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Mr.Benson puts Joey and me to work as both of us are Poz and are very desirable to chasers and stealth condom fairies. At bathhouses, we show up; ass holes are spread open for our toxic loads. We got to colleges Gay frat parties, which are safe only, so we have to hide our Poz tattoos, but we bring our condom that always fails. Sometimes we hear someone came down with the flu. One college newspaper posted that the school has a high number of men who have tested POZ. We get a call from Mr.Benson to come home ASAP, so we both know something is up. When we get back home, he hands us chastity devices and says that he is going to lock us up for the next 30 days. He tells us that we are going to the Bio Hazard Ball; it's going to be a fun time. We see the rules: Tops can not be on meds, and must be Poz then will be tested before entering. Poz Tops can only use these drugs. Caverject Viagra Poppers Tops will ware either wrist band on their left wrist white with red crosses or a Glod wrist band that lets people know they have full-blown AIDS. Bottoms will be negative lockup in chastity will be tested 30 days then two weeks before the event to make sure they are negative. They must go on a liquid diet two weeks before arriving, the only drugs they can use. GHB Meth Poppers Ketamine They can not refuse any Top advances or their load. If you have a condom, you will be removed out from the party. The party is to convert as many bottoms as possible. I ask Mr.Benson how does this party goes, so there are enough bottoms as he is laughing then says there is no limit on the number of tops as they keep the ratio of neg.chaseres to POZ Tops at 4 to 1. There are so many bottoms who want to become Poz; they put a limit on them. They have taken over the whole hotel, and it's so crowded at the check-in line, then Mr. Benson says, let's go this way. They have a separate line for the Poz Tops as we have to get tested. When it's my turn, they ask me my age, and I say 19 he is laughing, and 20 minutes later, I get my POZ wrist band. I see a few with the gold band, as they are like royalty, I see one with the gold band who is about my age and I can see the bulge in his pants. Walking down the hall to our room, I see the doors with this symbol + or - so it's too let you know what you are. Tops can lock their door as bottoms, can not lock their door, must be open all the time. Tops can wear whatever clothes they want; bottoms can only have PINK jockstraps on. There is also a grand ballroom that is for public breeding. The chasers are in a pen like you have cattle, and the Tops pull them out, take them to one of the benches, beds, slings and breed them put a butt plug in their ass then back the to pen.

To start, it might help to tell a little about me. I am basically a somewhat regular person that most people wouldn't really notice while walking past on the street or in the mall. I lead a standard life with nothing really spectacular on outside appearances but out of sight of most folk I have a distinct affection for many alternative and kink realms, and oftentimes the more outside the norm something is, the more I feel attracted to it. This adventure starts on Grindr where I had been chatting with someone (Mark) for a while but had yet to ever meet. His profile originally caught my attention because of his attractive picture, as well as several of the things in his bio including his interest in kink and other activities. An additional aspect that caught my eye was his status which was listed as poz / undetectable. I was negative and we had chatted somewhat in depth about his status, when and how he contracted it, his treatment and so forth and his openness with everything made me feel quite comfortable. While I have played around some (both protected and unprotected), I have tried to be relatively careful while doing so and I have managed to remain disease free in all ways - through having caution in who I meet with as well in the activities we engage in and the level of protection. Mark and I had talked about getting together with some of our conversations becoming very steamy, but I live with family so my place is only available at certain times and his living situation made his place unavailable for meeting there. Between that and our differing availability (he sometimes travels for work) our getting together never happened. It had been a while since I had seen him online then one morning I logged in to find him there which immediately sent a tinge of arousal through my body. I had woke up particularly horny and hadn't played for quite some time so was thinking of masturbating to start the day but really wanted something much more and I sent him a message saying that I was horny and asked if he'd like to meet. I embellished the message to be intentionally enticing and pointed out that it was safe to meet and play at my place right now if he was available. His reply was every bit as enticing as my invite and he essentially told me I better be careful what I asked for because I just might get 'it' because he hadn't gotten off for a long while and was horny. He then added that he had been out of town for a while with work and it would probably be best if we didn't meet right now which sort of burst my bubble. I was turned on by the first part of his reply, but disappointed with the last part so responded with a picture of my bare ass and replied "Do you want to cum - here?" in an attempt to encourage him. He didn't respond for several minutes then a picture of his bare, glistening wet and fully erect cock popped up on my screen and he replied "My cock says yes, but we would need to talk first." His cock picture sent a bolt of electricity throughout me and I replied: "We can chat here *I gave him my