THE FOREST OF HANGING YOUTHS



     One fantasy that I have always been having since I received my first taste of sexual gratification was wishing that I could come upon a forest full of teenagers and young men dressed in black...long-sleeved shirts with connecting gloved, zipped at the wrists; loose shorts, ending at the top of the thighs; black below-the-calf socks and sneakers. Their hands would be tied behind their backs, their feet at the ankles. Each of them would be hanging by the neck, their feet dangling at different heights above the ground, some of them with their kneebacks at the level of my eyes. I would reach up to touch those that were closest to me, relishing in the icy coolness of their dead skin.

     I would happily sit among them, gazing up at the corpses that were in different stages of either decomposition or in the process of being devoured by carrion eaters. I would have to wear a mask which would supply me with fresh air, because the smell of the carcasses would be overpowering enough to choke me to death.

     Then, as if I was not even present, about a hundred new youths, ranging in ages from thirteen to twenty-three, would be marched into the forest, dressed for their deaths. They would be led by a "keeper", who led them by nooses tied about their necks. When they stopped near trees that have open spaces on the branches, the leaders fling the loose ends up to their partners who are meandering on the limbs. They, in turn, jump off the limbs, their weight countering for that of the youths at the other ends.

     As they slowly get closer to the ground, the nooses tighten about the young necks and...UP THEY GO...twisting and jerking about in a floorless death dance. They dangle there...some with the hangman's knots at the top of their necks, jamming their chins into the top of their breastbones...others with the knots under the chin, tilting their heads backward into the most grotesque and uncomfortable position...the rest with the knots in the traditional position, on either side of the head, jerking the head either to the left or right.

     But, no matter where the knot is placed, the result is the same...a slow and apparently torturously painful death!!! The gagging...the gasping for sweet air...IT'S SO BEAUTIFUL!!! Just the thought of watching them hanging there, their legs kicking out wildly, the leg muscles rippling in death throes and hearing them gagging and gasping their last is enough to send goose bumps up and down my spine.

     As I continue to watch, one by one, the death throes slow and finally cease as the executioners exit the forest, never turning back to gaze at their handiwork. I watch them leave...then I turn back to look at the beautiful artistry that they left behind. I gaze at the dead intently...their young faces turning a deathly shade of white, their eyes bulging and bursting blood vessels, their tongues turning purple and swelling up inside their mouths, their lips slightly parted.

     If this is how it looks to meet death at the end of a rope...then it looks like pure heaven!!!

     I wonder.... If I should ever want to kill myself...would hanging be the answer? I mean, it may be excruciatingly painful and take a while if one is doing it all by himself...but it is totally clean. Now, if one has somebody to help him (you know, to give him a push from the top of a ladder or something), then it wouldn't be so bad...because the neck would snap and the person being hanged would die instantly, with very little pain.

     Yes...hanging would be the best way.

     But, I must find out what I would have to do if I want to join this forest of hanging youths...and become a part of man's artistic brutality towards his brother.

A FANTASY TO END ALL FANTASIES

     One of the strangest fantasies I have ever had came into my head after watching a two-part miniseries based on the ancient Roman gladiator, Spartacus. At the very end, when all of the slaves refused to surrender the rebel leader rather than save their own lives, the Roman leader decided that, for twenty miles, each rebel would be crucified and left to die. I figured...how would it look if I managed to get about one or two hundred young men in shorts and crucify them along a roadside?

     Of course, though...where would I find one or two hundred young men who loved to wear shorts as I did? So, I decided that the wisest thing for me to do was to place an ad in every major newspaper in the country.

     Boy, did I get results! More than two hundred young men, ranging in age from 13 (when a Jewish boy is considered to be a man) to 26, wanted to display their naked legs while being tied to a cross. They all came in person to my house, wearing anything from mid-thigh to knee-length shorts, long-sleeved to short-sleeved shirts, below-the-calf to knee socks...all of them displaying the most beautiful legs that any young man could have!!!

     All of the young men walked into my back yard, where I had assembled and placed the smooth oaken and cherry crosses. When one of them, a handsome lad of 16, laid down on his back on one of the crosses, I told them that they would all be attached facing the crosses, with the back of their legs facing the populace that would come to see them. Also...they were each to be hooded, leaving it up to whoever wanted to touch the youthful legs to wonder what the owners looked like.

