*And the place has not done at all well,* he thought, peering through his car window. Well, what had he expected? The city had grown up around these few blocks, and no one had bothered to renovate or 'gentrify' anything here.

The street was all small businesses on either side, with seedy houses and ramshackled apartments butted up close behind. Even though there were none of the tall buildings that there were in the nearby downtown area, it still managed to have a cramped atmosphere. Somehow it hadn't been like that when Shelby was younger.

Once again Shelby checked to make sure all his doors were locked. This wasn't the sort of area, now, where it was wise to let caution slip. So different. His parents had still been leaving their doors unlocked in the evening back when he'd left home.

He frowned, remembering the sting of his knees on the cement sidewalk after his father threw him to the pavement, his clothes landing around him in a shower. Really, it was too much. They hadn't even given him a chance to explain about that trivial incident with his little brother. Shelby sighed. He'd known that he was taking a chance, but he had been so sure that Matthew wouldn't say anything, and the boy had just been so cute.

He shook his head. No point in dwelling on it. He hadn't seen anyone in his family for more than thirty years now. Mom and Dad were dead, and he had no idea where Matt might be. All gone, and he didn't regret any of it. If they were too fucking Puritanical to accept his needs, then screw them. But it was a little sad how the neighborhood had gone down.

The area had that odd feeling that most unsavory urban areas had. There was never anyone in evidence, but you always had the sense of a lot of activity going on just out of sight. Lots of the buildings were dark, but some of them were still open for business. There was the ubiquitous convenience store, selling Slurpees and junk food to the night creatures, and a package store was still open, ready to dispense booze or cash checks. Neither had been there originally. Shelby was beginning to think that the reason for his pilgrimage would be gone, or changed beyond recognition, also.

He was getting close to the location, and he still hadn't spotted a place to park. The curbs were filled solid on both sides, mostly with motorcycles or pickups. Then he spotted it, just ahead and to his right, and felt a wash of joy. It had changed, but it was still obviously in the business that had endeared it to him in his youth. It had just... progressed.

It had been Minetti's Newsstand. Now it was The Hotte Shoppe. He liked that, he really did. The snobbish spelling used by a common porn shop tickled him. There was no mistaking what it was. The windows had been boarded over completely, and the facing was painted screaming red. Blocky letters in bright yellow proclaimed it's name and 'ADULT BOOKSHOP NOVELTIES VIDEO ARCADE WHAT YOU WANT IS WHAT WE GOT'.

Oh, excellent! Before Minetti had been limited to the usual 'physique' magazines and lurid paperbacks that would be considered very soft core today. But he kept his 'special stock' behind the counter, for those who were really interested. Shelby sighed. Bless old Minetti. He had allowed Shelby into the shop when he was still far too young, and had volunteered the more explicit material. *And he didn't even charge me, once we made our... arrangement.* A smile. *He did pretty good for an old man.*

Shelby was idling in front of the shop, and a horn tooted behind him. Damn it, still no parking space, and no one in sight that might be ready to vacate one. He scowled in the rearview mirror at the little Volkswagen Beetle behind him, them moved on slowly, craning his neck to look for an opening.

He finally found one almost two blocks down, at the end of the long ling of parked cars on the right hand side of the street. He pulled in, and the little Bug sped past him, turning the next corner. Shelby cut his engine and spent a moment looking up and down the block. There was no one in sight. He really didn't like the idea of having to walk back up to the store, but there didn't seem to be any alternative if he wanted to go. And he wanted to go.

He got out and re-locked his door, carefully setting the car alarm. He paused, glancing around, wishing that he'd dressed more carefully. He was going to stand out like a sore thumb in this neighborhood in his neat, dark suit.

Shelby knew how he would appear to anyone from this area. He was in his mid-fifties, portly and grey haired with a dew-lapped, cheerfully ruddy face. He looked like a stereotypical 'jolly uncle'. Usually he was pleased by this: it was surprising how easily he could get the young ones to let down their guards, and how trusting the parents were. But here his soft, harmless appearance would label him as a victim or a mark, nothing more.

