Tony–Ch. 1

WARNING: This is an original homocentric love story. All characters and situations are fictional and of my own creation. Any resemblance to real situations or people, living or dead, are completely coincidental. This story contains descriptions of sexual acts involving a man and a MINOR boy. It is not intended to promote illegal acts with minors, but to demonstrate that men and boys can love each other. If the subject of man/boy love offends you, if this material is illegal in your place of residence, or if you are under the legal age for such material, do not read further!By reading this story you implicitly declare and affirm under penalties of perjury that you are not a minor or in the company of a minor and that you are entitled to have access to material intended for mature, responsible members of society capable of making decisions about the content of documents they wish to read.

Copyright Notice
This story is copyright © Shamyn Whitehawk under my pseudonym, 'Draeconin' or 'Draeconin Istraith', hereinafter known as 'the author'. The author retains all rights.The story cannot be used to derive monetary gain in any manner whatsoever. The story cannot be printed, archived, distributed or used in any manner whatsoever without the author's express written permission.

Reference may be made in context to movies, characters, actors, and other personalities that have become part of modern western culture. No other implication about the true personality or the sexuality of the people mentioned or their private lives is intended. The private life of any celebrity mentioned is not known, and any speculation is not to be taken as fact. Any other resemblance to real situations or people, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

All copyrights and trademarks belong to the holders. Any pictures used were taken off the internet, and I claim no right to them. They are copywrited by the photographer. Any picture used is only used as a representation of the character/s in the story and is in no way implying that the person pictured is of any specific orientation.

CAUTION: The characters in my stories do not usually practice safe sex. They are fictional. They cannot catch sexually transmitted diseases unless I allow them to. You are not fictional, and can. Always practice safe sex.

Georgia. God, how I hated it here. Hot, muggy, and tornado season. How entertaining! If I hadn't inherited . . . Hell, I didn't even know I had any relatives in Georgia! I had been under the impression that our people had come from Minnesota! But I had been stuck in a job in Idaho that was going nowhere, and this had seemed like a godsend at the time. I had spent no time at all in showing them my backside. Now, I was kinda regretting that.

Anyway, I'd inherited a little over three million dollars after inheritance taxes, along with seventeen hundred acres of prime cotton and peanut fields, eighteen acres of woodland, and a six bedroom house with a large garage, barns, and various outbuildings. Among those buildings were two tenant farmer houses that were just a little bit better than shacks themselves, consisting of two small bedrooms, a closet of a bathroom, with a sitting room that was only a little bit larger than one of the bedrooms, and a kitchen about two thirds the size of that.

The main house was palatial in comparison. It was built just inside the edge of the woods, at the other end of a fucking long dirt and gravel driveway. It was a big, white, box-like clapboard structure with a porch centered on the front door that ran half the length of the building. Except for its size, it wasn't all that prepossessing. Rather plain, in fact. It probably needed a new roof, but otherwise it was in good condition. Most of the outbuildings, though, were in desperate need of paint, and a couple looked like they'd do better as firewood than useful structures.

Both tenant houses were occupied. The tenant farmers had leased the land from the relative I'd inherited from – a great-aunt once removed – and worked it as though it was their own. The assistant of the lawyer who'd been managing the property while they were looking for her nearest acceptable relative had introduced me to them.

I say 'acceptable' with some reserve, because her will had specified a family member who was 'a homosexual male or female of good character and work ethic'. Turns out Great Aunt Martha was a lesbian, which explained why she didn't have any children or other descendants of her own to pass the property on to. Which is also why the assistant was showing me around, rather than the lawyer himself. She was a friendly, middle-aged woman of a buxom build who went by the unlikely name of Lucy Bock.

Evidently someone had let slip a thing or two about the terms of their former landowner's will. Mister John Terwiloughby, a rawhide tough rail of a man with weather roughened skin was in his late forties, early fifties, and was the father of five - two girls and three boys ranging in age from fifteen to twenty-three – all of whom worked the fields, when those still in school weren't occupied at that task. I briefly met his wife and family, with him glowering at me the whole time. When he spoke, he was only just civil.

