see by turning their heads (which many did). Mr Chalk then addressed the group: "I intend to teach the boy the error of his ways by daily repetition of the act he performed with my cigar holder. As I am not able to perform this task myself, due to my busy schedule, I hope Jody will prove capable of standing in for me. Should his performance here and now be satisfactory, I shall bid for his services most ardently". Turning back to the teen, he said "Please give my son's ass a thorough fucking". Not at all bothered by Mr Chalk's coarse language (for those who worked with animals were well known by all to be most colourful in their speech), Jody gave his slender member a few strokes to certify its stiffness, grasped Percy's shoulder with one hand, and with the other, lined up the purple head with the younger boy's nether lips, then plunged it in to the hilt in one swift jerk of his hips. Percy's squeal of fright and pain would have shattered glass, had the Hall possessed any windows. His eyes grew suddenly wider, lips bared back to reveal his baby teeth, muscles in his neck flexing in an attempt to give voice to his violation, his head shaking involuntarily. The ringlets his mother favoured for the boy's long strawberry locks shook violently. Having seated his tool, Jody dropped both hands to the boy's hips and began a methodical deep plunging of organ into rectum, the unhappy boy wailing loudly with each intrusion. Many of the assembled group had never seen a boy being deflowered before, so they turned to watch the proceedings with interest, in particular the boys present, some of whom fidgeted surreptitiously with the fronts of their own britches. Mr Josiah Grimes, whose eleven-year-old twins seated on either side of him were straining to observe every detail of Jody's enthusiastic reaming, held up a hand to attract Mr Chalk's attention. "Sir", he began, "I do not for a moment question the methods you use to raise your son, but I am moved to wonder what you might do should the boy turn out to enjoy this punishment? After all, you still smoke to this day, do you not?" "Well put, Sir, and I thank you for your enquiry. In the unhappy event that Percy becomes enamoured of this anal invasion, then I will concede that his mother's influence has far outweighed mine, and I will retain Jody's services in order to keep the boy satiated, and far away from any opportunity of corrupting other youngsters". At this point, hearing that he will spend the foreseeable future raping Percy's pert little bottom, Jody increased his zeal and groaned in climax. Percy's wails subsided to a whimper. "Fifty dollars!" was Mr Chalk's response. "Sixty!" called out Mr Grimes, and the twins alongside him grinned widely. "Eighty!" answered Mr Chalk, who was assisting Percy to clean up his bottom with a large kerchief. Jody had slipped the shoulder strap of the biball back into place, but his half-hard member pushed the garment out in front. "One hundred and twenty!" shouted Dr Cleamens, who was seated in the front row, his nine-year-old son tugging on his coatsleeve excitedly. "Two hundred dollars!" Mr Chalk declared, and the room fell silent. It was clear to all that whatever sum was bid, Mr Chalk had the means, and the determination, to outbid it. Hearing no further bids Mr Symes nodded at the vet, who sat down with his new acquisition Jody, and a sniffling Percy, on either side of him. Mr Symes resumed his feet. "Gentlemen - and boys - we have now reached the third Lot in our auction, and that is...Ashleigh Jackson!" Dr Cleamens leapt to his feet before any other man could do so, and turned to address the gathered men behind him. "My fellow townsfolk", he began. "You all know me. I've tended your wounds and set your broken bones. You also know my personal heartbreak, how my dear young wife just walked out of our home, and away from her loving husband and dear son, and was never heard from again". Hearing this, a few of the men shared knowing glances, but held their tongues. "It seems to have become a kind of rule at this most uncommon auction, that we bidders make some kind of statement of intent, to assure each other that our dealings with these Jackson boys will be honourable. Well, I wish to make a similar assertion. Having followed the bidding thus far, I wish to make it plain that I need a nanny for my son, Isaiah. When his mother deserted us, I lost all faith in the female of the species. I understand that young Ashleigh has learned all of his letters, and is quite an entertainer with his songs and poems. Little