Littlest Lifeguard

The Littlest Lifeguard -- Part 8 By Ocean Lover Guy

It was late in the day and the kid, Preston, was asleep again. The bounty hunter standing at the foot of his make-shift bed looked the kid over. He was too thin, of course, but handsome in a generic way. He slept like a little innocent, but if the reports were to be believed, this was one foul person.

The bounty hunter's instructions were fairly clear. He was to deliver the young man to a certain individual, a Mr. Featherstone, in good and healthy condition. Mr. Featherstone was responsible for undertaking the young man's resuscitation as a member of humanity.

The bounty hunter had only heard of Mr. Featherstone before and had never learned the man's first name. His methods, if the rumors were true, were unorthodox, possibly criminal. The bounty hunter opinion was that Preston King was an idiot and deserved to be turned over to Mr. Featherstone. The kid had apparently pissed off the wrong people and then not done a good job hiding his tracks. As if yakking on a cell phone traveling down an Interstate was a good way to escape from justice. The bounty hunter had shot out one of the kid's tires when he was slowing to turn off the Interstate. He'd then pulled the kid from his car and brought him to this house to recover from his surface wounds.

The bounty hunter had received a note that he was to turn the kid over to Mr. Featherstone later in the evening. The man was making a special trip out. The bounty hunter felt a bit sorry for Preston. His good life, as he knew it, was over. The bounty hunter didn't have the details on what the kid had done, but he knew that it took a very special case to interest Mr. Featherstone.

The bounty hunter's asshole tightened, a sympathy pain for what Preston King was about to undergo.

Robin Spencer sat in his den and fumed. He had raised his son better than that. He didn't deserve the other bastard. He felt helpless, in the clamps of a vice slowly turning on his torso. Ryan had threatened to call the lawyer. Mr. Rodney Bunning was the sword hanging over Robin's head.

They'd had their last run-in about six or seven years ago. That must have been when Ryan figured out the way of the world. Robin didn't like knowing that his oldest child was aware of where the funds came from.

The Army had paid for all of Robin's schooling and he'd made a bit of money. When he'd left the service, private practice had begun to pay more of the bills. But it didn't pay for the kind of house they were living in now where the minimum buy-in was a cool two million. It didn't pay for a new Lexus every other year. It didn't pay for the vacations he and Maggie took.

What paid for all his good life was the simple promise to treat all his children well until they each turned twenty-five. Robin's father had left one hell of a frustrating will in effect when he passed on. He hadn't left Robin or anyone else a single dollar free and clear. All the money, and there was a lot of it, was tied to a variety of conditions, depending upon the individual.

The old goat had decided to make his children and relatives better people when he passed on. He did know the right driver: greed and self-interest.

Rodney Bunning, though, he was the one who controlled the purse strings. He verified that each of the old man's requests was being met. He was the one who had cut off Robin's funding nearly as soon as it began when Robin had beaten Tim the first and only time.

Robin thought about his situation. The gleam of money and opportunity began to clear through his fog of anger. He wondered if there was a way to make use of Ryan's independence, of this writer's unwanted intrusion into Robin's home.

Robin would think on it. He was very good at turning a disadvantageous situation into something that worked for him.

Tim Spencer knew that the color had drained from his face long ago. It had been a rough few days, but he wondered if the beating he'd suffered or the story he'd just heard was worse.

He looked at the tall man, the famous man, standing in Tim's bedroom. He looked like he wanted to bolt.

"Thank you," Tim said. "I'm sorry I asked what turned out to be such a personal question."

"If you hadn't," Mr. Tate said, "I probably would have just blurted it out. You both look so much like Paul."

Tim felt anger at yet another thing his parents had done. He was feeling even less for his aunt and late uncle, too, if what Mr. Tate said was true.

"Are you hungry, Tim," Ryan Spencer asked.

"I could eat. Would you like to stay, Mr. Tate?"

The older man looked between the two young men and smiled. "On two conditions."

Ryan, the bossier one, asked first. "What are they?"

"First," Mr. Tate said, "I'll only stay if Tim wants me to."

Tim smiled and nodded.

"Second, I'll only stay if you both call me Bert. I don't think of myself as a Mr. Tate."

"Done and done," Tim said. "Help me up, Ryan."

The older brother tugged his younger brother out of bed. He was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, more than enough clothing for a well-heated home.

The three of them walked downstairs.

"What's for dinner, Mom," Ryan yelled out.

"Come and find out," she yelled back.

