Diaz knew about the new situation almost immediately. How could he be mistaken? Suddenly the padrone's new son was underfoot at all times in the greenhouse. He offered to help, but he was not of much use. He was willing, but he had no talent for working with the plants, and they could not risk the precious seedlings. So the boy was relegated to sweeping floors, wiping windows, and finally, in desperation, polishing and sharpening tools.

And always his eyes clung to Montana. They followed every move the older boy made, lingering lovingingly on the more intimate areas of his body. Duncan would go to Olivero now and then, ostensibly to get his approval of a particular cleaning or sharpening job, and the mixed blood would touch him. Oh, true enough that it was no more than a hand on the back or shoulder, but it was a caress, not just a touch, and the boy would lean into it.

It was natural enough, Diaz supposed. The boy was far from everything familiar, and left alone most of the time with few amusements. At least the local men would not have to worry about their daughters turning up with pale babies. Still, if they were not more discreet, it would not be long before the entire area knew that de la Montana's boy was fucking the little American.

The padrone? The padrone was a blind man in such things, but his wife was another matter. The only reason she did not know was that she spent so little time with the boy, being busy in the city with her shopping and socializing. It could not escape her attention forever, though. She had plans for the boy. Already she had invited the young people of several of the city's more prominent families to the house to socialize with her son. Diaz, bringing in fresh flowers, had heard her urging him to dance with this girl, or be nice to that one. "You're probably going to marry one of them, Duncan," she'd hissed to the bored looking boy. "Now is the time to start courting."

*Oh, senora, you have no idea where your son's interests lie, do you?* The party had been set up out on the back lawn, and Duncan was supervising the use of his music machine. His American rock and roll scandalized the Colombian grownups, but made him very popular with the young set. Diaz watched him at the tape machine, standing close with a small, slender boy. Their heads were close together as they discussed the next tape selection.

There was a slight movement in the bushes behind the boys, and Diaz examined it cautiously. There were still dangerous animals in the area, and, though most would be frightened away by the noise and light, some might be drawn by curiosity. He saw that it was, indeed, a dangerous predator. Olivero de la Monatana crouched, almost invisible in the sheltering branches, and watched the exchange between the two boys with hot eyes. Duncan suddenly laughed, throwing his arm around the other boy's shoulder, and Olivero's lips pulled back from his teeth in a silent snarl.

Diaz felt a stab of misgivings. The idea of crossing class lines did not bother him as much as it did some, but this... The boy did not know what he was dealing with. As Montana melted back into the shadows, Diaz reflected that it was possible that no one knew what they were dealing with when it came to Olivero. He shivered. *I think there is something very nasty beneath his skin.*

The party did not last very late, and soon cars came to collect the guests. Duncan, playing the proper host, saw them all off with thanks and vague promises to meet at a future date. When they were gone he sighed. *Dear God, they're all so backward.* He smiled to himself. *Although that Pasquale was kind of nice. That little butt certainly looked firm.*

With that his thoughts turned back to Olivero. He hadn't been able to see his lover all day, and he was starting to feel antsy. He knew where Olivero was living, and it wasn't too far away. He considered. His mother would be asleep quickly: she was worn out from organizing this do. If he was patient...

It was no trouble to slip out. Duncan was careful to stay in the center of the road as he made his way to the workers' huts. The jungle on either side made him very nervous, he could hear things moving in there.

Finally he reached his destination. The huts all looked alike, but he thought for a moment and figured out which one he wanted. He was relieved to see that there was light seeping under the badly hung door, and glowing around the cloth hanging in the single window. He hurried over and tapped lightly at the door.

There was a grumble inside, and Duncan's Spanish was good enough for him to recogize swearing. The door cracked open, and a swarthy man peered out at him. Duncan took a step back, eyeing the knife in his hand. Bartolo blinked at the tall, pale youth standing outside his shack, then grinned. "Olivero's chico, eh?" Duncan nodded hesitantly. "He isn't here."

"Oh. I thought..." Duncan stopped, biting his lip.

"He went to watch you at your fiesta."

"I didn't see him."

"You wouldn't have." Bartolo looked past Duncan, and the boy instinctively turned to see what had caught his attention. His heart lifted when he saw Olivero emerging from the jungle by the road.