Isaiah would doubtless benefit from his company, and it would enable me to make overnight visits to outlying farms that may be in medical need. But before I bid, prudence dictates that I make a medical examination of the boy, to satisfy myself that he is physically well and healthy". Murmurs of assent greeted the doctor's remarks, so he beckoned Ashleigh off the stage with a wave of his hand. "Come here, boy, I won't bite", the medico assured him, but Ashleigh was not concerned about receiving a bite. He had heard rumours from other boys of the true circumstances under which Mrs Cleamens had vacated the scene, and was reluctant to have the man put his hands on him, but a glance at his Paw, still pacing up and down the back of the Hall, convinced him that he should let matters go whither they will, for the good of the family. The doctor pulled Ashleigh's patched shirt out of his britches and felt the boy's ribs with his hands. Not having his medical bag, he rested his head on the boy's chest to listen to his lungs and heartbeat. He ran his hands up the back of the boy's shirt as well, feeling his spine. "Perhaps we should all be permitted to inspect the boy, if we are all permitted to bid", Cyrus Loomis, the land-office agent, suggested gruffly to the Chairman, while watching the doctor's hands roam all over the upper part of Ashleigh's body under his shirt. "Mr Loomis has a fair point, Sam", Mr Symes concurred. "What say you doff that shirt? We've seen the other two boys in their skins anyhow". With a slight smile, Mr Cleamens slipped the rough shirt over the boy's head to reveal his pale flesh, every inch of which he continued to probe and caress. "Britches too", Mr Loomis added, "I bought a breeding bull one time, only to find when I got it home it were a steer". A few men chuckled at this, hiding their mouths when Mr Loomis quickly looked around to see who was laughing at his ill-judgement. "What's a steer, daddy?", the doctor's son whispered to his father, as he had not understood the joke. Young Isaiah Cleamens had always been a town boy. "It's a bull that's had its nuts cut off before he can use them", Dr Cleamens whispered back. "Oooh!" the boy gasped, shivering, and reflexively grabbed at his crotch to protect his own scrotum through his short trousers in sympathy for the poor animal's balls (or perhaps in trepidation for his own). "Can I check to see that the boy still has his nuts, daddy?" "Certainly, son. When I pull Ashleigh's britches down, you may feel the sack between his legs and try to find them". With that remark, the doctor, who had positioned himself behind Ashleigh, pulled the boy's hands upwards and placed them behind his head, giving them a little squeeze to indicate that the boy was to keep them there. Ashleigh's bare, pale underarms and the inner side of his arms were now on display to the assembly, as was his upper torso. All eyes were on him, and he preened like a cat, shyly enjoying the attention. The doctor, too, relished being the star turn for a few moments. He rarely got a chance to show off his medical knowledge in public, so he elected to treat the gathering to a running commentary on his examination. "You can see that the boy's ribs are full-fleshed", he began, running his fingers up the boy's ribcage like an harpist playing her instrument. "His teats are full and plump", he went on, probing the lad's nipples with his fingertips, making Ashleigh shiver. "Both axillae smooth and hairless, and free of lumps", he advised, palpating Ashleigh's armpits as the boy writhed under the doctor's touch. "Navel recessed, no sign of herniation", he continued, probing around Ashleigh's belly button. Loosening the boy's britches by untying the knotted straps at the back, the doctor pushed his hands down below Ashleigh's navel. "Abdomen free of any rigidity, no apparent blockages in the bowel". He slipped the boy's britches off his hips and down his thighs, at which point young Isaiah reached between Ashleigh's legs from behind and grasped his scrotum, squeezing its contents enough to make the boy squirm. "I can feel 'em, daddy!", Isaiah exclaimed. "There's two - one big one and one little one". "Quite right, son", the doctor agreed. "you'll make an excellent doctor one day. Now gentlemen, you can see that the boy's virility is in fine working order", Dr Cleamens expounded to the group, while fondling Ashleigh's phallus into erection. "His manly appendage has no hair at the base, and appears to have a slight curve to the right, and his foreskin retracts easily", the doctor