address* and would love to meet you. I am free right now." It was another several minutes before his reply. "I will be there in 20 minutes." I replied "Awesome!" then immediately headed to the bathroom to do a quick pre-play cleansing (inside and out) with my heart beating deep and fast. Clean-up went pretty quickly and I was in my sweats and a t-shirt by the time his car pulled in front of the house. My heart continued its rapid beat and in addition I could feel wetness seeping from my loins as he came toward the house. I met him at the door and could sense that there was passion flowing in both directions as soon as our eyes connected. Once inside, I closed and locked the door and led him to the bedroom where the lighting was dim and I had porn playing on the screen at just the right volume to set an atmosphere. He said it was great to finally meet me which I replied much the same, and since he wasn't making any moves I got on the bed and moved to the other side and he sat down beside me. His pictures hadn't really done true justice and his body was even hotter than I anticipated, particularly with his loose fitting gym shorts and t-shirt doing little to hide his physique. It left little to the imagination but I couldn't keep my hand from reaching over to rest on his upper thigh where it slowly moved toward a covered but quite pronounced bulge. Mark's hand came to rest gently on my forearm and as he looked straight into my eyes he said: "We need to have a little talk." "Can it wait for a little bit?" I asked as my eyes looked back into his and my palm came to rest on top of his thinly covered but very evident erect manhood and balls with my fingers tenderly moving upon him. As his eyes closed, his head leaned back into the pillow and it became clear that the talking could wait. His relaxed and awaiting posture increased my desire and I moved around to face him while on my knees and kneeled there with one hand continuing to explore his loins with my second beginning to caress his upper body. His hand remained in place on my forearm but began to slowly stroke as an encouragement for me to continue. As I continued to touch and softly squeeze, his cock grew ever harder and his body relaxed as if in a further invitation. My hand slid downward on his leg and then up once again, only this time it entered between his flesh and his shorts where I cradled his bare balls and engorged manhood. Talking became the last thing on our minds and when his lips parted, it was not to say words but for his tongue to emerge and wet his two lips. I haven't been big into kissing but in the atmosphere of the moment, I found the urge and leaned forward where our lips locked and our tongues intertwined. He appeared to like the kissing too and within moments the head of his cock was covered with wetness as his pre-cum began flowing forth. We both moaned in unison and continued our kiss but as I removed my now wet and slick hand from inside his shorts and attempted to remove his shorts, he pulled his head slightly back and murmured "We really need to talk first." I somewhat sarcastically said a soft "Yeah?" before my lips again enjoined his while I maintaining a downward pull on his waistband. His body seemed to give in and with his eyes fully closed and his tongue softly swirling, his bottom raised upward and soon he was bare from the waist down. I raised up to see his exposed cock and balls and with the rapidly increasing temperatures between us, I removed my shirt and began removing my pants. He leaned up to shed his shirt too and we were then naked together. In seeing his bare body, I was in full and complete in lust. The feeling was likely mutual because as I leaned down to lick his soaked loins, his palm rested atop my head as a sign of encouragement. The taste was truly alluring and just when I thought I had cleaned up every droplet into my mouth, another would appear and his flow never stopped. My mouth then opened and took him inside, starting at the head and working downward until I began to choke. His arousal seemed to increase as I did so and in addition to the hand on my head, he placed a second on my ass cheeks where it began rubbing and squeezing. As his fingertips probed further, he discovered that I was slippery with lube that I had applied earlier after I had cleansed myself. My lips began moving up and down on his engorged cock and I did my best to take it all the way, but I'd softly gag each time it reached the deeper depths. He didn't seem to mind though and perhaps it was a turn on because I soon found his fingers entering in and out of my ass in tune with the movement of my mouth on his cock. With my hands free and not occupied by his cock, I reached for a bottle of poppers and took several deep hits, with only a momentary pause in my sucking. The feeling of euphoria soon overtook my body and evidently my throat as well because I found myself now taking his entire hard cock fully with only an occasional small gag, and from his reaction, he was enjoying it as much as I was. I rose once again and took a huge hit, held it for a short bit then followed with another. I then replaced the cap and moved to straddle his body with my bare ass coming to rest atop his hot and wet cock and I looked deep into his eyes. He began to mouth the word "no", somewhat softly at first but increasingly stronger as I slowly gyrated on top of him. When his cock nuzzled up to the entrance of my hole and my opening began to part, he reached up to take hold of me and said "We have to talk." I looked at him and stopped, my body hungering to go downward, but I waited to hear as he began talking and said that he had been off of his meds during his work trip because he had forgotten them at home. I was conflicted and admittedly a bit scared too, but at the same time my