Mister Johnson was about the same age as Terwiloughby and had six children, all sons, and a skinny, short, white wife. I'd met mixed-race couples before, and they were just like any other couples, with their good points and bad. But these two lived up (or maybe 'down' would be more to the point) to the worst stereotypes of such a union. He was something of a swaggering bully towards her and his children, and if she had looked any more slatternly.... The children, however, were all very good looking – those that were present. Although all but one were shorter than their father, they mostly took after him regarding their skin color and hair, although their features were much more refined. It seemed that the truism of mixing racial genes had struck here, too, creating offspring that were much better looking than the pure blooded of either race. Ed told me that his youngest had snuck off to the woods, and he'd "be gettin' a right good whuppin' when I sees him agin."

A few days later I decided to explore the woods myself. It was a Sunday, and I'd seen both families leave for church early: one family in a pickup with the kids in back, and the other in an old station wagon. I'll let you guess who had what.

It was a little cooler deeper in the woods, and I was trying to identify plants that I'd only previously seen on nature shows, when I heard water splashing in the distance. That reminded me that the lawyer had told me my property was pretty water rich, with a good-sized stream, three artesian springs, and two sixteen-inch wells on it. It turned out that the splashing was coming from a short waterfall – a height of only about six or seven feet. I started down the slope towards it, then noticed there was a nice pool below it. Just then, a head popped up out of the pool. It was facing away from me, but the person was young, and the build, though slight, appeared to be male, from what I could see. The boy's skin was a light mocha color, and his hair was about chin length: black, and with a multitude of loose curls.

He dove again, and his whole body surfaced briefly before disappearing, affording me a glimpse of his ass – sans swimsuit. The light mocha of his skin was even lighter below the belt line. I continued on down to the pool. The boy surfaced again just as I reached it, and this time he was facing me. He froze, then hunkered down in the water as his wide eyes regarded me warily. He was young: about fourteen or fifteen, if I didn't miss my guess.

The boy's eyes kept darting off to my right side, then back to my face. When I looked at the spot he kept looking at, I saw his clothes there about fifteen feet from me, neatly folded in a pile.

"You can come out if you want," I said. "I won't hurt you. I am curious, though. Who are you?" The Terwiloughby's were all caucasian, and he didn't fit the profile of the other Johnson kids, although there was a slight resemblance.

His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Miss Martha's name was Garner," he said accusingly.

I shrugged. It was true. "Yep. I didn't even know about her before her lawyer tracked me down."

"Nope. Nobody in my family ever mentioned any relatives in Georgia. And you never did answer my question," I reminded him.

"I don't see any bruises," I joked. Not that I could see more than his face right now.

"You are the youngest, right? Last I saw your dad, he said he was going to give you a 'whuppin' for running off to the woods."

A look of chagrin crossed Tony's face, and he slowly stood up out of the water, although it still came up to his collarbones. As he came towards me – or rather, towards his clothes – more of him was revealed – along with a couple of rather large bruises on his ribcage, and then another on one thigh. His cock hung flaccid, although it was probably smaller from the cold of the water than was usually the case. His sac was shrunk up against him, and his pubic area was just beginning to develop hair. But those bruises . . . I resolved to have a talk with Mister Johnson. I would have respected his decision had it been only a spanking, but this looked like fists, and possibly kicking had been involved.

"Hardly," I replied. "Reasonable discipline is one thing: beatings are another."

He shrugged as he dried himself off with his t-shirt. "It don't happen all that often."

"It shouldn't happen at all. And if it happens again, I'll be terminating his lease," I said.

"Miss Martha had a talk with him, too. Didn't do no good. Only got me beat worse."

Damn. I didn't want to make the boy's life any harder than it already was, but I couldn't stand the thought of him – or his siblings.... "Does he beat your brothers, too?"

He shrugged again as he tossed the t-shirt over a branch and picked up his jeans. No underwear. "Never saw it if he did," he replied.

He looked kind of sideways at me, then said, "I heard about the terms of Miss Martha's will. Is it true?"

I must have been right, because the blush he'd been sporting spread and got deeper.