persevered, working Ashleigh's cock up and down smoothly while his son maintained his groping of Ashleigh's balls. "The ridge of the glans is prominent and well-formed", the doctor pointed out, taking Ashleigh's knobhead in between thumb and forefinger. "The eye of the penis shows no blistering or weeping", he exhorted, rubbing a finger around the end of Ashleigh's knob while the naked boy groaned softly. "What about t'other side?", Mr Loomis enquired. "Quite right of you to point that out, Cyrus", Dr Cleamens concurred, and without any warning he spun Ashleigh around so that his back was to the crowd, placed a hand on the naked boy's neck to bend him over, and with one large arm, encircled the boy's waist and hoisted him off the ground. "Take hold of his ankles and pull them apart", he directed Isaiah, who promptly knelt and did as he was told. The doctor continued his examination. "As you can all plainly see, the boy's rump is firm and unblemished", Cleamens extolled, turning Ashleigh's bottom to the left and right so all the men (and boys) could see it. "His anus-" here the doctor spread the boy's cheeks with the thumb and index finger of his free hand, "-is pink, clean and well maintained, showing no fissures or bruising". "Fifty dollars!" called out Mr Loomis, staring fixedly at Ashleigh's upturned bottom. Doctor Cleamens swung the boy around and reset him on his feet, directing his son to help Ashleigh back on with his clothes. "Eighty", he replied. "A hundred", chimed in Josiah Grimes. "Two hundred dollars!" declared Dr Cleamens. A hush fell over the room; two hundred was the price that the oldest boy had brought - would anyone go higher? "Two fifty!" Cyrus Loomis bid, and a few men gasped. How could anyone spend so much on a boy? A fancy woman at the tavern could be had for a whole night for fifty cents, after all. Mr Symes looked expectantly at the group. "If there are no further bids, I decl-" "Three hundred and fifty!" exclaimed the doctor hugging the now dressed Ashleigh around the shoulder in a very proprietorial way, even though the matter was not yet concluded. He hoped to discourage further bids by doing so, and his plan worked. No-one spoke. Mr Symes took the opportunity of a lull in the bids to pre-empt any further speakers and curry favour with the Doctor. "Sold!" he shouted, bringing a scowl to the faces of Grimes and Loomis. The first three of Bill Jackson's sons to be auctioned had now realised a total of six hundred and fifty dollars, still short of his total debt of thirteen hundred and forty dollars, but well on the way. Thus far, the bidders had tended to be Bill's major creditors, so perhaps they simply saw their bids as taking payment in kind. "The fourth Lot to be offered is the youngest Jackson, Willie", Mr Symes proclaimed. Gentlemen in the assembly were beginning to get restive. Three Lots were now settled, only two remained. Many were trying to estimate how much the final Lot, Tracey, the one dressed in his Maw's underclothes, would raise, and thus, how much, if anything, they should bid for young Willie, who many thought was a little touched in the head. Mr Symes tried to talk up the price, as he was also a major creditor. "This lad is barely ten years of age. It will be a further eleven years before he reaches adulthood and can leave the home of whichever fortunate gentleman secures his company for that time. I hope his dear mother's memory will not be sullied by any unrealistically low bids for this fine child, a darling boy, who gave so much delight to his brothers and father. Do I hear a bid?" Both Mr Grimes and Mr Loomis were each wrestling with their own demons. Each of them thought that the price for Tracey might prove to be out of their reach, and they both dearly wanted to leave the Hall with something. "Shall we be shown what we're bidding on?" Mr Loomis called out gruffly. Mr Symes nodded, and stepped away from his lectern to the platform where the last two Jackson boys stood. Without asking the boy, he drew Willie's threadbare shirt over his shoulders and dropped it on the floor. Crouching between the two boys, he grasped the waist of Willie's britches and pulled them to the floor. Willie blushed, but did not resist, as his nakedness was displayed for all to see. Mr Symes gently grasped his shoulders and turned him around on the spot, showing the crowd of men and boys his bare back and bottom, then returned him to a front-facing position. As Willie was bending forward to gather his trousers, a voice called from the back: "Ten dollars!" Folks