arousal was through the roof - the feeling of exposure and the vulnerability of a poz and possibly no longer undetectable cock probing inside my body had my heartbeat and breathing going spastic. With the length of time he was off of his meds, neither one of us really thought it would be safe to go on, and things had come together and happened in a way that there wasn't an opportunity to research it before we got to this point. In honesty, didn't want to become infected and he didn't want to infect me, but at the same time our arousal had taken us to this all-time high point for both of us. As we were talking about it, I became aware that I was now sitting fully impaled on his rock hard cock - and I could now feel both the soreness of my fully stretched ass and the stress his knob was creating as it was pushing the lining of my inner rectum further within my body. He realized how deeply he was inside too and shyly said that it felt like his cock was leaking and that things were becoming wet inside - but at the same time, was admittedly feeling so very gawd awful hot. As I remained motionless and uncertain, Mark reached down and came back with the bottle of poppers that had worked its way beneath his bottom and was now quite hot from it's confined position against his hot flesh. Almost by instinct, I reached forward, took the bottle in my hands, exhaled completely, removed the top and took multiple inhalations of the warmed and deeply potent scent. Upon completion, Mark took the bottle from my hand and took a strong hit before closing the bottle, his palms coming to rest on my hips where he took a somewhat assuring grip - looking into my eyes with a renewed sense of arousal. I began to raise up, causing his cock to slide alongside my stretched and open hole which gave a wonderful feeling. My lifting also removed some of the pressure on my painfully stretched inner membrane, but interestingly the feeling of being deeply impaled on his cock felt far better than the sense of not being there - particularly after the last dose of poppers I just had. While I think I was intending to get up and to stop - because we could always wait and play another day when we knew it was safer - but my body, the moment, the poppers, and the amazing feeling of his cock being inside my ass caused me to sink back down and to become fully impaled again. "What are you thinking?" Mark said as he looked into my eyes, his palms holding me tight but not forcing me either way. I looked deeply back while moving slowly back and forth on his potentially potent cum pole, pondering for a few moments, then without a further thought, I raised upward, his cock pulling free and watching it wetly slap against his stomach. I then took a position with my bare body beside his, my exposed ass raised slightly in the air and clearly said: "Fuck me, gawd, fuck me hard." As his body rose, I planted my face deep into the bed and it was probably a good thing that I did because when his cock plunged roughly inside me, I gave out a strong audible gasp and the fucking began. I am not sure if the tears that began to flow were from the pain that his hard fucking was giving me, or from the magic (or the fear) of what was happening, but at this point I was beyond any reasonable thinking - things were just happening and I didn't want to make it stop. I really didn't know if things were going to be okay but at this point I really didn't care, I just wanted it to happen - no matter what 'it' was. Mark was fucking me ever more intensely and I took each and every stroke, including the variety of slaps and punches that he began giving me while asking if this is what I wanted (he knew well of my masochistic interests), only to have my body twist and writhe to his motions, not trying to escape but to try to remain in place as it all happened. This went on for quite some time. My body can only take so much though and it reached the point I couldn't take anything more, but before I could say a word, he plunged deep inside and further than any stroke before, his teeth making a hard bite into my shoulder that I knew would leave an eternal mark and as I gave a full throated scream, his body began convulsing and pulsating with his unleashed cum flowing into and coating my worn rectum. His fucking had stopped and I think he was just as exhausted as I was, but he didn't get up and continued to lay on me, his cock firmly lodged and with the bulk of his cum contained inside me but with an ooze of the overflow working its way out too. It was quite a while before he finally pulled his body free and for me to be able to start recovering. I remember how precious it was though in hearing his words about how amazing of a fuck it was, and if nothing else, I felt great satisfaction in knowing that I pleased him that way (which turned me on and only made me want him to fuck me again - soon). I lay on the bed a bit longer with the growing stark realization of the seriousness of what just occurred, which was really sinking in with a multitude of thoughts flowing through my head, some absolutely scary. When we met, the last thing that I wanted was to become poz, but now that we had fucked like that, some of the scary stuff began dissipating and was being replaced with some type of wanton desire. The fuck was like nothing I had ever experienced in my life. If nothing more I am filled with a cherished (and in some ways physically painful) feeling, and having the uncertainty involved is making it even more intense. While time will tell what the ultimate outcome of this play will be, I found that my play with Mark was very much on the edge compared to anything I have done before and visiting the edge is something that I find myself wanting to happen again - particularly if it carries an euphoric and true degree of risk.