Shelby got up on the sidewalk and started up the street, trying to move with brisk self-confidence--he wasn't entirely successful: he looked like he was scurrying instead. But that was only in the dark stretches between the pools of light beneath the too-sparse street lamps. In it's own way his pace's speeding and slowing was almost like a stuttering heartbeat. When he was in the sheltering glow his steps slowed, only to speed up again once he reached the outer rim and once again entered the darkness. Then he would hurry again till he reached the next wash of light. *Everything speeds up in the dark stretches,* Shelby thought. *Pulse, breathing, steps. Everything except the actual amount of time it takes to cross the damn things.*

When he was two-thirds of the way to his destination an alleyway loomed on his left side, just opposite one of the lighted patches. Now he was torn between lingering in the relative safety of the glow and hurrying past the yawning gap. God only knew who or what could be lurking there. As he drew even with it, he glanced over.

There was, indeed, someone there. A man was leaning against one grimy wall, and Shelby felt his gut tighten, but only briefly. He was dirty, seedy, and shabby, but he didn't really look dangerous. He was small and looked thin despite the layers of ragged clothes he was wrapped in. Most of his face was hidden by a tangled, grizzled salt-and-pepper beard. The eyes that peered out were tiny and red-rimmed. He looked at Shelby and silently lifted a brown-paper wrapped bottle in salute before tipping it to his lips. Shelby looked away in quick disgust and hurried on.

He finally reached The Hot Shoppe, and he relaxed in the yellowish glow of its lights. He hadn't been here for years, but it would still be familiar territory. There were, after all, only surface differences in such places.

A bell over the door tinkled as he slipped in. He liked that. He didn't care for the obnoxious electronic buzz or synthesizer bongs that most places used these days. Shelby paused just inside the door and looked around.

It was one large, square room. A long glass topped and fronted cabinet ran the length of one wall on his left, and the rest of the room stretched before him and to his right. The middle part of the room was filled with racks of new and used paperbacks, stretching the breadth of the room, and beyond them the magazines stretched down the right wall. in the far right corner there was a narrow dark corridor marked by a sign that said VIDEOS.

It was quiet. The only occupants in evidence were two men browsing the books and a very fat man with a Fu Manchu moustache behind the counter. The clerk was eyeing him, his finger marking his place in a paperback copy of 'Orlando'. "Help you, man?"

Shelby walked over the register, scanning the 'novelties and marital aids' on display under the glass. Then he tapped the small sign on the register. It said 'LOOKING--1 HR./$1' "I can remember when that used to be one dollar for unlimited time."

The man was unimpressed. "Inflation. Times change. What can I say? It's a business, not a public liberry. Anyways, we refund it when you make a purchase. You wanna look?"

"Yes." Shelby extracted a single from his wallet and handed it over. As it was rung up he commented. "There aren't many customers, considering the number of cars out there. I had to park almost two blocks down. I thought I'd be mugged at any moment."

"Parking is tight 'cause it's payday. Mosta the regulars are over at the titty bar, tuckin' singles in the girls' g-strings or between their boobs. They'll be in later on."

Shelby made a condescending face. "Ah. The weekly blue-collar bacchanal."

"Whatever. You want the receipt?"

Shelby stared at him. "Why on earth would I want the receipt?"

The man shrugged. "Tax purposes?"

"No, thank you." He pushed another two bills across the counter. "Let me have thirty of quarters, too."

"Sure. Paper, or in a cup?"

"Cup." While the clerk opened tubes of quarters into a large plastic cup Shelby perused a rack of previously viewed videos. The one called 'Stud Muffins' looked promising, and he marked it for later consideration.

"Here ya go."

Shelby took the heavy cup and turned away without further comment. He heard the clerk behind him mutter acidly, "You're welcome," as he made his way to the edge of the book section. The two customers were in separate aisles, and there were several clear aisles leading to the other side of the room. After a moment's thought Shelby started down the aisle that held the youngest man.

He was flipping through a cheap paperback that had a crude drawing of a leather-clad man on the front cover. Not looking up as Shelby approached, he edges closer to the rack in front of him, clearing enough space for Shelby to pass behind him. Shelby moved behind him, then stopped, ostensibly studying the books on the other side. He fingered a few, moving back a little so that his hip brushed the other man's buttocks. The reader paused in flipping pages, eyes flickering over Shelby, then resumed reading, sidling away a few steps. Shelby had been refused.