     When I had finished tying their hands and feet to the wood, I then used a crane to lift up each cross and plant them in holes which were dug ten feet deep, leaving it so that the back of each pair of knees were roughly at eye level. At the end of the day, when each youth believed they were going to be released...they got the surprise of their lives!!! They were not going to be set free...not ever! Each and every one of them were going to remain crucified to the cross, the back of their legs facing the road, until the day they died!!!

     I left them momentarily, returning with a box of disposable razors with which I was going to shave their legs free of whatever hair they had...then leave them to the mercy of the elements.

     Over a period of one and a half weeks, one by one each of the young men succumbed on the crosses. As each one died, I took out a set of spikes and a hammer and nailed each dead body to the crosses, cutting the ropes away and leaving them as crucified as Jesus...only with more clothing. I stood back and admired my work...each body nailed to a cross, with one spike in the back of each hand and through the soles of their sneakers. Unlike the Christ, though, there was no blood...because when I had nailed each one to their crosses, their hearts had already stopped and their blood wsas no longer flowing through their veins.

     Soon, people walked along the road, eying the dead, crucified bodies...or should I say, the back of their legs. Atop each cross, painted on a plain piece of wood, was the name of each dead youth. Of course, though, nobody would have a claim on any of them. You see, one stipulation to the crucifixions was that each youth had to be orphaned and/or unmarried, without any female attachment.

     Now, this fantasy, like all true fantasies, had to come to an end...and, of course, each young man is still alive somewhere...wearing their shorts and displaying their legs for all the world to see.

THE EXPLORER "LUNCHEON"

In the summer of 1989, I had celebrated my tenth anniversary as a scout. But, now, at the age of eighteen, I had now earned the rank of Explorer. And as an Explorer, I would get many more opportunities to explore my young manhood...and the manhood of other Explorer Scouts. I was excited when we held our first jamboree...my first one as an Explorer. The uniform of an Explorer is the same as a Cub Scout, except instead of a cap the Explorer wears the same type of cap as a Boy Scout...but in navy blue!

I was so thrilled to see that all of my friends from the Boy Scout jamborees had also become their countries' equivalent of the Explorers. We had all grown into such handsome young men...and we were all pleased to see that as we grew, so had that which we loved so much. Again, we had decided that we were going to go to our secluded spot (since the Explorer jamborees were being held in the same exact location). Only this time we were going to bring another member of our respective countries with us to have one wham-bam free-for-all!

After the first morning's roll call, Francois brought a fellow Frenchman to our place in the wood...a handsome, blue-eyed blond from Versailles named Guy de Moret; Abdullah brought an equally-handsome young man from Giza named Saeed Sheikh; Quo brought a slightly muscular and handsome guy from Shanghai named Zhang Li; Nikolai brought an extremely handsome young Russian from Irkutsk by the name of Yuri Chekhov; Christian, an attractive hazel-eyed blond from Oslo named Lars Smestad; Cao Li brought a handsome youth from the mountain region of Vietnam named Ho Linh Si; Stefan attached himself to a fellow from his hometown of Uppsala named Bjorn Lindfors; Brian came with a youth from Nottingham by the name of William Gordon; Pieter, a young man from Delft named Jan Van Dien; Akira, a youth from Hiroshima called Masayuki Tagawa; Aldo, a handsome, green-eyed young man from Sicily named Vittorio Palmieri; Paul brought a nineteen-year-old from Adelaide named Matthew Conners. I came with a young gymnast friend from the University of Central Florida (where I was now going to school), a handsome, well-built, green-eyed brown-haired youth named Ted Rosburgh. And, as we had done during our Boy Scout jamborees, we came to the spot dressed in mid-thigh shorts and below-the-calf socks and blue windbreakers.

Once again, we stood facing each other, looking each other up and down, gazing at what the other young man was offering for our palates. The newer members of the clique made a circle within our circle. We walked in opposite directions, stopping in such a way that no one Explorer would have the back of his fellow countryman's legs beneath their mouths. It was just my luck that Nikolai's friend Yuri would be the one who would be lucky enough to feel my lips and tongue. As we had done before, we knelt in the grass, tying the feet of the youth before us...and, as they fell face down, so did we with our mouths on their proffered legs. We revered and savored the feel and taste of foreign thighs, knees and calves in our hands and on our tongues and lips.