I am in an open, loving and supportive relationship for 28 years now. We are married. Our relationship has always been open. I have a lot of sex with other guys. I host sex parties several times a month. And it works. I think the reason is because we are both secure in ourselves. There is no jealousy. We have a wonderful relationship. And living in Palm Springs, I have a lot of friends in the same situation. The idea that you cannot have a successful long term open relationship is bullshit. While there are many factors that go into it, communication is the key. We both understand that life is too short to keep each other from having fun and exploring ourselves. I think too many guys place their insecurities on the other guy instead of dealing with it themselves. I am not saying an open relationship is for everyone. If you and your partner are into monogamy, great. However, there are a lot of us who like and enjoy an open relationship. And it works.

I left the toilet clothes in hand and butt naked. My cock still hard and dripping. I was a little torn between wanting to watch him knock up some 18-year-old and getting cock up my ass myself. But my quivering ass made up my mind for me. My ass still felt the assault from that AIDS daddy in the restroom. Having his cock up my ass for just a few minutes pounding away coating my guts with his toxic precum for just a few strokes made me uncontrollably horny to get fucked by anyone. I wanted to cock up my ass. Any cum, lots of cum, from anyone who would do it to me. I was really hoping the rumors I had heard about this place in Evening were true. The sun had set but the night was clear and the moon was pretty close to full. I walked to the edge of the woods and stood there gently stroking my cock before I walked in. Giving my eyes a chance to adjust to the change in light. I looked back toward the toilets. I saw the shape of a young guy moving towards the toilet. He was stripping off his clothes as he approached. When he got to the door he tossed his clothes in some shrubs next to the door. I heard the squeak of the door as he entered. I don’t know what possessed me to do what I did next, but I walked back over to the toilets and pulledthe kid’s clothes from the bushes. In the light I could tell that his clothes would fit me OK. There was a pair of basketball shorts that would be a little snug but not bad. There was an oversized T-shirt, perfect. And a jockstrap. I held the pouch to my face and sniffed deeply. Unmistakable scent of teenage boy underwear. I had smelled it enough time with my own two boys. I knew what teen boy cock smells like. I slipped on the jock. Tossed my clothes into the bush where his he been. And took his clothes with me. I stepped onto the trail at the edge of the woods. I walked down the path able to discern shapes and movement in the half light. There were other guys in the park. I don’t know where they had come from because there were no cars. There must be another access to the park. I walked along quietly gingerly until I got to a spot I recognized. It was a spot where almost 3 years ago I had been pozfucked by a hot young guy. The spot where my quest for AIDS started. I stepped off the trail and took a few steps towards the figure out the dark. He started moving closer to me. As he got within a few feet we recognized each other. It was the kid who passed me almost 3 years ago. And he recognized me. ” hey there,” he said “ Haven’t seen you around here in a while. Back for more?” He reached up and grabbed my cock. Pulled me in for deep kiss. I wrapped my arms around his body and he felt smooth but kind of bone. He pulled away and I looked him up and down. Above his right that was a biohazard symbol. He had a slightly wasted look. He reached up and grabbed my cock. Pulled me in for a deep kiss. I wrapped my arms around his body and he felt smooth but kind of bony. He pulled away and I looked him up and down. Above his right path was a biohazard symbol. He had a slightly wasted look. We