He fastened and zipped up his pants, then turned to me. Instead of answering, he asked, "Are you?"

This verbal sparring was getting silly. I nodded, and the boy's tension levels dropped dramatically, although he remained watchful.

"Who would I tell? And why?" I replied. But his asking for that reassurance told me all I needed to know.

"Yeah," he admitted about himself, then sat down and slipped on his shoes – cheap, worn tennis shoes with no socks, I noticed.

"Jackin' off to a picture," he mumbled, turning red, standing up and grabbing his shirt. He didn't put it on, since it was wet; he just slung it over his shoulder.

My mind had been racing since the subject had come up. He needed to get out of an abusive situation, which probably meant getting him out of that house. But I couldn't contact the authorities. Putting Tony into the system would likely result in far worse abuses. Even if the adults were all open-minded – not likely – at least some of the other kids would beat and sexually abuse him.

"How'd you like a job?" I offered, joining him as he started walking back towards the part of the farm with all the buildings on it.

His expression was almost one of disgust at that idea. "School," he said, correcting me. "Mom does more heatin' than cookin'."

I'd worked part-time for a year as kitchen help in a restaurant when I was only a couple of years older than I thought Tony was, and I'd picked up some skills then. I'd even been allowed to cook for customers a couple of times when business was really slow. I thought I remembered enough to be able to teach Tony a few things, and said so.

"But if you're going to be cooking and doing for me, you're going to have to live at the house – and there are five other bedrooms to choose from," I added as I saw him stiffen at my mention of him moving into my house.

"No funny stuff." Then I looked him up and down, renewing his blush as I winked at him and said, "Unless you say otherwise."

I was shocked at the question. "No," I averred, then on an impulse, said, "You're something else, though." Truth to tell, I wasn't sure myself whether I was serious or just yanking the kid's chain. There was just something about him....

Tony looked at me uncertainly, then glanced up at the sun, which was almost directly overhead. "Damn. My old man's gonna be home, soon," he said.

"Only when I can't get out of it. Seems kinda stupid to sit there and listen to the preacher tell me how damned I am."

Tony didn't reply; he just shrugged and hung his head a bit, refusing to meet my eyes. Answer enough. Tony, at least, thought there was a good possibility of it.

"Tell you what: you come do a little work in that overgrown garden behind the house, and I'll tell him I asked you yesterday to come do it."

"And you worked out so well, I asked you to come work in the house on a permanent basis."

"Nobody deserves to be beaten. Thing is, you really are going to have to work."

"He'll let you," I said, my voice dropping. I'm sure the threat towards his father came through in my tone, because suddenly the boy looked apprehensive.

The boy was suddenly hanging onto my arm, trying to hold me back. "No! You can't!" he begged, fear making his eyes wide.

I wondered at his reaction, but said, "Hey, I said 'threaten'. I don't think it would come to that. Besides, I wouldn't want you getting lost in the system. I've heard they're not nice to gay kids."

Tony was quiet, his distrust plain, although I could see him struggling with that. But he'd stopped pulling on me and his grip had loosened, so he was considering what I'd said.

"Look, if he wound up in jail he'd think I'd toss the rest of you off my land. And if it comes down to it, I'll threaten to do just that, too," I said, trying to convince him.

Tony stared into my eyes, and then slowly nodded before letting go of my arm and starting to walk toward the big house again. With my longer stride, I soon caught up to him.

The garden I had referred to, according to a photograph on the sitting room wall, had once been a very large affair that had taken up the space where a back yard would normally be. It had mostly been for vegetables and herbs, but it had also had patches of flowers that must have brightened things up considerably. Unfortunately it was an old black and white photo, so you had to imagine it.

"I know it's too late in the year to plant anything," I admitted as we looked over the ground, "but I'd like to get the ground weeded and prepared for next year. Since there're some flowers in a couple of the flower beds, maybe you can start with those?" I had no intention of being here next year, but getting the garden area weeded would make it look nicer and maybe make selling the place easier.

Tony nodded. "You'll need some chicken manure and some blood meal, too. It's up to you, but some straw or plastic sheeting would be good, too."