The three men walked into the dining room and saw that the table had been set in high style. The silver was out. Tim had rarely seen Mom's good china, but it was on display, too. Two candelabra were on the table, radiating out heat and light. Tim felt for a second that he was part of a real family.

"Sit, sit," Tim's mom said. "Food will be out in a minute. It's nice to meet you, Mr. Tate."

The three men sat down at the table and looked at each other. They all betrayed a look of confusion. Tim's mom had put on a spread instead of looking upset at what had happened to her son. She hadn't even acknowledged why Herbert had come to the Spencer home this evening.

"She's up to something," Ryan said.

Tim nodded. "Where's dad?"

"Haven't seen the major since I put the scare into him," Ryan said.

"Are you just intimidating everyone tonight," Bert asked.

"Just the ones who need it," Ryan said. "I worry."

"You think I'm a pitiful shrimp who needs constant attention and tender loving care otherwise I'll just curl up, wither away, and die. You care to throw out any other clichés while we're talking. I'm short, not an invalid."

Tim sounded like he had to give this speech often.

"Are you going to ask them about Paul?" Tim sounded hopeful.

Ryan also looked at Bert and tried to signal that he wanted exactly that kind of confrontation to happen. Ryan disliked stewing and simmering. If something had to be cooked, it should flamed quickly over the grill and then devoured. Even secretive parents.

"Ryan, I think I will," Bert said.

Tim's mother returned to the dining room with two casserole dishes in hand, a delicate balancing act. "Ma'am, do you need any help," Bert asked.

"You call me Maggie and stay seated. Isn't every day we have an interesting guest to table."

Ryan rolled his eyes. "Where's Jessie?"

"She's staying with the Andersons tonight."

Tim stood up. "Let me help you," he said.

"Sit, talk. Your father is helping me get the food out tonight. Man can burn water, but he's okay when it comes to moving around hot pans."

Tim sat back down again. "This is really weird. The Major," Tim said, nodding his head toward the kitchen, "only goes in there for snacks and beer."

"They're cooking something up," Ryan said, "and it's not the edible kind."

Bert surveyed the room and tried to play the devil's advocate. "Maybe your parents are different people than you expect?"

"Maybe they're brown nosing," Ryan shot back. "They'll never get a President in here, but they're just as happy with a New York Times bestseller."

"Extended list," Bert said, "doesn't really count." He was acutely aware of the status one earned by the rank one achieved climbing the list.

"Good enough for `call me Maggie,'" Ryan said. "She was in the operating room when the wife of one of our state's senators was in for elective surgery."

"Boob job," Tim said.

"Ahem, elective surgery," Ryan continued. "She couldn't stop talking about it for days even though the woman was unconscious the entire time. Proximity matters to her. She'd give away me and Tim here if she got to meet someone famous."

Tim laughed.

"Nah, they'd just give me away," Tim said. "They still seem to like you for some reason, Ryan."

Now Ryan laughed. "Not after I got in dad's business tonight. They'd give me away first. `s nice that I'm over eighteen, a legal adult."

Tim was preparing a scathing comment about Ryan never acting his legal age when his mother and father both entered the dining room. Dad, the Major, was now dressed in a suit. Something was screwy.

"Mr. Tate, I'm Robin Spencer. It's nice to meet you."

Ryan could barely hold his tongue in his head. From the way that Robin had been trying to decline Bert's offer, he'd expected that his dad would be sullen at dinner. He looked like he'd just won the lottery.

Dinner began and the food was far better than what mom usually pulled together after her day at the hospital. Robin Spencer couldn't stop smiling, even when he was chewing a piece of medium-rare prime rib.

When Robin set down his knife and fork, his smile was still engraved on his face. "Mr. Tate, Maggie and I are so glad that you could join us tonight."

Bert swallowed hard on the green bean he was still chewing. "I'm sorry we had to meet under these circumstances. I didn't do a very good job selecting my staff, and Tim caught the brunt of it."

The table clucked over a few details of the event itself and then the group fell silent.

"I have to thank you for coming tonight, Herbert."

Robin was smiling even bigger now. Tim thought it seemed weird for him to seem so familiar with a man he'd never met.

"You said that already, dad," Ryan said. "What's going on? You look like you just discovered gravity and got a big check in the mail."

Robin took Maggie's hand in his and continued to beam. "It's an important night in the Spencer household."

The people at the table, Maggie not least of them, hung on the man's next words.

"Mr. Tate here helped out our son. Now he's here as our guest. And we welcome him into our family." He stopped talking and took a big swig of the deep red wine in his glass. "Tim, have you told our guest about your orientation?"

The room became silent.