started talking and making out. I dropped to my knees and took his cock into my mouth sliding in deep as I could into my throat. While I was sucking him he confessed to me that the guy in the toilets had converted him a month before he fucked me. He told me I was his first breeding after he was positive. He also told that he had full-blown AIDS at this point. That turned me on more than I could say. I slid his cock deep in my throat as I could. Milked it with my throat muscles. He moaned grab the back of my head and started face fucking me. Slamming his cock deep into my throat. After a few minutes he pushed me away. ”Fuck dude” he said,”you’re an amazing cocksucker.but I want that ass. I want to give you my virus.” He pulled me up and pushed me back around up against a tree. He squatted down behind me and spread my ass cheeks. He buried his face in my ass, tonguing my hole, working it in an out.I was moaning like the slut bitch that I am. Begging him to pause my ass up. Begging him to slide his aides babies up into my guts. ”Oh fuck dude. I want that ass so bad.” he muttered. He stood and unceremoniously plunged his cock deep into my ass all the way to the hilt. I screamed and moaned at the same time. He rested his cock in me as he slipped a poppers bottle under my nose. He held my nostril shut and I breathe deep. Reached up and held his hand in place. I breathed in three or four times in that one nostril and then switched. I breathed then three or four more hits in the other nostril. I was flying high as his cock started pistoning in and out of my hole, Tearing up my guts and banging my prostate hard. I was moaning and begging for a seed. Begging for his aids babies. Begging for his virus in my bloodstream. Then I started begging him for demon seed. Begging him to bring me over to the Darkside. In my mind all I could think was that I was sacrificing my ass to pure evil. My cock was hard and rubbing up against the material of the jockstrap. As the kid fucked me I shot a big load into the pouch of the jockstrap. And as my ass clamped hard for my orgasm his cock began to spasm in my whole. He grabbed my hips hard and pulled me as close up against him as he could get. Pushing his cock as deep in my body as it would go. Past my second sphincter. Deep into my guts he poured his aids. I can’t explain it but ass his semen filled my body a kind of shadow fell over my soul, fell over my vision. Not only was there no going back at this point, there was no desire to. There was only desire for cum. There was only desire for pleasure. There is only desire to please anyone with a cock. Deep in my soul I knew that I had given myself over completely to cock, cum., and pleasure. He stroked his cock in and out of my ass a few more strokes. He rested against my back. His cock gently slid out and he stepped away from me. I never saw him leave because as soon as he stepped away someone else stepped up and another cock slid into my hole. After three more cocks and three loads in my ass I finally left the woods. Cum was running down my legs but I didn’t care. I felt so complete so satisfied. As I walked by the toilets I checked the bushes. The clothes were gone. Some random kid who just got an ass load of aids was walking around in my clothes. It was then I realized all I was wearing was the jockstrap. As I approach the road I slipped on the shorts. And jogged my way back to my car. I never bothered to change clothes or to put on the shirt. I just threw myself in the car and went directly to the porno store And spent the rest of the night worshiping cock and accepting seed from anyone.

*Cums inside* ... I asked you to pull out ... Oooops, forgot to turn my hearing aid on! 😈 Goodness, if my Dick is inside a boys cunt, that is it, it is then a done deed that I WILL be ejaculating inside of him. If he is not prepared to be inseminated, then he should play with tops who use condoms. Would you place a delicious looking slice of cake in front of me and tell me I was not allowed to eat it?