But, suddenly...my reverie was broken as I felt teeth biting deep into the back of my left knee. I turned and looked to see that it was Stefan's countryman, Bjorn, who had been the first to overstep the bounds of decency of our "fun and games". With Bjorn's teeth still clamped on my knee, I kicked him away and, painfully, rose to my knees. I reached for my ankles, loosened the binder that tied my feet together and rose to my feet. As I walked away from the others, Francois muttered in French. He loosened his binder, rose to his feet and ran over to me, removing his handkerchief and placing it against the back of my knee. I looked down and noticed that Bjorn had bitten deep...very deep.

That Swedish sonofabitch had actually drawn blood!!!

Blood ran down my left calf from a small puncture that Bjorn's eyetooth caused on the back of my knee. Normally, I wouldn't have minded this...but it was only the beginning of summer! I loved wearing my shorts to scout meetings. Now, because of one foreigner getting a little too anxious, I will have to wear slacks until the knee heals. God only knows how long that's going to take!

I got together with the founding members of our clique and within ten minutes we had reached a decision. Bjorn Lindfors had to be punished! And what better punishment could be imposed upon a shorts-loving scout than to be ousted from our clique? But first...the crucial "insult to injury". After pounding three stakes, triangularly, into the ground, Bjorn was then laid face down and tied to them...one hand to one each and his bound feet to the third. Then, standing over him, we exposed our tools and, gingerly, urinated on the back of his legs, partially saturating his shorts and socks. This was to be only the first part of his punishment.

After leaving him alone so that his legs could dry in the sun, we returned and, kneeling all around his prone figure, raised our hands and slapped the back of his exposed legs sharply with our palms till the skin turned red. This was the second part.

The third part of his punishment would, to me, be the best! Standing above him and, once again, exposing our tools, we rubbed them vigorously until the cum started to flow. Waterfalls of smooth, white "cream" gushed out, drenching his thighs, knees and calves, running in rivulets down the sides and onto the ground below. Then, kneeling beside his head, we forced Bjorn to lick the remaining cum from each tool before replacing them within our shorts.

But, the final part of the punishment would fall upon Stefan to impose...since Bjorn was his fellow countryman. As we all stood and backed away, Stefan removed his thick leather belt, raised it high above his head and cracked it down hard upon Bjorn's naked legs...one crack for each member, old and new. Soon, Bjorn's legs were thoroughly welted, looking like raw meat...and my bruised ego (and bloodied knee) had been satisfied.

Bjorn was untied and ordered not to return to the camp until the end of the day, after which he was to return to the city and use his plane ticket early to go home. But, I have it on good authority (actually, Stefan's) that Bjorn will not be coming back to attend any more jamborees. He quit the Explorers upon his return to Sweden. I guess he was either too ashamed to stay in the Explorers...or didn't like the sort of punishment he received from Stefan. Either way, Stefan never saw Bjorn again.

One thing I must be thankful about...the wound inflicted upon my knee left no permanent damage either to the skin or to the melanin within. After the scab came off, there was no scar to prove my knee had ever been bitten and the tan went back to normal.

THE BOY SCOUT JAMBOREE

In 1985, shortly after my thirteenth birthday, I graduated in the scouting ranks...from the lowly Cub to the more mature Boy Scout. Gone were the blue shirts, the blue slacks, the blue shorts, the blue socks and the blue cap. Here to stay (for a while, anyway) were the olive greens...the long-sleeved and short-sleeved shirts, the slacks, shorts, below-the-calf and knee socks and the much more handsome, military-style cut cap. Here to stay, too, were all the medals that I had earned during my time as a Cub Scout. During the next five years, I intended to earn much more.

During the next five years, too, I was going to get to meet other scouts from around the world...something I was not able to do while I was a Cub Scout. Because when you're a Cub Scout, you're too busy learning things like arts and crafts and respect for your elders...such as helping old people cross the street. But, when you're a Boy Scout, you get to attend something called a "jamboree"...sort of a hootenanny or get-together for Boy Scouts. You get to learn customs from other countries...such as eating with chopsticks, learning foreign languages (of which I was already far ahead in), and other things.