Montana came to the shack, his eyes fixed firmly on Duncan. The boy felt a flutter of unease when he saw the man's dark expression, but the desire to be with him over rode the internal warning. Olivero stopped before him and said quietly, "It was foolish for you to come here. There are many dangers in the jungle."

Duncan knew instinctively that the proper response would be instant, abject agreement and apology, but he said, "You were out there."

Olivero cocked his head. "I am not a soft, pale Anglo boy, Duncan. The jungle is my home. I understand it, and it understands me."

Bartolo cleared his throat, getting Olivero's attention. "Montana, will you need the room?"

Olivero looked at Duncan again, and nodded slowly. "Si. I will need the room."

Bartolo favored Duncan with a sharklike smile, and went back inside. Duncan flinched a little when Olivero's hand landed heavily on his shoulder. "Since you are here, you had getter get inside. It would not do for the peons to see the padrone's son entering the shack of a worker."

Olivero pushed Duncan into the shack, shutting the door behind him. Duncan looked around the rough room, eyes widening. He had been raised in comfort, never lacking for anything, and he had never really been exposed to such squalor.

Bartolo was sitting at a rickety table with a bottle of cheap whiskey and a glass before him, drinking. As he finished, Olivero went over and pulled the glass out of his hand, pouring a full glass. "I have a guest, Barto. Do not be a selfish pig."

Olivero handed the glass to Duncan, who took it gingerly, eyeing it with trepidation. He'd stolen a few sips of wine before, and his last stepfather had bought him beer occasionally, but he'd never tried liquor. Olivero smirked. "Don't worry about germs, chico. The alcohol will kill them, yes?"

"It's not that. I don't know if I can drink that stuff. It smells pretty strong."

Olivero laid a hand across the back of Duncan's neck. "Try, chico. For me." When Duncan still hesitated, he squeezed, hard. "Do it."

There was the unmistakable ring of command in that tone. Duncan took a deep breath and gulped the whiskey. He managed half of it before the coughing fit over took him. Olivero took the glass before he could spill it, and watched dispassionately as the boy choked and wheezed, tears forming in his eyes. When Duncan had gotten control of himself again, Olivero handed him the remainder.

Duncan's voice was hoarse. "But Vero, I might get sick."

"I would not advise that, chico. You would be wise this night to take everything I give you."

A little worried, Duncan said, "What have I done?"

"Finish it, Duncan. Then we will discuss your behavior." Frightened now, Duncan obeyed, finishing the raw liquor with a little less difficulty. He supposed that some of the cells in his mouth and throat were already deadened, or he would have choked again.

While he hitched and shivered, Olivero poured himself a much smaller drink, swallowed it, and handed the glass back to Bartolo. In Spanish he said, "Tolo, you come anywhere near that screen without an invitation, your cojones will suffer."

His friend nodded his understanding and watched as Olivero herded the already swaying boy back into the tiny cubicle. *Well, my friend, I cannot watch, but there is no way you can prevent my listening, can you?* He chuckled darkly. Judging from Vero's mood, the Anglo boy was going to get a real workout tonight.

In the partitioned off space Duncan said, "Vero, why are you angry? I thought you'd be happy to see me."

"I am always happy to see you, little one. You brighten my life." He still had his hand on the back of Duncan's neck. Now he put the other hand up to stroke the side of his neck.

"I wasn't sure. I haven't seen much of you the last couple of days."

"That is because I have begun working for our future."

"Ourfuture?"

"Si. I have always known that I would not spend my life like my father, and his father: working for the padrone. But until I had you, Duncan, I had no clear vision of how I would escape that fate. Now I know, and I have begun."

Olivero was massaging the back of his neck, and Duncan began to relax a little. Of course, the idea of a common future was ridiculous: they were from different worlds. Still, it was flattering to think that he was more to Olivero than a sex partner. What would it hurt to let him dream? "What has begun?"

Olivero stroked Duncan's throat gently, feeling the steady pulse of the blood just beneath the smooth skin. Duncan had only recently begun shaving, and he still did not have the stiff bristles that would come later. "Surely you know where the money lies in Colombia, chico? A smart boy like you."

