Tarin rolled the fruit around his mouth and mashed his tongue up to make it burst. Lady! It was good. Still warm from the sun and the sweetest thing he'd tasted all year. He wanted to gorge, but he pulled out two hazel nuts and squeezed them against each other so their shells cracked. He grunted -- he'd not lost his knack since last year -- the kernels were intact and he flipped away the shells.

He chewed thoughtfully as he scanned the woodland canopy. His oak wasn't the tallest tree by any means, but he could see clear to where the men lived. It would be only another moon before they started raiding the woods for boys. As soon as the leaves were gone, the raids began in earnest. During spring and summer, the boys were pretty well safe unless they were caught scavenging outside the woods. A few boys disappeared each summer, but once the frosts came and the leaves turned yellow and fell, the oldest boys would be in danger. Tarin frowned. It was a puzzle. No boy ever escaped past his eighth woodland summer. And somehow, despite their panicked flight, the older boys all eventually sacrificed themselves so the younger ones could evade the men. He spat out a berry that was mildewed and crammed several in his mouth at once to erase the moldy flavor.

Tarin cracked more nuts and pondered. Mart had been caught last year, although he had vowed to never be taken. The nuts sat unchewed and guilty in Tarin's mouth for a moment, and then he made himself grind them up. He and Mart had been fleeing from the men and they could both have escaped, Tarin was sure, but as soon as Mart saw Tarin was across a creek and into some dense brush, he'd doubled back and led the men astray. He'd even hooted and hollered as he ran. Tarin swallowed the tender nut meat and moaned. He could still remember the men's triumphant yells as they surrounded Mart and carried him shoulder high and bound out of the woods. Tarin had lain still and watched them march by.

And now he was in his eighth summer in the woods. Was he destined to lead a pack of men away from Cory or some other younger boy?

Heh. Maybe. But today was a good day! Sunlight toasting him, the leaves shifting gold and green around him, food to eat alone -- time enough to worry when the frosts actually arrived. His tree branch was broad enough for him to relax on. He had no fear of heights and Cory said he had monkey feet -- his toes could grip as he climbed, and he could even pick up small stones with his feet.

"What's a monkey?" he'd asked, and Cory had shrugged.

"Something with feet like you, I guess," he'd said. "It's just another of those words we have."

Tarin yawned. Where do words come from? was a perennial around the fire musing and wild-story spinning pastime for the boys. The men never came in winter, so the boys would risk grouping together for warmth and building fires. One winter, Tarin recalled, perhaps his fifth in the woods, they'd even ventured out of the far side of the woods from the men, and the boys had lived together through the snow months in a Before Times building.

Right now as he lay in the dappled sunlight, warm didn't feel like a worry, but that had been his best winter ever. It was the year Mart had found an injured doe -- it had one of the men's broken arrows in it -- and they had meat. Properly cooked in a scavenged pot as well so they had all the juices too instead of the half-raw, smoky and gritty strips of hare that was their usual meat. And then he and Mart had a deerskin blanket that they could hide under and stroke each other without comments from the littler ones. Lady! He squirmed and yawned again. That had been beyond good. Being inside and warm and fed and with Mart all the time. That was probably what home meant. The next year, the men had destroyed the building when they over ran the woods in their fall raids. Some of the boys said it was meant to be -- they shouldn't have left the woods in that direction.

He loosened his waist strings so his cock could poke free from his simple leather pouch of deer hide. He didn't like wearing even that much, but he'd learned to protect his cock and balls as he berry hunted. He missed Mart. Cory would pet him with his hands until Tarin gifted him with his come, but Mart had used his mouth to coax and lick his load from him. Mart would swallow straight from him, but Cory always primly lapped from his cupped hands. Tarin felt his gift was being politely accepted instead of relished. He tried to set an example by eagerly claiming his share from Cory's cock, but it made no difference. Cory would shoot, but as soon as he was done he'd pull his prick away from Tarin's still hungry mouth.

Tarin pulled at his foreskin a little and felt his cock push forward. He spat into his palm -- still purple with blackberry juice -- and rubbed his dick. He wrapped one leg tight around the oak limb and moaned as the bark chafed his inner thigh. It was rough but felt so good. No one had caressed him since Mart. He rode the branch a little as he slid his foreskin back and forth. He leaned back to relieve the pressure on his balls and yelped as a twig prodded against his butt. Lady, how would that have felt if it had poked in?

He bit his lip -- his cock had jerked at the idea even as his brain said ouch. Some of the boys said cocks could go there, but that was crazy talk. No one had ever actually done that! Mart said Aran, the boy who was his older protector, claimed his protector had got his cock in, but it had made Aran yell too loud, and even spit didn't make it slide like a wet palm would. Tarin had grunted and said it's always someone who knows someone -- never any boy who's actually here. Mart had sighed and moved his finger from Tarin's tight, dry, little hole and agreed it didn't seem likely.

Tarin pumped his hand faster. Lady! Yes! He tightened his hand, and his come squirted between his fingers. Scat! He tried to cup his hand, but his precious fluid was already pattering onto leaves below him. Damn. That was bad luck -- and wasteful. He licked his fingers clean. Mm, berry juice and salt.

He leaned back against the tree trunk. Safe, private, fed, and satisfied. The sun and the breeze worked to dry his sticky cock and balls. He squinted across the treetops and tried to spot movements in the men's camp. ENDEXCERPT They had a whole grouping of Before Times buildings that they used, and beyond them was a huge canyon with sides of white stone and a black rubble bed. A crumbling bridge crossed it, and on the far side were treasures. The boys would watch for the men setting off to food hunt, then, once or twice a summer, a band of the older boys would sneak past the men's buildings in a generous loop, cross the bridge, and bring back as many Before Times things as they could carry -- or that they could see a use for.