You also get to perform physical abilities...such as gymnastics and other things taught in physical education classes in school. One of my favorites was what we called the "butterfly stretch". This was my particular favorite because I got to do it while wearing my shorts and knee socks. In this exercise, you got down on your stomach with your arms at your sides. Then, you arched your arms, legs and chest off the floor. While you were still in this position, you swung your arms out so that they were stretched out before you, at the same time raising your head to look at your outstretched hands. All this time, you would be resting all your weight on your penis...and, if Lady Luck was on your side, your balls would become so agitated that you would cum in your underwear.

Another thing I learned at these jamborees was that there were other Boy Scouts who loved what I did...masturbating and ejaculating while laying face down in shorts and fornicating the back of the knees of other boys. This was the chance for us to sample what I and one scout from France called "haute echantillon"...high-class tasting of foreign "foods".

So, one day, I got together with the boys from other countries...Francois Dunois from Marseilles, France...Abdullah ibn Nazrahi from Cairo, Egypt...Zheng Quo from Beijing, China...Nikolai Popov from Stalingrad, U.S.S.R....Christian Petterson from Konigsberg, Norway...Nguyen Cao Li from Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam...Stefan Gustaffson from Uppsala, Sweden...Brian Winstead from Salisbury, England...Pieter Van Ruijven from Amsterdam, The Netherlands...Akira Takashima from Hokkaido, Japan...Aldo Ciccorelli from Bari, Italy...and Paul Gibson from Hobart, Tasmania. All of them handsome and physically fit, with legs every inch as muscular as mine...well, as muscular as fourteen-year-old boys' legs could be.

We made a pact that we would meet at a location unknown to the other scouts and scoutmasters...unless Mr. Michaels chose to join us...as well as wear our mid-thigh shorts and below-the-calf socks, long-sleeved shirts and respective caps. Each one of us was also required to bring something with which to bind our feet together. When we were hiking in the mountains, we found a secluded spot...so secluded, in fact, that not even the birds knew where it was. And it was at this secluded spot that we chose to...do our thing.

We stood looking each other up and down, admiring the quality of what we were showing off and offering to have, shall we say, tasted. Each one of us had scrubbed our legs clean prior to attending the jamboree...and we shall scrub them clean each time we shower to make them palatable for each consecutive meeting-in-seclusion.

Standing on the moss-covered ground, we dropped to our knees, after which we took the "binder" we brought with us to bind the feet of the boy whose thighs, knees and calves we would be "tasting". Then, like precision dancers or swimmers, we pitched forward onto our stomachs, our mouths making contact with the back of the legs of the boy who lay prone before us. My mouth hovered over Francois's legs, Francois's over Abdullah's, Abdullah's over Quo's, Quo's over Nikolai's, Nikolai's over Christian's, Christian's over Cao Li's, Cao Li's over Stefan's, Stefan's over Brian's, Brian's over Pieter's, Pieter's over Akira's, Akira's over Aldo's, Aldo's over Paul's...and Paul's over mine! We were all grateful that the jamboree lasted two weeks. That way...no two boys fornicated, licked or bit the same legs more than one day!

Variety was the spice of life!!! And it was also the key to our fun!

And the timing couldn't have been more convenient. After each roll call, we would sneak off into the forest to our secluded spot. That way, none of us would ever be missed. We would always have our fun...kissing, licking and fondling the exposed meat that lay before us...and be back before you would know it! After morning roll call, we would eat breakfast...and then it was off into the wood for an hour of kissing, licking and fingering the back of a beautiful pair of boy-legs. After afternoon roll call, we would eat lunch...and sneak off to our secluded spot, again to kiss, lick and touch skin. After evening roll call, we would eat dinner...and have our dessert in the forest. And, what a dessert it would be!!! We would not only kiss, lick and touch the exposed legs that lay before us...but bite it as well, leaving indelible teeth marks on our thighs, knees and calves that, hopefully, would disappear before dawn. Then, it would be back to our respective tents for lights out.

When it came time for all of us to return to our respective countries, we exchanged addresses and telephone numbers. But, we always vowed that we would return each consecutive summer while we were Boy Scouts to have our fun in our secluded section in the forest. And, we always did...for the next three years.

I don't know whether my friends went on to become Explorer Scouts. I know I did...and I had to find new friends. But, I would always cherish the Boy Scout jamborees...and the "tastes" of other countries.

Oh, I neglected to mention...Mr. Michaels never chose to join us. But, I have an inkling he knew what was going on...from certain gestures he gave me when school started again. But, I wish he would have come to our meetings-in-seclusion. He would have loved it. And, I know the other boys would have loved having him there.