looked around to see who this new bidder was, but before they could identify him, Mr Loomis retaliated with "Sixty dollars!" Silence greeted this utterance. Some men thought that even sixty was too much. The boy would eat far more than he was worth, after all. Everyone knew how hungry a ten-year-old could be. Mr Symes injected a further note of contention. Despite the fact that he was conducting the auction, he put in a bid. "I could not bear that a child of my dear second cousin would be let go for such a paltry amount. I bid one hundred dollars!" "One twenty!" came the same voice from the back of the room. This time, the man stood forth for all to see - it was Reverend Toomey, the preacher. Men whispered amongst themselves - how could a man of the cloth afford such a sum? The Reverend glared around the room, as if defying anyone to question his right to bid on Willie. None dared, now that they knew who it was. The Reverend was a fiery orator, who did not resile from calling a spade a spade in the pulpit, regardless of whose reputations he besmirched. He strode to the front of the Hall and turned to the assembly. "Brethren!" he declared, "this child of God is destined to become a greater preacher even than I, under my careful tutelage. He will cast down the mighty, and raise the lowly. His rod and staff shall comfort the afflicted. Surely he will bring forth signs and wonders in the desert for all to see!" The crowd of men and boys was not much desirous of signs and wonders - they only hoped that the Reverend would quickly conclude his purchase and be gone. Mr Symes declared the sale concluded, and Willie was led to the back of the Hall by the Reverend, with one hand discreetly placed on the boy's small bottom. "Our final Lot for the day", Mr Symes proclaimed, "is Tracey, second-born of poor Bill's children. Shall I hear an opening bid?" Mr Grimes had seen all four of the previous boys offered and won, and was hopeful of coming away from the auction with something, even if it was Tracey, whom he judged to be slightly effeminate. "Two hundred dollars!" he yelled, hoping to eclipse any other bidders before they began. Mr Loomis had similar thoughts, but did not regard Tracey's ambiguous sexuality to be any kind of deterrent. "Three hundred", he countered. Mr Grimes held his resolve, but only barely. "Three fifty!", he bid. Both of his twin sons gasped to hear such a large sum, and wondered what their Mother would say. Mr Symes watched the two contending bidders intently, hoping to make an estimate of their respective resolves. Unknown to anyone in the Hall, Mr Matthias Symes had engineered the whole concept of the Boy Auction in order to bring about this very moment: the opportunity to take home Tracey Jackson, there to have his perverted way with the boy. Mr Symes' obsession with Tracey began two years earlier, when he visited his late second cousin's family to inquire about the chances of repayment of a seed loan to poor Bill Jackson. It was the first time he had seen Tracey wearing his mother's undergarments, and the sight made Matthias Symes spontaneously pollute the front of his own underwear from excitement. Tracey was only eleven then, but already, to the banker's eyes, he was an angel in human form, an unearthly demon of delight, a cupid of carnality. Over the ensuing twenty four months Matthias devised and discarded a dozen schemes to separate the boy from his family. He was beginning to consider more extreme measures to secure the object of his desires, when the Auction idea surfaced. After all, a bank manager is the most trusted man in the district, and all his dealings must be above reproach - he had to obtain the boy in such a way that no-one in town would think twice about it. His reverie was interrupted by Mr Grimes, who asked why the audience was not seeing all of the boy's charms, as they had with the four previous siblings. Tracey's face showed panic and embarrassment - he had seen what had happened to his brothers, and he dearly wished not to be exposed to this group of leering men and boys. He stumbled over the lectern and whispered a plea for modesty in Mr Symes' ear. The banker addressed the group. "My friends", he began, "it is true that we have not yet seen all of this boy's...features-" "How do we even know he's a boy? Dressed up in women's things like that!" Mr Loomis interrupted. A few other men growled their agreement. They hoped the free show wasn't over yet. Mr Symes held up his hands to appeal for order, then continued. "If that is the concern of you all, then