I considered it. "Wouldn't you need a pretty thick layer of straw? I think plastic might be better."

He shrugged again. "Straw's cheaper, and you can plow it into the ground next spring."

The kid had a good point – at least in those areas that didn't have perennials. That would lighten the soil, and maybe provide some food for the plants, too.

"I'll think about it," I told him. "In the meantime, you might want to make a start. I'll change my clothes and join you soon."

As I walked towards the house, I glanced back over my shoulder and saw Tony walking towards one of the rose beds. Good. I hoped he was a good worker, because I'd just walked out on a very thin limb that wouldn't take much to break under me. I looked back again as I opened the back door, and he appeared to be hard at work. If he kept it up....

I changed my clothes and put on an old pair of sneakers, then went to the kitchen to see what I could scare up in the way of something to drink for us. Unfortunately I didn't have the makings for lemonade – not even that crap frozen kind, which was always too sweet. I kinda knew it, but I was disappointed anyway. I'd been in the mood for a tall glass of cold lemonade. But I did have Coke, so I grabbed a couple of cans and walked out to the boy.

In the short time I'd been gone, he'd cleared an area about three feet wide and six feet long.

He flashed me a smile, started to turn back to his work, and then the cans of soda caught his eye.

An hour later we'd almost got the entire row done, and it was looking good. Of course I'd had to go scare up a couple of trowels from the garden shed, otherwise we'd have had the weeds growing back from the roots we'd left behind.

I heard a very distant vehicle door slam. Two doors . . . Three . . . Four. And then a muted thump. Must be the Terwiloughby's with their station wagon, and that last sound was the tailgate being closed.

"Sounds like the Terwiloughby's are home," I remarked. "So if your family's not home yet, they soon will be. I'd better go get cleaned up. You keep working."

"You're going to get cleaned up for my dad? You got the hots for him?" Tony asked disapprovingly.

"I'm going to get cleaned up so it doesn't look like I've been working," I said reprovingly. "With all this done, it makes it more convincing that you've been working for me all morning." I wanted to invite him to lunch, but I also didn't want to push my luck. The boy seemed to be taking a liking to me, and that'd be a plus if he actually did move in and start working for me. And his father might get a little stroppy about me inviting his son to eat with me without his having given his permission first, so it was just better not to go there.

"'T's okay," I said with a grin, tussling his hair. He gave me a shame-faced grin for my trouble. "I'll be back in a bit."

After rinsing off quickly in the shower and getting dressed in the clothes I'd been wearing earlier, I met him in the garden again. "Now I think we need to go talk to your dad: see if we can get you up here, instead of...." I stopped, realizing that what I'd been about to say would have been a little insensitive, to say the least. He didn't need to be constantly reminded of being abused.

I could see from his face that Tony hadn't missed it, but he just said, "'Kay," picked up the empty soda cans, and followed me. I showed him the large trash bag I put the recyclable drink containers in, in the kitchen, and then we headed through the house and out the front door.

He nodded, the curls on his head, tighter now that his hair was dry, bobbing with the movement. "Yeah. I don't really feel like I fit in, anyway," he replied. "And who wants to get hit all the time?"

He hesitated, then in a defensive tone he said, "Well, it feels like all the time."

I nodded. I could see that, but I didn't comment. And I thought he was being more honest this time, than the last. I was thinking about the conversation I'd be having with Mister Johnson shortly – which triggered a thought. Taking a twenty out of my wallet, I handed it to the boy. "He'll want to know what you earned today. It's a bit much for the three hours you're supposed to have worked, but I don't have anything smaller. If he asks, tell him that and that you're supposed to work off the extra."

Mr. Johnson must have seen us coming, because as we neared the house he came out of it. He looked angry, but he turned his glare on his youngest son. "Get in the house and get cleaned up. I'll deal with you, later," he said in threatening tones.

He now leveled an angrily suspicious stare at me. "He skipped church. What's 'e been up to, anyhow?"

"He's been working for me. I'm trying to get that back garden cleaned up for next year. Sorry about the church thing. Not being much of a church-goer myself, I never gave it a thought before I asked him to help me, yesterday."