THE CUB SCOUT INITIATION

     In the mid-summer of 1979, the same year that upstate New York was going through one of the worst heat waves in history, I decided that, after reading a friend's Cub Scout manual, I wanted very badly to join the Cub Scouts. At first, my mother was totally against the idea. But, my grandfather felt that if I joined a club after school, it would certainly keep me out of trouble. He told my mother that scouting is one of the best ways to keep a boy "on the straight and narrow" and help him grow into a respectable member of society. When my mother argued with him about the expenses for uniforms, my grandfather said the he would front all expenses. Upon hearing this, I immediately went down to have myself fitted for my uniforms...one dark blue long-sleeved shirt, one dark blue short-sleeved shirt, one pair of dark blue slacks, one pair of dark blue shorts, dark blue mid-calf socks, dark blue knee socks, black shoes and a dark blue cap.

     All was ready for my first meeting...Friday night, August 10, 1979.

     It was still blistering hot outside (even after sunset). It was the night for the initiations for all of the troop's newest members...including me. I, of course, had no idea whatsoever how the initiations would proceed, since this was my first time as a scout. All my friend told me about scouting is that you get to build things, go hiking and identify birds, trees, leaves, etc. He never mentioned anything about what goes on at initiations. He did mention that all initiates were to dress in shorts and knee socks. I thought it was only because of the weather. I was soon to discover differently.

     My grandfather drove me to the Community Center where the scout meeting was to take place, saying that he would pick me up when we were finished...three hours later. As I entered the hall, I was greeted by fourteen other young scouts...like myself. They were all there for the ceremony. I knew this, of course, because they were also dressed in their shorts and knee socks.

     Soon, fifteen boy scouts, dressed in their shorts and knee socks (but more ceremoniously), came into the room where we were gathered. They ordered us to stand at ease, with our hands clasped behind our backs. Taking handcuffs out from their pockets, they handcuffed our wrists. Then, they took out blindfolds and tied them tightly over our eyes before hoisting us up onto their shoulders and taking us into an adjoining room where the initiation was to take place.

     When we entered the room, I immediately recognized my friend's voice among the others...and one other. It was an adult's voice. I recognized the tone because I had already become accustomed to hearing it...in my gym classes. It was Mr. Michaels...whom I later discovered was also the scoutmaster.

     All of the initiates were unceremoniously dumped face down onto a long table covered with thick mats, our heads and feet dangling over the edges. Soon, Mr. Michaels read out the proclamation of initiation:

     "Know by the laws of the scouts that these initiates are to be fondled by all cub scouts, boy scouts and explorer scouts present during tonight's ceremony. They are to be caressed by all hands. To see if they can withstand pain and torture, they shall undergo the ritual of having the back of their knees first kissed, then licked, bitten and chewed by their fellow scouts, beginning with the explorers and working their way down. Those who display tears or give any sound of crying will be labeled as unqualified and drummed out of the troop and shall never be allowed to join the scouts ever again. After the ceremony, the initiates shall remain face down upon the table until the end of the regular meeting. So it is written in the laws of Webelos".

     Soon, the initiation began. Lips puckered and kissed the back of initiate knees. I, of course, had already become used to this feeling (thanks to Mr. Michaels and our gym liaisons), so I knew immediately the size of mouths, tongues and teeth of different ages. Within a span of forty-five minutes, every tongue, pair of lips and set of teeth had kissed, licked, bitten and chewed their way into my heart.

     I don't know how the other initiates felt during this ceremony...but I loved it all! And the fact that I was going to remain face down on that table...blindfolded and with my hands tied behind my back...for the remainder of the three-hour meeting made me so happy that I ejaculated with joy.

     Did I care about it at such a time as this? Absolutely not!!!

     Ever since that day recently, when I was playing "Good Guys/Bad Guys" with some friends from school and Pierre and his brother were draped across the back of my thighs and knees as I lay "dead" on my stomach, I loved the feeling of other boys (and young men) kissing, licking, biting and chewing the back of my knees. I was used to it!