*Oh, well. Can't expect to get lucky on the first try, and there'll be a bigger choice later on.* Shelby made his way back to the magazines and began to cruise down the stand, starting at the end closest to the front.

It was arranged with the milder men's magazines near the front, starting with such respectable publications as Maxim, Playboy, and Penthouse. Then it moved up into the raunchier publications like Hustler. Next came the 'speciality' magazines, like Legs and Big Tits Bonanza. It moved on into the increasingly fringe with such themes as teens, orgies, BD/SM, transvestism, gender switching, hermaphrodites. The 'Men Only' section was back near the video hallway, and this was where Shelby was bound.

All of the magazines were behind modesty screens, meaning that the racks were high enough to show only their titles and a scant inch of cover. He picked up one called 'Bad Schoolboys' and rifled the pages. It fell open to a picture that showed a young man in a rugby uniform, shorts and underwear pulled down around his knees, bent over a desk. A stern looking man in the robes of a British headmaster was just getting ready to swing a cricket bat at his upturned rump.

Shelby looked at the picture, frowning, then checked out a few more. He lifted another couple of magazines, studying the covers. Prominently displayed on each one was the legend 'ALL MODELS ARE 18 OR OLDER'. "What the hell is the point?" Shelby muttered to himself. He took Bad Schoolboys and made his way toward the counter.

As he was approaching, the bell over the door jingled again. Shelby paused at the sight of the new arrival. *Well, this is more like it.* It was a young man, a very young man. He hesitated just inside the door, looking around. He wore the heavy, old-fashioned, black rimmed glasses that Shelby, and probably everyone else in the world, automatically associated with Clark Kent. These days it meant you were too poor to afford designer frames.

The clothing was either grunge chic or, once again, the result of a tight budget. He wore black denim overalls over a long sleeved plaid flannel shirt, and heavy steel toed engineer boots. A Knit watch cap was pulled so low on his forehead that it even concealed his eyebrows. Between the cap and the glasses there wasn't a hell of a lot of his face on display, but what showed was clear skinned, with almost fine features.

He stood with his hands stuffed in his pockets, rocking on his heels as he looked around. The clerk was eyeing him as closely as Shelby, but for a much different reason. "Help you, sonny? Lookin' for yer mama?"

The boy frowned, and Shelby almost got hard, looking at that pink, pouting mouth. "My mama wouldn't be in anything you got to sell here." The voice was soft, tenor, not quite dropped into the adult register. He sauntered toward the clerk, moving with the elaborate casualness of the very young and very nervous. Pulling a crumpled single out of his pocket, he pushed it at the clerk.

The fat man eyed the bill, then looked back at the boy. "Got some ID?" Silently the boy pulled another one from his pocket and placed it beside the first. The clerk said calmly. "Nah, you don't look like George Washington to me. You look more like Abraham Lincoln." Still silently the boy placed a five with the rest of the money. The clerk scooped it up. "That's you, all right. Didn't recognize ya without yer beard. One hour, no more."

He opened the cash register, but Shelby noticed that only the one single made it into the till. The boy slouched by Shelby, headed into the main part of the store. As he passed, his eyes flicked to the older man's face, then away quickly. Shelby looked after him, and was delighted to see him move directly to the male section of the magazines.

"You wanna buy that, Mac?"

Shelby turned his attention back to the clerk. "Definitely not. Have you looked at this?"

The clerk shook his head. "A, I can't personally review everything we sell. B, that ain't my kink of choice."

"Well, if these a schoolboys, they must REALLY be bad. I don't think there's one in here that's under twenty-two or three."

The clerk shrugged. "So? Same way with the damn shows on tee-vee. Oldest fucking teenagers in the world. Anyways," he squinted at Shelby. "law says they gotta be at least eighteen, an' mosta the mags prefer twenty-one, justa be safe."

"Don't you have any where the models are... well, fresher? Maybe some private stock, behind the counter?"

The clerk's expression closed up. He said coldly, "No. What you see out on the racks is what we got. We don't carry fresh," he gave the word an acid twist, "stuff. You don't like it, try the net. I hear you can get anything there." He went back to his book.