I am sure it can be assuaged. Doc Cleamens, may we avail ourselves of the excellent services of your son Isaiah?" Ashleigh was seated in the doctor's lap having his hair lovingly groomed by the medical man when Mr Symes' request was made. Not wishing to be diverted from his happy task, the doctor agreed absent-mindedly. "By all means, by all means, whatever you want. Go up, Isaiah", he ordered. His son eagerly climbed onto the low platform where a forlorn Tracey stood. Mr Symes had again left his lectern position to stand likewise behind the frightened boy. "Now Isaiah, do you recall the service you did for your father earlier?", the banker asked slowly. "Yes Sir, Mr Symes. I grabbed Ashleigh's balls", the boy replied sweetly. "Precisely. It is clear you are an honest boy. This group of men requires you to perform a similar task now on Tracey here. No need to be rough about it, though. I'll pull down the back of these bloomers..." Mr Symes trembled as he contemplated the prospect of being so close to his long-cherished goal, with all the town's men watching and urging him on. His hand shook a little as he pulled the elastic of the bloomers outwards, and beheld Tracey's transcendent bottom. "You-you reach between his legs and t-tell all these good folk what you feel", he stammered. Isaiah had already performed this task on Ashleigh, so it was without trepidation that he repeated it on Tracey. "I can feel his nuts", he declared loudly, to a few embarrassed giggles from the younger boys in the group, "and his pecker, and some hairs", he added. A few men cleared their throats. "His pecker's soft, but it's startin' to get harder", Isaiah threw in for good measure, as a mild chuckle broke out in sections of the assembly. "Yes, yes, quite, er, thank you Isaiah, your testimony has been most valuable", Mr Symes thanked the boy. "Please release Tracey's, er, person and resume your seat". Isaiah grinned happily and sat down next to his father, who seemed only to have eyes for Ashleigh. "I hope that satisfies everyone here regarding the child's gender", Mr Symes lectured the group. "As he is the last of poor Bill's progeny to be offered here today, I feel it not inappropriate, as a member, though distant, of the boy's family, that I too should put in a modest bid. Six hundred dollars". A gasp swept through the Hall. Six hundred dollars! A house with a stable and sizeable yard could be had for less! Both Mr Loomis' and Mr Grimes' faces fell - they knew their chances were lost. Even if they were to pool their resources, and make a joint bid, the banker would always have more money available to him to outbid them. They slumped in their seats as Mr Symes looked all around the Hall, barely concealing his glee at having won the boy of his dreams. "It appears there are no further bids...." he waited, "so I declare myself the successful bidder and the Auction closed. You can come home with me, Tracey". The boy looked up at his saviour with undisguised joy as men and their sons began scraping their chairs in preparation of departure. "Wait!" called out Mr Loomis in a desperate voice. "Mr Chairman!" The attendees stopped in their tracks to hear whatever Mr Loomis had thought so urgent. "Do you think there will be another Auction...soon?" he asked plaintively. Mr Symes smiled benignly. "Well now, Mr Loomis, it seems to me that this Auction here today raised some thirteen hundred and seventy dollars, enough to repay every cent of poor Bill Jackson's debts, with a little money left over for a stagecoach ticket out of town to wherever he might go. That fact alone paints it as a success in my book, and any man here who has money problems he'd like to solve, why all he has to do is approach me and we can organize another Auction. I see plenty of boys in the audience today - perhaps their fathers might like to ask themselves whether those boys are obedient sons, worth keeping, or...well, I leave it to them to decide. I shall ask the Caretaker of the Hall to reserve it for in our use in - say - one month's time?" Several terrified boys clung to their father's arms as the Hall slowly cleared. The twin sons of Josiah Grimes were among those boys who exhibited a sudden closeness to their father, each one insisting that he would be the one to rub their father's shoulders that evening. The men who were successful in their bidding were especially spritely as they made for the exit. Jonas Chalk could be overheard remarking to Jody Jackson that young Percival might benefit from another lesson that evening, eliciting a groan of