Duncan felt a thrill of the forbidden. "Not drugs?"

"Some might consider it so, but not yet. Only the marijuana, Duncan. I do not yet have the resources to grow or process poppies, but that will come. The white powder is more valuable than the gold men have worked so hard to coax from the rivers and mountains. It will not be long, perhaps only a year or two, before I can move up into that profession."

"Vero, you shouldn't. I don't really mind it: some of my friends smoked pot back in the states."

"I have no choice, Duncan. There is no other way I can get what I need to keep you as you should be kept."

Duncan blinked. *He's talking about me again like I'm his whore. I hate that.* But it was exciting, too. Being desired so completely was intoxicating. "But it's dangerous. You could get killed, or sent to prison."

"Would you miss me, chico?" he whispered.

"You know I would. Nobody does me like you."

Duncan's eyes widened as Olivero's hand closed over his throat. The big man's voice was still silky as he said, "Not even the little cabron you were flirting with at your party?"

Duncan Broussard suddenly felt ice cold at the core. "Vero, I wasn't... I wasn't flirting."

He shrugged, but did not loosen his grip. "I have eyes, chico. I have ears. You put your arm around him. Your face was so close to his that if either of you had moved another inch you would have kissed. That is not flirting?"

"No!" Duncan tried to pull away, and he felt Olivero's grip tighten.

"If you try to get away from me, Duncan, I will choke you unconscious." Seeing the fear in the younger boy's eyes, he smiled cruelly. "No, I will not kill you, at least not on purpose. I do not wantonly destroy my property."

He moved so that he was between Duncan and the only exit, then released him. "Take off your clothes, quickly." Duncan began unbuttoning his shirt with trembling fingers. "Hurry, slut, unless you want to explain to your bitch mother why they are torn."

Duncan managed to strip off the rest of his clothes. He was more than half drunk now, and he almost fell when he struggled with the pants. When he was naked Olivero grabbed his shoulders hard enough to bruise. With one abrupt, brutal movement, he threw Duncan down on the ragged mattress that sat on the rough wood floor, and fell on top of him.

The breath was driven from Duncan's lungs on impact. Before he could suck in a breath Olivero had his tongue in his mouth, and after that he had little chance. Olivero did not release his mouth, even when he reached down to open his pants and free his rigid erection. He savaged the boy's mouth, biting hard enough to draw blood. Duncan cried out, but he didn't fight. Somehow he knew that, if he struggled, Olivero might not be able to keep his promise about not killing him.

Montana's hands were everywhere, even rougher and more hurtful than before. It frightened Duncan terribly when he began to respond to the violent caresses. His nipples hardened under the nip and scrape of Olivero's teeth. His cock swelled and began to leak pre-ejaculate as Olivero pulled and rubbed, chafing the tender skin.

Duncan felt panicked. After that first abrupt joining in the greenhouse, Olivero had been a strong, but considerate lover. This couldn't be anything but punishment. As his lover flipped him over onto his stomach and shoved his legs apart Duncan thought wildly, *All I did was talk to him.*

He screamed when Olivero entered him. There had been no lubrication, not even spit, and no preparation. It hurt worse than it did the first time. And he still didn't get soft. Olivero pounded into him, hard and fast, each stabbing thrust causing a bolt of pain along with the jolt of pleasure when Olivero's cock glided over his prostate.

In the dimly lit main room, Bartolo untied the drawstring on his pants and opened them. Reaching inside, he began to stroke himself as he listened to the pleading whimpers and the wet, smacking sounds. Oh, Montana had himself a hot little bitch, all right, but Bartolo wasn't entirely sure that he was dealing with this in the right way. Instead of breaking the boy to his desires, he might scare him off. Of course, Bartolo would never be fool enough to suggest such a thing. He was very fond of his prick, and did not want it sliced off and stuffed down his own throat.

Olivero whispered to Duncan as he fucked him. He told him how stupid it was to cheat on Olivero de la Montana. He told him how ungrateful he was to cast sheep eyes at another man when Olivero was prepared to give him the world. He promised that this would seem like a gentle caress if Duncan ever again acted in such a manner.