"Well, really," Shelby huffed. "Customer service is dead." But he was too hopeful right now to be terribly irritated. There was something very, very interesting on the other side of the room. As he walked back to where the boy was lifting one magazine at a time to check out the covers he thought, *What do I need with these fake schoolboys when there's a real one right here?*

He moved down the wall slowly, pretending to check out the magazines as he went. The boy shifted from foot to foot as he came closer, but kept his eyes resolutely on the magazines. His hand hovered, then he picked up one called 'Daddies'. Shelby's hopes soared. He put the rejected magazine on the shelf and picked up one called Baby Boy. The cover model was, again, much too old, but Shelby wasn't really interested in him. He just wanted to show the kid where his interests lay.

It worked. The blue eyes darted to the magazine, zipped to Shelby's face, then dropped again. Eye contact twice. Time to move in.

Shelby put the magazine away, hesitated in an exaggerated manner, then said, "Excuse me?" No response except for a brief flicker of eyes. "I know this is going to sound awful cliched, but do I know you?" The moment he said it Shelby realized that the boy DID look vaguely familiar, though he had no idea where he might have met or seen him.

"Guess not, if you have to ask." The words were terse, but he didn't turn or move away, as most men who did to ward off unwanted attention.

"It's just that you look so familiar. If we haven't met, I must have seen you somewhere before."

A small shrug. "Anything is possible."

*Oh, you like to play tough, don't you?* "Perhaps in commercials? Print ads?" There was a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of that generous mouth. *Got you. That's the way in.* "I know! It was that last Calvin Klein ad, the one in the garden? You took your shirt off."

A head shake. "Wasn't me, man."

"I could have sworn. You mean you aren't in the profession?"

"What profession?"

"Modeling, acting."

A rough chuckle. "Me?"

"Why not? You've got the looks, the charisma..." Now he really looked at Shelby, and French got the full effect of those eyes. Then the door bell tinkled again, and the eyes jerked toward the front. Annoyed, Shelby looked also.

A very drunk black hooker in a very short red skirt was weaving her way to the counter. "Hey, baby."

The clerk was already shaking his head. "No. No way, Mavis. You nearly got our license jerked last time, soliciting in here."

"Aw, c'mon, Gravis. I learned how to behave." Mavis cooed. "I jus' wanna stay in a little. I been out there for four hours with th' wind blowin' up my skirt, freezin' my twat off. Jus' lemme stay long enough to thaw the meat out." She waggled a ten dollar bill at him enticingly.. "C'mon, sugar."

Gravis snatched the bill, then shook it at Mavis. "No trouble, you hear? I'll tell T-Beau, and he'll hang your ass out to dry. You hear?"

Mavis had already started back into the store, and she waved back at him negligently. "My hearin' is fine, Boo."

Shelby tried to recapture the boy's attention again. "If you don't model, you should. I could help you."

That got his attention. "Yeah?"

*Bless them, they all want to be stars.* "Certainly. I put out several publications myself, and you'd be absolutely perfect for photo spreads. Let me give you my card." He drew a business card from his jacket pocket and offered it to the boy, who took it. "I might even be able to get you a few roles in low-budget films. They're always looking for fresh young faces." *...and bodies. They get used up so fast.* "Just give me a call, or come by, and I'll set things in motion for you." "I might just do that." He slipped the card into his pocket and smiled. "Wouldn't that get my old man's jockeys in a twist?"

*Alienated parents. Home run.*

The hooker had sidled up to one of the two men who were browsing the paperbacks. She elbowed him and whispered loudly, "Wanna date?" The man moved away quickly, and Mavis shrugged. She was apparently a philosophic whore. She moved on to the next man. "Wanna date?"

He wrinkled his nose. "Now I know where they get the term bathtub gin. You smell like you bathed in it." He walked away.

"Yeah? Well, you ain't no Pacco Rabbani Stetson English Leather yourself, motherfucker." Mavis strolled toward them, and Shelby turned his shoulder to her, but that didn't stop Mavis. "Wanna date?"

"No," Shelby put as much ice as he could into the single syllable.

Mavis looked at the boy. "How 'bout you?"