A bit of background on me and my situation, For alittle less than a year now I have been seeing (servicing) a very dom older black man. Ive become completely submissive to him, and he has used me several days a week since we first met. He also has me service some of his buddies on a fairly regular basis. I spend nights at his place sometimes, being used by 5 to 8 other black men throughout the night. Since the lock down about a month ago, he had to stop doing things with multiple men and weekend parties. He said to make up for it that me and him would be spending the lockdown together. I am working from home, on call, but not many hours of the day have to go into my work. He has been staying at my place almost every night for a month, I have not worn clothes in a month, except for a collar. I service him all day, while he kicks back, watches tv or plays video games, I will be sucking and licking him. He has also always been into me drinking his piss, which I have always submitted and done. But I admit, the first week or so of him staying here was rough, I drink ALL his piss now. It was a bit much to get used to. At times I think to myself how fucked up that is, but I cant help it also turning me on. Then theres the thought of how I have swallowed on average at least two of his loads, every single day for a month. Over the last year I have come to realize his submissive I am, and he has certainly driven that home, but being nothing but a sex slave and naked for a month now, its a mind trip. When all this crazy covid stuff is over, he said I should find a job where I can perminately work from home like this, and that if I do, he will take all this even further, and make me more of a sub that I ever could imagine.

Perspective, eh? In a D/s dynamic, as a sub if I have a Dom controlling and organizing who breeds me, it strengthens my connection to Him because i think of any other guy as an extension of Him, kind of like He is using them like living dildos to fuck and gape me. Though I know everyone isn’t wired that way

Older, Not Wiser The show on the TV ended and the next episode looked pretty lame, so I turned off the TV and picked up the laptop to do a little surfing. I hit most of my usual hookup sites and had a couple emails at a few of them. There was one from the older guy and I opened it first. "sorry for not replying sooner, been busy. Yes, I'm sure. You up for meeting?" the message read. I wasn't sure I wanted to deal with an older vanilla guy, but I figured it was worth getting a little more info. "maybe. u on prep?" I sent back. The little green dot next to his profile told me he was online and I wondered if I would get a reply back. It was only a couple minutes and I heard the "ding." "What's that?" he had replied. I chuckled to myself wondering just how experienced this guy was. "a drug" I replied, being intentionally vague. Less than a minute later I had his reply. "I don't do any drugs other than pot on rare occasions. Do you?" he asked. I shook my head and laughed. I responded "pot 4 me 2." I knew this guy was in way over his head and yet my cock got hard thinking about dumping a toxic load or two inside him and letting fate decide what happens. Once he was poz he could become the sex pig he's always wanted to be. I hadn't gotten another message, so I sent one "when u want to meet?" A few other sites didn't generate any interest and I was about to give up when I got a message back from the older guy (phnx469). "Sorry, wife interrupted. meet @ 6pm?" he said. This was getting more interesting. Was this guy yet another married bi guy craving poz dick? I sent back "ok. where?" and he answered right away "20th floor by elevators." Chuckling to myself I wondered if he was college boy's dad. Yeah, there were over a dozen other condo's on the floor, but it was really hot to think I might have a chance at knocking up a real father and son. Coming back to reality, I replied back "u going 2b alone?" "Yes. Wife n kid will be shopping" he replied. I licked my lips and typed out "ok." With a few hours to kill I watched some porn and then showered. While he wanted to meet at the elevators, I took the stairs instead. I felt a little more winded than normal for climbing nine flights, but put it down to my more sedentary life locked up at home and with fucking my only real exercise. "Gonna have to come up with a workout schedule I can do at home" I thought as I opened the door. Looking down the hallway, I spotted someone near the elevators and walked calmly towards them. As I approached he seem startled that I didn't come via the elevator. I wasn't really sure that it was him since the pictures were of a smooth guy and I could see chest hair popping out of his tank top. His legs showed a decent amount of hair on them below his jogging shorts and he had several days growth on his face. "Phoenix?" I said quietly and he nodded. One thing I don't like is guys sending out pictures that are either old or different on how they look. A new piercing or tattoo is fine, but 30 pounds heavier or like in this case, much hairier, is deceptive advertising. He said "Follow me" and