     When the meeting was over (and after the other scouts left), Mr. Michaels approached our prone bodies and unlocked the handcuffs, allowing us to raise ourselves to our knees and take off the blindfolds. He remained solely to turn off the lights in the meeting hall as I and the other initiates went outside to wait for our rides home. As he locked the doors and went to his car, I looked at his departing figure, noticing that he, too, was dressed in a uniform similar to that of a boy scout...complete with knee socks!!! My eyes remained riveted on the back of his knees until he entered his car and closed the door. Smiling at me as his car's motor revved, Mr. Michaels drove off to his home.

     When my grandfather arrived to take me home, he asked me if I had fun. I nodded. But, all through the trip home, I thought about those other scouts who kissed, licked, bit and chewed my knees...and of Mr. Michaels's knees surrounded in forest green.

     I couldn't wait until the next meeting!

THE NIGHT OF THE BURNING LEGS

     The air was uncommonly cool and dry for a day in early autumn...a proper day for a fire. But, what was left to burn? All of the trees have already fallen victim to either torrential rainfall or forest fires. Houses could not be burned because, by law, all houses now had to be built sturdy enough to withstand heavy rain and snow.

     Thomas Barrow, at 102 the oldest man in the town and permanently confined to a wheelchair due to the fact that both of his legs were missing from just below the crotch, still operated the local store and told me a tale that I just couldn't believe.

     "When I was your age, Paul", he said, "there was a season just like this. At that time, we, too, had no trees because of rain and fire. Yet, we had to find a way to keep warm".

     "Didn't you have gasoline, Grandpa?" Paul asked.

     "Oh, we had plenty of gasoline...tanks and tanks of gasoline. We just didn't have anything for the gasoline to be poured on. You see, we made the one mistake that we would live to regret for as long as we lived".

     "What was that?"

     "We took lots to see whose house we would gather around and set fire to, just to keep warm".

     "Why was that a mistake?"

     "Because, once you burn one house just to keep warm...for some strange reason you are never warm enough. So, you burn another house and another and another...until there are no more houses left to burn. Then, when the winter snow comes, you have no place to go to keep yourself warm".

     "What did you do then?"

     "The men who ran this hamlet when I was 25 decided that we would use an alternative to wood with which to pour the gasoline on to keep warm. Each time it got unseasonably cool in early autumn, a lottery was held to see who would offer up their legs to be burned".

     "Their legs?"

     Paul stood there in shocked disbelief at what his grandfather had just told him. How could anybody give up their legs just to keep others in the town warm?

     "I don't believe you!" Paul scoffed.

     "Tell me, Paul, how many others have you seen in town who have their pants rolled up the way mine are?" his grandfather asked.

     "One or two".

     "You know why? Because the others either left town...or took their own lives rather than stay here and have people ogling at them...because they have no legs!"

     Paul stared at is grandfather, his mouth agape.

     "Do you mean to say that, when all other fuel resources were depleted...except for the stockpile of gasoline...the town held a lottery to decide whose legs were going to be amputated and used as kindling?" he asked.

     "I certainly do", Grandfather answered. "Now that the temperature is cool and all other fuel resources are gone...it's time once again for the 'lottery of the legs'". Grandfather pushed his wheelchair over to the window which faced the public square and looked outside. "And since you are now of age to participate in the lottery..."

     "No! That's never going to happen!"

     Grandfather turned to look at Paul.

     "And just how do you intend to stop them?"

     Paul pondered over his grandfather's question. Then, he faced the old man with a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face.

     "I'll just leave town. That's what I'll do", Paul replied. "If I'm gone, then I can't take part in the damn lottery".

     "I'm afraid that is now impossible", the old man said. "Once the temperature goes down to where it is now and the lottery has been decided upon...all roads out of town are carefully guarded by armed men whose sole job is to prevent any eligible young men like you from leaving. If you so much as try to step foot over the border, you will be shot...and then your whole body will feed a roaring, gas-soaked fire, not just your legs".

     Paul sat down in the nearest chair and put his hands to his head. If what the old man said was indeed true, then he had no other choice but to take his chances.

     "Besides", the old man continued, with a sly smile on his wrinkled face, "I took part in my first lottery when I was your age...and kept my legs until I was 50. But, by then...I was already paralyzed from the waist down and confined to this wheelchair. So, it really didn't matter to me whether they took my legs or not...and I didn't much care. But, who knows? You might not even be chosen. Then, perhaps after the lottery and the temperature rises...you can leave town and find greener pastures elsewhere".

     Paul looked up from where he sat at the wizened old man.

     "So, what am I to do?" he asked.