Shelby saw a pink flush start in the boy's cheeks. "No, thank you, ma'am."

Mavis did a double-take. "Ma'am? No thank you? What the hell is this shit?" The flush deepened as she peered closer at the boy. A slow smile spread over her face, revealing a gold capped tooth. "Well, eat my pussy and call me lunch! Look at you!" Her voice took on the syrupy false tones of an adult talking to a slow toddler. "You here to spend your allowance?"

"Don't bother the young man," Shelby snapped. *Damn her! If she scares him into bolting I'll rip that weave right out of her hair.*

Mavis snorted. "Young man? Huh. Maybe in a few more years. She reached out and skimmed her fingers over the boy's jaw, causing him to jerk back. "He got skin smoother than mine. You ever been with a real woman, little boy?"

His spine stiffened, and his head went up proudly. "Sure I have."

"Hah." Mavis waved a finger at him. "I bet you ain't done nothin' but played stink finger with some candy-ass white bitch that'd die of fright if she ever saw a real dick." As she said the last two words she made a swift grab for his crotch, but the boy moved quickly, frantically blocking her with the magazine he still held.

"Stop it, you diseased slut," Shelby hissed. "You're frightening him."

"You scared of Mavis, little man?" She laughed. "Oh, hell, you don't gotta be! I like little white boys. I'll give you a special price--twenty."

"I... no, I don't have that much."

*Dear God, the child is trying to be polite to the cunt,* Shelby thought. "Get out of here."

"You mind your own business, Papa Bear. Come on, sugar, ten dollars."

There was an edge of desperation in the soft voice as Mavis crowded him back toward the rack. "No, really, I'm broke, I swear."

"Yeah? Too bad." She studied him some more, sucking on her teeth, then said, "What the hell. You a sweet lil' mouthful of white meat. No charge, how about that? I ain't give it away since I lost my cherry."

"Lady, please!" His eyes were darting frantically. He was getting ready to run.

"Woman!" Shelby's voice was a growl, at odds with his normally jolly appearance.

"Shit, you so pretty I'll pay you! How 'bout that, Lillywhite? Ain't many men can sell dick to a woman."

"CLERK!" Shelby shouted.

"God damn it, Mavis!" yelled the clerk. "Out!"

Mavis reared back, regarding him indignantly. "I paid for my time."

"So you did." The clerk stabbed at the register, snatched out a single, and slapped it on the counter. "Here! Take it. Take it and take your ass back out on the streets."

She put a hand on her hip and said haughtily, "That do not resemble the bill I gave you, asshole."

"Fine!" Gravis dug the ten out of his pocket and threw it on the floor. "There. Full refund. Now out!"

Mavis looked at Shelby and whispered, "You think you foolin' anyone? You want that lil' dumplin' for yourself." She reached out quickly and pinched the boy's cheek before he could pull back. "Sonny boy, you get you some pussy real quick, you hear? Otherwise you gonna end up like this old chicken hawk here, cruising the stroke book rooms for fresh meat."

Gravis picked up a phone and started dialing in an exaggerated manner. Mavis scowled, strolling up to the front with drunken dignity. "I been thrown outta better places than this." She wasn't too drunk to stoop and quickly scoop up the ten on her way out.

Gravis stared after her. "Shit. I shoulda known." He looked back at the two men by the magazines and called, "Don't report it, okay? I got rid of her."

Shelby looked at the boy. "Are you all right? She didn't hurt you, did she?"

"No, she just..." His face screwed up like a child's. "She smelled."

"Yes, a particularly noxious example of the type. Perhaps you should sit down for a while." He indicated the arcade hall. "There are benches in the booths."

The boy glanced toward the front. "I don't think they want you back there unless you're going to put money in the machines. I was telling her the truth--I'm broke."

"If you don't mind being crowded, you can watch one with me." He rattled the cup of quarters. "I have plenty."

He was a half head shorter than Shelby. Putting the magazine back on the rack, he looked up at him shyly, peeking over his glasses. "I don't mind."

Shelby's heart started to thud in anticipation. "Excellent." Shelby put a hand on the boy's arm, and he didn't flinch away. "My name is Carson. What's yours?"

There was a moment's hesitation. He was probably trying to come up with a good pseudonym, Shelby thought. "Paul."