dismay from the hapless Percy. Silas Shortpour had wrapped his overcoat around Myron Jackson - he figured that having paid for the boy himself, no other man had the right to a free look at the boy's charms. He whispered something in Myron's ear that made the boy's step quicken a little. Perhaps they were to enjoy a little nightcap together before retiring. The Reverend Toomey had already helped young Willie Jackson up into the seat of his gig, and had picked up the reins and called the horse to move off. Some folks heard the Reverend telling young Willie that the Holy Spirit was surely going to anoint him tonight. Doc Cleamens draped one arm across his son Isaiah's shoulders, the other around Ashleigh Jackson's waist as he ambled unsteadily back to his house, behind his surgery in the Main Street. The good Doctor appeared to be inebriated with happiness, as he declared that tonight he would be performing a most delicate surgery with his own personal pink scalpel, ably assisted by his son. Those that overheard this remark took it to be just the Doctor's sense of humour. After the Caretaker had locked the Hall, Matthias Symes led Tracey Jackson to his own buggy, and helped the boy up into the seat. "Would you like to take the reins, Tracey?", Mr Symes asked smoothly. The boy's face lit up, and he took the leather straps into his hands with glee, giving the horse a little flick to get the beast moving. "Come, sit between my legs, boy; you'll have better control of the horse", the banker purred into the boy's ear. Eager to please, Tracey sat between the man's large thighs and played the reins to urge the horse to a light canter. "What did you think of today's proceedings, Tracey?" Mr Symes enquired of the boy as the horse slowly trotted along. Tracey leaned back into the banker's lap, feeling a firm protuberance between the crack of his buttocks. It reminded him of something he saw earlier, at the Auction. "Jody sure has a big pecker, don't he, Mr Symes?" "Why yes, he does, Tracey, and you may call me Uncle Matthias if you wish. We are family, after all. Is yours going to be as big when you get older, I wonder?", he mused, reaching around to Tracey's crotch and giving his genitals a little squeeze. The boy laughed off being groped. It was different with family. "Oh, Uncle Matthias, I don't think I'll ever get as big as Jody. Something I meant to say, though, thank you for not exposing me in front of all those men, like all my brothers were. I would have just died if everyone saw me...you know..." "You were not concerned when young Isaiah felt your pecker and balls, then?", Mr Symes whispered, taking the opportunity to give Tracey's package another squeeze. This time he left his hand there, holding the boy's treasures through the silky drawers he still wore. "It don't matter when it's another boy, like", Tracey explained. "Or family", Mr Symes concurred. "Turn her in here, Tracey, we're home". The boy pulled on the rein to make the horse turn, then both reins to pull the animal to a halt. Mr Symes helped the boy down out of the seat and led him inside the cool dark building. Down a dim hallway he led the boy, turning in to one of the rooms off to the side. It was the master bedroom. "Let's get out of these dusty clothes, Tracey, and have a rest before dinner", the banker murmured. Tracey stood silently, a little abashed, as Mr Symes removed his suspenders and trousers. The man looked up to see the boy still dressed. "Come now, Tracey, we're family, remember? We may be modest before strangers, but not family". The boy relented, smiled, and untied his Maw's apron, dropping it to the floor. Her drawers and blouse followed the apron, leaving the boy fully naked in Mr Symes' bedroom. "You're right, Uncle. We're family. And I never properly thanked you for bidding so much for me. I'm glad I didn't have to go with that Mr Loomis, ugh!" he shuddered at the thought. Mr Symes held his arms wide for the boy to express his thanks, and Tracey accepted the invitation, allowing himself to be enfolded in his new uncle's arms. The banker could scarcely hold himself back, covering the boy's face with kisses, feeling up and down the length of Tracey's back, buttocks and thighs. Under this barrage of gentle affection, Tracey's body betrayed him. His pecker rose up and poked into his uncle's stomach "Why, what is this, Tracey?", the banker chided, pulling the boy back a little and fondling his stubby erection and balls. "I'm sorry Uncle Matthias. I guess I'm just so happy, every bit of me is glad. Please don't be