"I don't think 'e'll have much time ta be helpin' anymore," the man said, just short of sneering. I thought I smelled liquor on his breath, and he couldn't have been home for very long.

"Oh? Actually, I proposed a long-term, part-time job to him – after school, anyway. I need someone to cook and clean around the house. He'd have his own room, of course."

His expression and the tone of almost panic in his voice said otherwise, but I was almost sure it had nothing to do with Tony. But I didn't let on that I'd noticed anything.

"A little wholesome discipline is good for any child, Mister Johnson," I said, "but punching and kicking goes far beyond anything that could be called 'reasonable'."

"Hey, it ain't my fault if the boys fight," he protested, trying to pass the blame onto his other sons.

I cocked an eye at him. "Well, I'm not about to call you a liar, Mister Johnson. He may have been in a fight with his brothers, but after the threat you issued the other day and the bruises I saw when he took his shirt off . . . I should just let the authorities investigate it."

"Damn faggot," he muttered, low enough that he probably thought I couldn't make out what he'd said. I didn't react, but I marked it up against him. I didn't care if he was referring to me or his son. You'd think as a 'man of color' that he'd be against all forms of bigotry, but people can be blind like that, being against one or more forms of bigotry, while being smack dab behind others.

"Got too many kids living in this shack anyway," he said, sounding like he was trying to convince himself, "and that one's about useless. Good riddance to 'im."

Raising his voice, he shouted into the house. "Tony! Get yer lily-white ass out here!"

The surprise that was added to my growing anger had me lifting an eyebrow a little. Tony was hardly 'lily white', although his skin tone was a good deal lighter than his father and brothers, but it seemed like Mister Johnson had some reverse prejudice going on, along with his homophobia. But as much as I'd have liked to, it wouldn't do Tony any good to voice my opinion of the man.

His expression not changing a whit, Tony disappeared again. A few minutes later he reappeared carrying a grocery sack stuffed full of clothes, with a decent pair of leather shoes balanced on top of the pile. Mister Johnson had just stood there and glared at me the whole time we were waiting.

"Don't come back, ya damn faggot," the man growled at Tony. "Y' ain't no son o' mine."

Then he started mutting about 'damned woman', 'musta fucked . . . damned oreo', and other such uncomplimentary things.

Then as we started to walk off, he had a parting shot for Tony, "All's ya good for – candy ass for a fuckin' child molester."

I turned around. "That was uncalled for," I said to him, my voice again low and dangerous. And it didn't say much for him that he'd send Tony off with me, if he thought that's what I wanted his son for.

Stupid man. Even now if he'd just apologized . . . But by allowing his feelings about me to find voice and standing by it, he'd just raised the stakes. However, I had most of the cards.

"Yes," I replied. "And you can expect one of two things to happen because of it: either you'll be paying more on your lease, or it will not be renewed. Your behavior between now and when your term is up will determine which."

I deliberately omitted the honorific when I replied, "You should have thought of that before you decided to insult me, Johnson."

I turned and walked away, keeping my ears pitched for the slightest sound that might indicate he was attacking me. It never came. What I did hear was his wife screeching at him for being "a stupid dumb nigger sunuvabitch." The diatribe was cut off abruptly: by violence I assumed, but I didn't really care at that point.

I wondered. It seemed he had no trouble hitting kids and women – at least his own – but I wondered if he'd have the courage to stand up to someone who could defend themselves. No matter. I planned to sell the place anyway.

"What would have happened if I had let it go?" I said to Tony. It was a rhetorical question. "He would have thought he could get away with more, and worse."

But that left the matter of Tony. I looked at him speculatively. He was looking a little thoughtful. And although he was a beautiful boy, I couldn't quite figure out why I was going to so much trouble for him. I shrugged at the thought. Probably just because he'd been being abused, and not just physically. It looked like he'd been exposed to verbal and emotional abuse, too. I'd never been exposed to that kind of situation before – or to the victim of one – so I couldn't just sell the place and go my merry way. What would become of him?