Again there was a brief mental frisson, a sense of deja vu. "Are you sure I don't know you?"

"No," the voice was quiet and sure. "You don't know me at all. Yet." Unable to contain a shiver of anticipation, Shelby slipped an arm around Paul's shoulder and guided him back into the dim hallway.

The clerk watched them disappear, shaking his head. Mavis was a stupid slut, but she wasn't ignorant. She'd read those two perfectly. The old dude was a looking for young stuff, and the kid was... well, a kid. He looked as soft as a twelve-year-old virgin. He sighed, going back to his book. If the kid was going to go gay, he'd have to learn sometime.

Sure, he knew what went on in the curtained off booths. Hell, he had to mop the floors, didn't he? He only hoped that they didn't get TOO active. Last summer they had found guy who turned out to be a loan officer with his butt in the air and his pants around his knees, dead of a heart attack. They had a hell of a time getting his fly zipped before the ambulance arrived.

None of the booths were occupied, and Shelby led the boy to one near the end. The stench of ammonia was almost enough to make your eyes water, but he supposed it was preferable to the smells of sour sweat and stale spunk there would have been otherwise. He swept aside the curtain for the boy.

Paul hesitated, looking into the tiny cubicle. There was a video monitor set flush with the wall on one side, with a coin slot beside it and a shelf where the customers could pile their change. Opposite it was a narrow bench that could fit two average sized people, if they squeezed. He gave Shelby another searching look, then slipped in to sit beside the wall.

*Yes.* Shelby entered and sat, letting the floor length velvet curtain drop behind him. He set his cup of quarters on the shelf and tapped the laminated card taped to the wall above the monitor. "Here's the list of available shows. Hm, no live feeds. Some of the better establishments have live shows where you can make requests of the performers."

The boy's eyes got round. Shelby continued casually, pretending to read the card. "You know, you can say 'Suck his cock', and he blows another performer. Or 'Fuck yourself' and he'll put a finger up his ass. Since you're my guest, you can choose the first show. What would you like?"

Paul rubbed his mouth. "What movies do they have?"

Shelby read the card. "Channel two, Bertha Bigtits, self explanatory. Three, Ebony and Ivory. Interracial love. Four, Threesome and Moresome. Two guys, three chicks. Five, Hard Training. Locker room action. Six..."

Paul touched his arm. "Five, please."

"Sounds like a good choice." There was barely enough light for Shelby to grope a quarter out of the cup. He found the coin slot easily enough, since it was lighted. He dropped the coin into the slot, and the screen fuzzed to life, bathing the tiny booth in a flickering glow. The image on the screen showed a woman with breasts the size of small watermelons riding a man who was splayed naked beneath her. The camera focused on her heaving breasts. They didn't jiggle, like one would expect them to. Instead they bounced up and down in a solid mass, a testament to the miracle of modern cosmetic surgery. Shelby shook his head. "If those bounce any higher, you'll see the scars under them where they shoved the saline bags in."

He turned the dial past a black man and white woman having vigorous sex and a scene consisting of such a jumble of arms, legs, and torsos it was impossible to tell how many people were involved. The next channel was black for a second, then an empty locker room set appeared. "Oh, good. We've caught the beginning."

A blonde boy, legal, but only just, entered the scene. He was dressed only in a pair of tiny running shorts, and he quickly got rid of them. His torso was sheened with sweat, and he grabbed a towel off a stack and began rubbing down his body.

Another man, older but still in excellent condition, entered. The producers didn't give their audience much credit for being able to infer things. Not only was the man wearing a whistle around his neck and carrying a clipboard, his T-shirt said COACH in letters half a foot high. There was some nonsense dialogue about a track meet, giving the camera an excuse to pull in tight on the coach watching the kid's ass as he bent over get his shorts off the floor.

The coach turned away, and the boy popped him on the ass with the towel. Shelby looked over at Paul. The boy was looking at the screen. At least Shelby ASSUMED he was. It was hard to tell--the glasses reflected the screen. Shelby could actually see the action on his lenses. The two men had started wrestling.