mad", the boy begged shyly. "Now, why would I be mad?" Mr Symes consoled the lad. "You're just being yourself. Here, feel mine, you'll find it's hard like yours". The boy gingerly reached his hand into his Uncle's crotch and grasped the man's tool. Tracey gasped as he felt the heat, the heaviness of it. "Now let's rest ourselves on this comfy bed, shall we?", Matthias suggested, pulling the boy on top of him as he slowly collapsed backwards onto the double bed. "You've had a big day, Tracey, very tiring, and exciting too", Mr Symes purred as he fondled the boy's turgid tool. "Tell me, if you will, what you found the most exciting part of the proceedings. Was it when young Isaiah grasped your pecker in front of the whole assembly?" Tracey sighed as he languidly squirmed on top of his Uncle, relishing the attention he was receiving. "Well, that was exciting, but it didn't mean much because he's only a little boy", Tracey replied, pushing his hips upwards to force more of his genitals into his Uncle's hand. "Well then, was it when you saw your brother Myron suck on Mr Shortpour's pecker?", Mr Symes persisted. Tracey blushed when he was reminded of the incident at the beginning of the Auction. From his vantage point at the front of the Hall he was able to see the whole thing. "I'm embarrassed to say it, Uncle", he whispered. "I understand, Tracey, you're a very sensitive boy. Lay down next to me, and I'll ask you a few questions about it - you only have to say yes or no, is that alright?" The boy rolled off his Uncle and assumed a position alongside him, nodding his agreement that this would be preferable. "Now, do you think it would feel nice to have your pecker sucked like Mr Shortpour?", Mr Symes began. The boy nodded, smiling shyly. "Have you ever felt that before, having your pecker sucked?", he continued. Tracey shook his head and whispered "No, Uncle, never". "Well then, let me give you a small demonstration", Mr Symes gleefully replied, bending down to engulf the boy's weapon in his eager mouth. "Oh! Oh, Uncle! It feels...oh!", the boy was almost lost for words as Matthias Symes enacted one of his dreams, that of sucking on Tracey's sweet prick. But he did not want the afternoon to degenerate into animal passion just yet - he wanted to deprave the boy's mind a little more first. Releasing the boy's tool from his oral grasp, Mr Symes lay back down next to the boy. "Was that as enjoyable as you suspected it would be, Tracey?" he whispered. "Yes, Uncle, it was...mmm...I can't..." the boy struggled with his words again. "That's alright, my dear boy. Now, have you ever been on the other side of the matter - have you ever sucked a pecker yourself ?", Mr Symes asked, having resumed playing with Tracey's dick. "No, Uncle, I never have. Myron looked like he enjoyed it, though", he replied, beginning to grow in confidence. "Well, if you wish, you may exercise your desire upon me, I won't mind", the banker slyly suggested. "Oh! Well, um, Uncle, are you...sure?", he answered timidly. "Of course, my boy. We're family, after all, and family help one another out. I'm sure you know that". Without replying, since the truth of his Uncle's words was obvious, Tracey gave a shy smile and bent downwards to inspect his new benefactor's member. Seeing nothing too frightening, and remembering that his younger brother Myron had already performed this action in public, he carefully opened his mouth and settled his lips on Mr Symes' knobhead. The man gave a deep sigh, and ruffled the boy's hair, so Tracey continued. He swallowed as much as he could, recalling how his Uncle had done it to him, bobbing his head up and down to the accompaniment of his Uncle's moans. Mr Symes did not want to bring his seduction of the boy to a premature close by ejaculating into Tracey's virginal mouth, so he eased the lad's head off his cock and pulled him back alongside himself on the bed. "Was that exciting for you, Tracey?", Mr Symes whispered. "It was...different, Uncle...pretty exciting, I guess", he added shyly. Matthias Symes stroked the boy's chest, calming him. "It was exciting for me too, Tracey, thank you. Now, do you remember when Jody was being auctioned?" "Yes, Uncle", came the timid reply. "And the veterinarian, Mr Chalk, brought his son Percival to the front?", he persisted. "Yes Uncle", Tracey's voice replied, softer still. "And Jody pulled Percy's britches down at the back?" "Yes Uncle", Tracey answered, his voice so soft as to be almost inaudible. He could remember the incident very well - it was burned into his