     "Take your chances like any grown man", the old man said. "There are over a hundred young men with good strong legs like yours. The chances that you'll be one of the ten whose legs are chosen to burn tonight are astronomical!"

     "You're right, Grandpa", Paul said. "I'm going in to put on a pair of shorts for the lottery. And, even if I'm not chosen...I'll still give everybody a tempting view".

     "That's my boy!" the old man said, turning his wheelchair back to the window and the public square beyond as Paul ran to dress himself for the lottery.

* * * * * * * * * *

     Later that night, after the lottery had taken place, twenty well-built and bloodied legs were thrown together, drenched with gasoline and set on fire. All the townspeople gathered around the mound of burning flesh to take in their warmth. A smell akin to roasting meat and almonds lingered in the air above the conflagration. Among the populace, Paul's grandfather sat in his wheelchair, leaning forward, thrusting his open hands as close to the fire as he dared. There was a somber look on his face.

     "Well, Paul...it looks as though Lady Luck was not on your side tonight", he said as he stared deep into the roaring fire.

     There, at the very top of the pile, hams facing the sky, were his grandson's well-proportioned legs, now being blistered and blackened by the very flames that were consuming them.

     This night's lottery was over.

WITNESS TO A BURNING

A young man being joyously burned at the stake!

     It has always been my dream to bear witness to one of the most beautiful sights that a legs fetishist like myself could ever hope to behold...a cremation. I had always seen videos of one...but the person being cremated was always dead and the body was naked.

     Yeecchh!

     I hope that one day I would be able to witness a young man burning to death...face down in a pair of shorts! And I always pray that, if he is still screaming, that somebody could have the decency to pour a lot of inflammable liquid over him...just to hear him scream his death wails!

     When you're a witness to a hanging, death wails are throttled in the throat because of the noose...unable to let people know that the victim is actually dying. I mean, the only way you can tell that a person who is being hanged is actually dying is to look at his legs to see if they're twitching in the throes of death...especially if the legs are naked and you can actually see the death throes in the thighs and calves and the back of the knees crimping and bunching up before smoothing out as the person expires and somebody nearest the body feels an artery in the thigh or knee to authenticate that the person is dead.

     When a young man is beheaded, the sudden decapitation leaves no time at all for thrashing about and wailing. The head falls into a basket and the body either falls to one side of the chopping block...or remains face down on the bed of a guillotine. There is only a little bit of twitching as the impulses from the brain are cut off. So, that isn't much of a show! And it certainly isn't very much fun to watch with all that blood and body fluids oozing from the neck!!!

     When the person is stood up facing a wall and shot in the back, one of the firing squad's bullets will be aimed dead center for the heart and another for the back of the head...so there actually wouldn't be any time for the victim to scream out. His pain dies almost as soon as his body does...and that just isn't right, because when you're witnessing an execution, you want to actually see and hear the condemned person thrashing about and wailing.

     Of course, though, nobody is ever burned to death face down in a pair of shorts. They're always chained to a wooden pole, standing on a pile of wood and burned at the stake. I keep thinking about how lovely it would have been to live in 16th-century Europe, where men who were found guilty of witchcraft or of being the wrong religion were publicly burned to death by orders of the Pope at the time.

     But, if I had my way, some young men, dressed in black mid-thigh shorts and black below-the-calf socks, would be led onto a basketball or tennis court, laid face down with their hands tied behind their backs and their feet tied together, doused with an endless stream of gasoline and burned to death...just to see how it would look like. I just have a feeling that it would probably be fun and look great! I just know that there would be wailing and thrashing a-plenty, as well as a lot of cheering from onlookers...especially if the ones to be burned alive are criminals! I mean, there are a lot of those around...and we really don't need them to exist among decent folk.

     Now, there's something worth thinking about! Young men being tried, convicted and sent to prison for a capital offense, sitting in their cells, waiting for the day that they will be hooded, dressed in shorts and done away with by whatever means the state sees fit to use. Maybe then, I wouldn't mind seeing an execution where the condemned is hanged or electrocuted...just as long as his legs are bare for all to see!!!

     But, still...I would really and deeply want to see a young man sent to be burned to death face down in a nice pair of shorts. It would really be a highlight to my life! Why, if I was tried and sentenced to death...I would choose to be burned alive dressed in shorts. After all, it's completely clean...with little or no mess at all.