Shelby casually moved his knee over to nudge Paul's. There was no reaction, but the booth suddenly went dark. "Son of a bitch! I can't believe how outrageous these prices are!" Shelby managed to fumble another quarter into the slot, though he was near blinded by the sudden plunge into blackness.

The screen flickered to life just as the student pulled up the coach's shirt and grabbed at his pectorals. The coach froze, and the boy pinched his nipples, rubbing his thumbs over them. The older man responded by grabbing his head and kissing him hard, with tongue. Paul, eyes still turned toward the screen, slipped his left arm around Shelby's back, leaning against his side, and Shelby felt his cock stiffen in anticipation.

The student removed his jockstrap and pulled it over the coach's face, laughing. Coach took a deep sniff and a lick before pulling it off and pushing the athlete down on a bench.

Shelby leaned toward Paul, wanting to taste that sweet pink mouth, but the boy pulled back. "No." His voice was a whisper. Shelby felt only a momentary disappointment, because Paul reached into his lap, finding his fly. "This."

*All right. Some of them tell their selves they're not gay if they don't kiss. Whatever you want to believe, kid. Just don't stop.* On screen the coach was having oral sex with the student, devouring him hungrily. Shelby felt soft, warm fingers against his heated flesh, and his cock was gently worked free of his pants. The boy began to stroke him firmly.

*Well, maybe he's not as much of a novice as I thought.* French enjoyed the ministrations for a minute or two, watching as the couple on screen moved so that the older man could anally penetrate the boy.

He felt a feather light touch on his cheek as Paul's left hand fluttered up to stroke his cheek. He turned his head to kiss the soft, groping fingers. "Such a sweet child," he murmured. The wonderful, wonderful pumping stopped. "Why have you stopped, sweet heart?" The boy was rummaging in his pocket. *What's he reaching for? A condom? Lube?* Shelby said teasingly, "Do you have something else in mind?"

For the first time since he'd met him, Paul smiled, and Shelby felt his gut clench. That was most definitely not a child's smile. There was a snapping sound, and he saw a flash of light in Paul's right hand as the boy clamped his left over Shelby's mouth, hissing, "Yes!" The hand flashed toward Shelby's crotch just as the coach reached screaming orgasm, and the booth was once again plunged into darkness.

Up at the front counter Gravis heard a muffled cry, followed by several soft thumps. He shook his head, going back to his book.

In the booth, Shelby struggled. The great, white hot pain that had exploded in his groin had sent him into mild shock almost immediately. He felt his lap filling with warm liquid, over flowing down his legs as Paul punched *stabbed* him over and over. He tried to scream again, but his left arm was trapped against his body, his right hand was getting sliced as he tried to stop the large knife that his intended lover was plunging into him repeatedly, and he just couldn't pry loose the small, implacable hand that stopped his cries.

It didn't take long for his struggles to weaken, then stop entirely. Still Paul held on, giving another few vicious stabs. When there was no further reaction he cautiously removed his hand, leaning close to peer at Shelby. His eyes were open, staring, and already beginning to dull. Paul held a hand cupped before Shelby's face. When he felt no puff of breath, he tugged a handkerchief from the older man's jacket pocket and used it to wipe his knife clean. He tried wiping his hand, but the blood smeared instead of wiping off.

Swearing quietly he folded the knife closed, tucking it in his pocket. Then he used the handkerchief to wipe a few spots of blood off his boots before he shoved it contemptuously back where he'd gotten it. He thought for a moment of spitting on the corpse, then thought of DNA mapping, and reconsidered.

He listened for a moment, then carefully stepped over Shelby, lifting the curtain to move out into the hallway. It was deserted. Paul made sure the curtain was shut, then stuffed his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders, and walked out into the brightly lit interior of the store.

Business had picked up while he was back in the booth. A tall, athletic man in a running suit edged past him into he hall, muttering a disinterested apology. Paul moved toward the front, trying to strike a balance between nonchalance and speed. The half dozen other customers didn't seem to notice him as he slouched past.

The clerk was ringing up a customer as Paul headed for the exit. "Lessee, you got the Love Gel, that's another five-fifty..."

There was a wild yell from the back hallway. Everyone in the store looked back toward its source. The bell rang, and Gravis looked back to see the door hissing slowly closed on its pneumatic brace.