memory like a brand. "And Jody...put his pecker at Percy's bottom hole...and pushed - did you...wish you were Percy?" Tracey blushed even more than he had earlier, and he thought his tiny voice would be drowned out by the beating of his heart. "Yes, Uncle", he whispered. Mr Symes leaned over and gave Tracey a cuddle and a peck on the lips. "There, now, Tracey, that wasn't so difficult was it? After all, you and I are family - we can tell each other anything". Tracey felt a great weight lift from his heart - all of his fears, his reservations, his doubts, fell away when he admitted what he truly felt while watching young Percival Chalk being enthusiastically sodomised by his older brother Jody. "I've been silly, Uncle. I guess I've always wanted Jody to...you know...do it to me. I suppose now he'll be too busy with Percival". "Perhaps he will, Tracey. But we still have each other, don't we?", the banker implored. Seeking to change the subject, Tracey twirled a lock of his hair and sighed. "Do you think I should cut my hair, Uncle? Most of the boys there today had shorter hair than mine". Still rubbing Tracey's tool slowly, Matthias gently chided the boy. "No, no, I don't think so, Tracey. It looks right nice like it is. You might even grow it longer if you want. It gets too long, you can put it in ponytails". Tracey scrunched his nose at the thought of making his hair up like a girl's, and then was reminded of the other matter that troubled him. "Uncle Matthias, do you got any old clothes you've growed out of? Boy clothes, like? Mayhap I could wear 'em, if you do". Symes tut-tutted again. "You don't need to worry about wearing boy clothes, Tracey. You looked right nice in your Maw's bloomers and such. I have some nice dresses for you to wear, if you want". Tracey was taken aback at first, then thoughtful. "You...you don't mind? Truly?" he ventured. "Not if you don't. I think you would like right fine in a dress, Tracey, and that long hair would sure look pretty under a bonnet. It would mean a lot to me, it surely would", Symes declared. "Oh, Uncle, I...thank you! I guess I didn't want you to think wrong of me, but...I surely did like Maw's clothes. They felt right nice." Symes picked up the pace on Tracey's pecker, making the boy's breathing shorter. "Oh! Oh, Uncle Matthias, I...I feel the sap risin' in me!" he yelped. Symes saw the boy's balls clench upwards in his scrotum, and bent his head down to engulf the tool he was stroking. "Oh! Uncle Matthias! Oh! You truly do...love me!", Tracey shouted as he ejaculated into the banker's mouth. It could not be denied. Matthias Symes had wanted to do that for so long, he realised that he was prepared to wait a few more days, or even weeks, to have his own lusts sated. A growing awareness of affection for Tracey blossomed within him. "I tell you, Tracey, I wanted so bad to do to you what your brother done to Jonas Chalk's boy...but I can wait. Until you're ready", Symes added, making Tracey smile. Tracey was not the only boy to smile that day, nor in the ensuing days. Willie Jackson found a gentle side to the stern Reverend Toomey that no-one else ever saw, but that he treasured. Percival Chalk lived up to his daddy's worst fears, quickly becoming besotted with Jody's vigourous violation of his bottom. Rather than shrink away from his daily lesson, young Percy was soon dragging Jody to the bedroom, interrupted only by Mrs Chalk, who had been mending some of her husband's old clothes to fit Jody. She had glimpsed the stallion-like member between Jody's legs with ill-disguised envy of her son, and plotted ways to separate the two for her own benefit. Ashleigh Jackson spent most of his daylight hours playing "doctor" with young Isaiah Cleamens, and his nights playing the same game with Doctor Cleamens, who, it must be said, played by a set of rules that left a beatific smile on Ashleigh's face each morning. Myron Jackson soon became an adept hand at the bartending game, except that the tavern's customers noticed a marked increase in the number of times their bartender had to absent himself to tend to the barrels in the cellar. After his return from these errands, however, he had a lingering smile that took hours to leave his face. Myron took his cellar duties very seriously indeed. As for poor Bill Jackson, he took the first available stage out of town. He had the good sense to refrain from contacting any of his sons again. Mr Loomis is still waiting for the next Auction, in case you were wondering. Mayhap you'll be making a bid? end parrafan@ureach.com