"I love gay people," Tim said, while his father continued grinning, "one of my best friends is gay, but I'm not gay myself. Dad, you've always thought because I was small I would enjoy being partnered up with another guy, being the little woman to a large guy. It's not true."

"The homophobia runs pretty thick in this house, in this entire family," Ryan said.

"What the hell does that mean," Maggie said. "I love my son."

"Did you ever meet someone named Paul Wolfe?" Ryan was looking at his father now.

Maggie shot back a firm "no." Robin was silent and the smile began to drop from his face.

"Never say that name in my house."

"It's not your house, dad, the lawyer and grandfather's estate own it. And, Mom," Ryan said, "I think you have met Paul Wolfe before. Apparently I look just like him. You probably met Dad's cousin years ago when Dad still liked the man."

At that, Robin began shouting. Obscenities and accusations filled the room. It was all about faggots and the Army and the pervert cousin. The lady doth protest too much.

"That's enough," Bert said. "Sit down and shut up."

Robin was slow to stop yelling and slower to put his ass in a chair. "Now," Bert yelled. Robin fell into his chair.

"I know more about Paul Wolfe than you can imagine, Robin. I know for a fact that you weren't at his funeral. I feel like Tim and Ryan are my second cousins even though I'd never met them before. They deserve a hell of a lot better than you. We haven't talked about it, but I'm prepared to offer both of these young men a safe home."

Bert stood up and the two boys joined him without a second's pause.

"Fags," Robin said.

"Too bad you'll never get to meet my girlfriend, dad," Ryan said. "Or come to the wedding."

"When goats can fly to the moon," came the response.

Ryan turned at the door. "You wanted Tim out of here. We didn't talk about it just now, like Bert said, but I know how your plans work, old man. You've wanted this since he was eleven, someone to come in and relieve you of your pretend burden. He is exactly the son you want, but you can't see it. You see him as too small and weak, but he's stronger than you can imagine. You think what you want to think, but you won't be living in this house a week from now. I've been talking with Rod Bunning ever since I turned seventeen. We talk a couple times a month at least and he likes and trusts me a whole hell of a lot more than he does you. You just fricasseed your own goose."

The house was quiet for a second, then, until Maggie started in on her husband. "What the hell just happened? And who is this Paul Wolfe person?"

It would be a long night in the Spencer house. And a new beginning in the Tate house.

The Littlest Lifeguard -- Part 9 By Ocean Lover Guy

Mr. Featherstone walked into the darkened room and saw the boy's foot hanging over the bed. He struck it with his cane and the boy flew into consciousness and began screaming.

"What the fuck?"

Mr. Featherstone struck the kid again. He waited until the wails of pain ceased again, with only pained, agonized breathing filling up the room. "Do I have your complete attention now, boy?"

"Fuck you."

Instead of the foot this time, Mr. Featherstone used the head of his cane to crush the boy's testicles. The kid wouldn't have been able to string together more than two syllables at this point in time.

"I don't care for introductions much, so I will only tell you these things one time. I am a sexual sadist, so I get a good deal of pleasure by inflicting you with these licks of pains, mere wisps of what we'll eventually get into. In your case, however, I have decided not to randomly have my way with you. I will only hurt you as part of your re-education or whenever you disobey one of my laws. Learn your lessons and obey my laws and you won't suffer -- much. But, be aware that I am well schooled in administering pain, exquisite levels of pain. When we fuck, I can make it the best experience of your life or, your choice, it can feel like you've been condemned to the Spanish Inquisition. Do you understand?"

A squeak emerged from the bed.

"I take that to be a yes. You may call me Mr. Featherstone. You will not call me sir or master or any of that revolting tripe. I will call you boy or, if you've pleased me, son. No one knows where you are, not even the people you've wronged. I've known Herbert Tate most of my life and I have chosen to take you on, at my own suggestion, as a pro-bono case. We will be together for days, weeks, or months, again, your choice. But you will learn your lessons and you will become a better human being. For the sake of my own pleasure, I hope you're a stubborn bastard. For your own sake, though, I suggest a high level of compliance. Be aware that I can tell when you're faking. I will know when you really believe the things I insist you know. Until that time, until I am truly convinced, your life belongs to me. You should feel honored, boy. Do you?"

No sound was forthcoming from the bed. Mr. Featherstone placed his cane in the general vicinity of the boy's testicles and a rushed "yes, Mr. Featherstone" came out of the bedclothes.

"Good, then let us get started. First we must prepare your body, then we will review the rules together."