Duncan clutched at the thin, rough sheet beneath him, and tried not to succumb to hysteria. If he screamed again, he would not be able to stop, and Montana would very likely kill him. Even as the big man on top of him climaxed, filling his ravaged ass with hot sperm, Duncan had begun to plan his escape. Oh, not from the shack. He was fairly sure that if he could just endure the next hour or so Olivero would allow him to return to the house. He would be confident that he'd forced Duncan into submission, not expecting any kind of rebellion. No, Duncan needed to get totally away from here, at least for awhile, and he knew how to do it.

When Olivero had finished he forced Duncan to lick him clean. To Duncan's dismay, Olivero became aroused again. Olivero fucked Duncan's mouth, too impatient to allow the boy to suck him, and Duncan came close to choking when Olivero held his head and rammed deep into his throat.

After he came the second time, Olivero refastened his pants (he'd never taken his clothes off, and somehow that made Duncan feel even more degraded), then stood up, kicking Duncan's hip lightly. "Dress." Duncan could barely move, but he knew better than to hesitate or protest. He dragged his clothes on, knowing good and well that he was going to have to dispose of his underwear before his mother or one of the servants noticed the sperm and blood.

They left the room. Bartolo was just tying a knot in his drawstring, and Duncan felt sick when he saw the man's smirk and the fresh puddle staining the floor boards between his feet. Silently Olivero escorted him back to his home. Duncan's legs started to give out when they neared the house, and Olivero unhesitatingly scooped him into his arms and carried him the rest of the way.

At the back door, Olivero carefully set Duncan on his feet. "Can you make it up to bed?"

"Yes."

Olivero frowned. On the surface the boy sounded meek enough, but when he looked up at Olivero, gold eyes glinting through those dark lashes, he wasn't sure. "You understand why I had to do this, Duncan? You must accept the fact that you belong to me."

"Yes, Vero." Again the veiled look.

Olivero sighed. Well, there would always be time for another lesson, if it was necessary. He bent to kiss Duncan. The boy did not struggle or protest, he didn't stiffen or try to keep his lips closed and block Olivero out. But he was totally passive, almost limp. When he pulled away, Olivero studied him for a moment. "Good night, Duncan."

Duncan smiled. As he walked away Olivero heard his soft response. "Goodbye, Olivero."

The next morning his mother was concerned with how pale he looked. *The boy is almost haggard,* she thought. *This tropical climate can't be good for him. I really need to get him away. Perhaps this time he'll listen to sense.* "Duncan, have you considered what we talked about?"

Duncan put down the fork he had been using to push his breakfast around his plate. "Yes, Mom, I have. I've changed my mind. I want to go to school back in the states."

His mother wilted in relief. "Well, thank God! Maybe there's a chance you'll avoid turning out common, once you spend some time with the right people. I already registered you at St. Anthony's in New Orleans." She waited for him to protest her assumption that he would cave in, but he only nodded. "Next semester you can..."

"I want to leave now."

"But Duncan, the semester started a week ago. I might be able to manage it, but you'll be behind. You'll have to really scratch to catch up, and I know how you hate..."

"If I don't leave tomorrow..." He took a breath. "You can get me on a plane today, can't you?"

"I... yes. But Duncan, why are you suddenly..."

Her son stood up abruptly. "Don't nag me about this, Mom. You got what you wanted: I'm going to prep in New Orleans. But I'm only going to do it if I leave today."

"Duncan!"

"No arguments, Mom. You couldn't understand my reasons." She suddenly saw the bleak, haunted look in her son's eyes. "I'll just tell you that if I don't leave today, I think it will be too late." He gave her an almost ghastly smile. "I will have gone native, as you say."

She drew in a steadying breath. "All right, Duncan. Go pack, and I'll start making arrangements."

She was startled when her son came over and dropped a soft kiss on her cheek. Duncan could be such a charming boy, but lately he'd wasted precious little of that charm on her. Now, he gave her a sudden hug, and she had a brief flash of how it had been when he was tiny, and he'd come to her for a hug, and the assurance that he was safe from whatever boogey man had been haunting his imagination. She patted his back. "I don't know what's wrong, Duncan, but it will be all right."

Duncan stared past her, stared at the large bouquet of hothouse flowers that the gardener had brought in that morning, and murmured, "I hope so, Mom. God, I hope so."