started walking down the hall. He wasn't walking towards college boy's condo, so another fantasy was gone and I tried to figure out what I was going to do. One option was to turn and go back the way I came but that seemed like a cowardly way to end this. I followed him down the hall and was surprised when he opened the door to the other stairwell. As soon as we got inside, I put my hand on his shoulder and said "Stop." Phnx469 seemed to be surprised. In a hushed tone I said "What's the deal? Your pictures don't really look like what I see right now and you aren't even naked yet." He stared back at me a moment, looking confused. I flicked my finger over the tufts of hair poking over the neckline of his tank top. "Oh that. Yeah, my wife wanted me to shave my body hair and that's when the pictures were taken that I used on the site" Phnx469 said. Pushing him against the wall, moving about six inches nose to nose and no where near a good social distance, I looked him in the eyes telling him "Dude, that's not cool. I don't mind hairy guys but you clearly are showing a smooth guy on your profile. What else is totally wrong?" He was nervously shaking and I saw him try to speak, but nothing was coming out. On the third try he mumbled "Nnnnnothing. That's the only thing that changed. I... I... I hated shaving it all the time." I realized that I may have given him that "try kinkier stuff" goal accidentally by getting a little dominant with him. That wasn't my intent, but it helped get my point across and I told him firmly "OK, that's your one and only fuck-up. If anything else doesn't check out, I'm gonna be outta there and you're never getting another chance. Understand?" He nodded and I backed up, letting him get by and head down the stairs. We only went down one floor and ended up going into apartment 19J. I looked around and chuckled to myself, thinking I was suddenly in some grandmother's apartment. Lace was everywhere - on tables, on the curtains and on the 'art' on the wall. All of the furniture looked like it had been stolen out of Queen Victoria's castle. I hoped it was his wife's style choice but at least one of these pieces was probably going to have a cum stain or two on it soon. I gently guided him towards the sofa and told him to strip. "Bed?" he asked and I said "Nah, this looks like a better place. I can watch the door in case anyone comes home." "Let me get a towel" he then said. I chuckled and told him "Just don't make a mess and you'll be ok" before I put my hand on the back of the waistband of his shorts and pulled them down. I raised my foot and pushed them the rest of the way to the floor as I said "Suck me quick before I see how that cheating ass of yours is." It wasn't a bad blowjob but nothing that was going to make me shoot right away. He knew how to do it, unlike a lot of straight or bi guys, he was just nervous sucking cock in his living room in full sight of the door. I rested my hand on the back of his head, which got him to take more of my stiffening cock into his mouth. He was struggling with the thickness but was doing a good job of keeping his teeth off my shaft. Wrapping both hands around the back of his head, I eased my cock deeper until it hit the back of his throat. He began gagging right away but I held it there a few moments before letting up and allowing him to breathe. "Oh fuck! I don't know if I can take that" he gasped out. "Oh, you will. If not down your throat then up your neg ass" I replied, pushing back in. It went deeper this time and I gave a little shove just before I pulled my cock out. He stood there staring at my spit covered cock and then looked up at my eyes. I knew he was having second thoughts but at this point I was committed. Unless he was a really bad fuck, he was going to get fucked and loaded up with my special DNA. Rubbing my cock over his lips as he looked up at me, I wanted to feel his tight pussy stretching around my cock. Letting go of his head, I grasped his arm and pulled him to his feet, turning him around and giving a gentle push to the corner of the sofa. He kneeled on the floral fabric cushion, bracing one hand on the arm and one on the back of the sofa. I knelt down and pried his hairy ass cheeks apart, pressing my face in between and rimming his hole. He was clean but there was the faint taste of lube so I didn't dig my tongue in any deeper. I forced some spit in though and based on the quivering of his sphincter he was relaxing a bit. "Perfect" I thought to myself and stood up, dragging my cock along the spread crevice until it found it's next target. Pulling the rest of my foreskin back, I pushed the dripping tip inward until I felt it give. Phnx469 started to groan loudly so I leaned forward and put my hand over his mouth. "Fuck, you're tight. Relax or this is really gonna hurt" I whispered in his ear. Adding more pressure, the further in I went the louder he yelled. My hand muffled some of it but I was glad we were not in the bedroom near the neighbor's apartment. I gave the side of his head a whack with my other hand and said "Relax, damnit!" His grip on my shaft loosened a little and I got