Mr. Featherstone set his cane on the floor and pulled the top sheets off the bed. He gave the boy a long gaze. He had seen the boy at Herbert's home a few times over the past few years. Mr. Featherstone was one of the few regular visitors -- one of the few people strong-willed to suffer through the intolerable Tate tirades. A wounded lion will shriek; a broken human heart will pour vitriol and bile throughout the body, poising everyone and everything it touches.

"You have a good body, boy. I will help you make it better and more pleasing to me."

Mr. Featherstone locked the boy's other wrist into handcuffs, then his feet. He was now spread eagled on the hospital-style bed.

Mr. Featherstone pulled his kits from his jacket pocket. He set it on the sole table in the room. He pulled the scissors from the kit, small but very sharp. He proceeded to cut off every stitch of clothing that the boy wore. He wouldn't be wearing clothes again for some time.

"Yes, a very fine body." Mr. Featherstone took the boy's left nipple between his fingers and twisted it until the boy cried out. Then he kept twisting and squeezing for another two minutes. The boy's cock had plumped during the savaging. Mr. Featherstone filed away that preliminary fact.

"But you have entirely too much hair." For the next hour and twenty minutes, Mr. Featherstone used scissors, electric clippers, and then a straight razor to remove every shaft of hair from the boy's body. He'd had to turn the boy over once during the process. But his hard dick showed that, while he may not be pleased about what awaited him, in the near term he enjoyed being shaved. "Now you feel better."

Mr. Featherstone looked the boy over again.

"What do you say?"

"Thank you, Mister Featherstone?"

"Exactly. I think we'll get along just fine, son. Let's talk about the laws. You won't wear any clothing until you pass your lessons. You will either shave yourself or be shaved by me every three days, including your hairy ass trench, disgusting. You will keep your rectum clean through enemas or douches at all times. I will have sex with your body at least twice per day, but you will only climax when I permit it. You are not to masturbate at any time. You will exercise for at least two hours per day or more if I require it. You will complete at least eight hours of work per day. You will complete all your lessons on time. You will eat what I serve you, probably one meal per day, no more than two. You will not fight me on anything I ask you to do or that I do to you, even if I start choking you unconscious. Do you have any questions?"

"No...no, Mr. Featherstone."

"Fine. Even though you didn't ask, I will tell you the punishments for failure to comply with the laws. Do you want to know them?"

"Yes, Mr. Featherstone. I'm sorry I didn't ask."

"Your first offense, I will remind you of the law you have violated and then I will fuck you dry for a half hour with a studded dildo. Second offense, I will beat your body black and blue until you pass out from the pain. Third offense, I will drown you and release you for an hour in freezing water. Fourth offense, I remove a minor organ, probably a testicle. Fifth offense, I remove a hand, no anesthetic. Sixth offense, well, no one has ever committed a sixth offense, but it wouldn't be good."

The boy was now sobbing, naked and bald, on the bed. Mr. Featherstone thought the reaction entirely appropriate. He reached into his kit and removed a solid metal cock ring. He had several sizes, but he left the three largest ones inside. He saw that the boy was completely limp, finally, and pulled the boy's equipment into position.

"This is a gift because I want you to succeed. It will make it harder for you to orgasm, boy, even when I'm fucking your ass and beating on your prostate with every stroke. I don't want to have to punish you, so please don't make me."

The boy started hardening at the touch. Mr. Featherstone wondered if this pompous bad ass would be a gentle kitten under his tutelage. He hoped not. He did want to have to do some breaking in.

"Ordinarily about this time of day, I would climb on and throw a fuck into you. Tonight, however, we have a long journey in front of us. I think you will be okay if I save tonight's fuck for tomorrow."

The boy was hard, but still sobbing. Mr. Featherstone grabbed onto his testicles and began crushing them.

"Yes, Mr. Featherstone, fuck me whenever you want."

Mr. Featherstone began to unlock the boy's handcuffs. When he had everything back in his kit, he returned it to his coat. He pulled the boy from the bed and led him out into the small house. He leaned a bit on his cane, but trusted the boy not to bolt.

"Here is your money," Mr. Featherstone told the bounty hunter. He handed over a thick envelope. "It's more than you were promised, but you have a few more tasks to accomplish. Take all the clothing and hair from the room and burn it. Have a cleaning crew come in with vacuums and bleach. I want no traces of this boy's presence here to survive. Nothing. I want it to be like he was never alive."

The boy began sobbing again. The bounty hunter nodded and watched the pair walk out into the dark night.

Mr. Featherstone spread out a towel on the backseat of his car and sat the boy on it. "If you're going to leak, keep it on the towel." His frightened, but still tumescent charge didn't acknowledge the comment. Mr. Featherstone knew from experience that fear and anxiety could be a powerful aphrodisiac for some people. The boy seemed just the type.

Mr. Featherstone would have to work on the boy's etiquette and manners in the coming days.

He got in the car and began their hours of travel. Mr. Featherstone had many plans in his mind. The boy, stunned between consciousness and sleep, didn't have a single thought in his head.

Tim had burst into tears as soon as he and Ryan crawled into the back seat of Herbert's car. They had both put a brave face on things while in the house, but rejection always hurt.

Herbert Tate drove quickly through the couple miles of roads that led back to his home. He stopped the car in front of one of the cabins. "This will have to do for the night, boys. I don't have any guest bedrooms in the main house."

"That's fine," Ryan said, still cradling his brother. They had taken the time to grab Ryan's bag and for Tim to pack some things before they left their parents' house. Neither knew they'd never set foot inside the home again.

Ryan and Tim crawled out of the back of the car while Bert unlocked the door to the cabin. He'd always called these buildings cabins. He had four of them, but each was more like a small house, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a decent kitchen and living area. Herbert and Paul had entertained a fair number of guests back in the day. Nowadays, the cabins saw mostly the periodic cleaning crews come to whisk away any accumulated dust.

"I'm going to need a ride back tomorrow to pick up my car, Bert," Ryan said.

"It's no problem," Bert said.

"Thank you," Tim said. "Thank you." He returned to his incoherent string of little noises.

"It's my pleasure," Bert said.

"Is there a phone in here," Ryan asked. "I need to call a lawyer. I'm going to get guardianship over my brother. I won't keep letting dad do this shit to him."

Bert pointed to the kitchen counter inside the cabin. The telephone was sitting there.

"I haven't said thank you yet," Ryan started.

"You don't have to. I never knew any of Paul's family. I'm glad I do now." Since the blow up at the Spencer house, Herbert's erection problems had gone away. He didn't expect they would return. These beautiful people weren't sexual objects, not as much, they were living and breathing relatives, Paul's cousins.

Ryan walked into the cabin and started his work with the phone. Herbert helped Tim into one of the bedrooms and got him tucked into one of the beds. His physical wounds from earlier in the week were still healing; Herbert was more worried about the raw, oozing emotional ones. That bastard of a father had really inflicted some damage tonight.

"Can I call my friends," Tim asked after a few minutes of being under the covers.

"Of course," Herbert said. "You can use my cell phone."

"No, I'll wait until Ryan is off the phone. I want to talk with him first."

"Of course."

The little man in the bed was so beautiful, even in his pain. Herbert loved that the kid was worried about his friends in a moment like this. Tim laid his head on a pillow and closed his eyes.

Ryan walked into the room a few minutes later. Tim was thoroughly sacked out.

"He's had a rough day," Herbert said. "You, too."

Ryan looked like he was trying to keep back some tears. "I can see how you look at him. Like a father looking at a son."

Herbert opened his mouth, but realized whatever he might say would be a lie. How he looked at Tim was exactly how a father should look at an injured child: with hope, with love, with thoughts focused firmly on the future.

"Rod Bunning, our family's attorney, is on Tim's side. He controls a big estate and he's going to sic a pack of hounds on dad. I'm filing the paperwork to become Tim's guardian tomorrow. Don't know how long it will take to get resolved."

"I'm sorry all this happened."

"It's been festering for years," Ryan said. "One of my friends took a liking to my brother when he was 11 and had his hands down inside my brother's underwear. Mom and dad walked in, saw it, freaked out, and never, ever let go of the suspicion that Tim wanted my pervert of a friend to lay his hands on his prepubescent body."

"Oh," Herbert said. There wasn't anything else to be said.

"Dad's been a shit ever since. Now dad's in the shit, up way past his eyebrows."

Ryan sighed and sat down on the floor. "Bert, if I ask you a question, will you think about it? Don't say yes or no, just think about it?"

Bert nodded.

"You haven't known me or Tim very long, but I was wondering what happens if I win this lawsuit. I want to finish my school in California. I want to go to law school. But I also want to make sure Tim's safe and is around his friends. I've thought of one way to make it happen." Ryan paused and then craned his neck to look up at Bert. "If I become Tim's guardian, can I rent one of these cabins from you? Allow Tim to stay here?"

Bert blinked twice. The young man sitting on the floor was asking more than just to become a tenant. He was asking Herbert Tate to become a kind of surrogate father, an instant father to one (or maybe two) near adults.

"I don't need to think about it, Ryan. The answer is yes."