another few inches in. "Is this the first bare poz cock you've taken?" I asked. "Mmhmm" he groaned out. "Good, then let's make this a memorable fuck" I replied, rocking my hips back and forth. I plowed a minute or two and then pulled almost out and dripped some more spit on my cock. He probably had everything setup in the bedroom, lube and maybe even condoms on the night stand, towel on the bed and maybe even a hidden camera to record the deed. But I was going to do this my way. Thrusting my hips, I went back to slowly plowing his tight hole and opening him up. He stayed still and while tense, he wasn't fighting my dick. I don't know if he got tired or relaxed more but after a couple more minutes his hole loosened its grip slightly so I could drive in easier and faster. The groans and grunts from him also had a less strained tone to them so I uncovered his mouth and moved both hands to his shoulders. It gave me a good stance to fuck him harder. I still hadn't given him all of my cock, it kept bumping into his inner ring and making him grunt but I hadn't broken through yet. Moving back a few inches, I changed my angle of attack and started digging the head of my cock in different directions. I knew the second I hit his prostate from his loud moan and the quivering of his sphincter around my cock. Surely he was leaving a nice wet patch of precum all over his wife's flowered couch. His cock wasn't the only one that was flowing precum. His hole was getting juicy and giving off those sloppy pussy sounds I love to hear. Part of me wanted to keep fucking him until his family came home and found him getting fucked by a stranger but I didn't want to deal with the drama. I drilled him harder for a few more minutes and then slowed down. I looked over his shoulder and on the table next to the couch was a picture of him, a woman and a teenage boy. "That your family?" I asked, grinding my hips on his ass. "Yeah" he said with a worried tone. I just chuckled and began thrusting again, turned on by him looking at his wife and kid while some stranger barebacked his cheating cunt. My balls started to tingle and I knew it was time to fill him up with my tainted seed. Shoving in hard, I broke past the inner ring and phnx469 let out a loud yelp. I dragged my cock slowly back and rammed in again garnering a painful "Oh fuck!" One more shove and I couldn't hold it in any more. The first few spurts fired off as I was shoving in and the next few were planted deep inside him. He moaned out another "Oh fuck!" while I growled breathlessly "Take that fuckin' poz load!" Each throb of my cock pumped more virus filled semen into his ass and it felt damn good. Rolling my hips a few times as the last few shots of cum pumped out made sure that his guts were painted with a thick coating of my cum. We stayed connected for a couple minutes until we were both breathing normally and my cock had started to soften. Slowly, I pulled out and saw a glob of dark pink cream run out of his stretched out hole, off his balls and on to the cushion of the couch below. As I backed away, he slowly stood up, his cock still hard and dripping the last remnants of his neg load. The back corner of the sofa cushion was wet and creamy as well as the seat cushion where he dripped while I fucked him. The scent of cum permeated the air and I knew he was going to have a hell of a cleanup job before his family got home. I picked up my shorts and put them on, grabbing his shorts and mopping the sweat off my face. Tossing his shorts at him, I started walking to his front door. "Thanks, man. You got a good ass and I'm sure that won't be the last poz dick you take" I said over my shoulder. Opening the door, I began walking down the hallway to the stairs at the other end. Just after I passed the elevators, the car arrived and out walked a woman and her son. They both headed in the other direction and I almost burst out laughing. Phnx469 wasn't going to have time to clean up the mess on the couch and he might not even have any clothes on. He really was going to have an interesting evening.

#8 Half Swedish & Half Mexican switch. 5ft 7 120LBS. black hair brown skin I have a 4 GA. P.A and other body piercing.

Me too, bloody hell. The bigger he is gaping the better. And I'd be inside of him like a whippet, enjoying fucking my man's loose warm cunt with all that other cum sloshing about. 💦👅💦

A while back i commented on here how i knew a hot guy for about 2 years that i had met on grindr. And for those 2 years he always fucked me with a condom . His dick is amazing a good nine inches or more , thick and big ballz . Think Rocco Steeles dick exactly like that no lie! But he always used condom i hated that and he never kissed or made out . With him it was always a quick one nite stand . He would come to my place and out the door in 10 mins . It got to the point i wasnt even enjoying it anymore so i stopped replying to his texts . Then yesterday he texted me out of nowhere after knowing nothing about him for probably more than 2 months. He said he was really horny and hadnt had sex in 2 months. I tought eh what the heck i also been really horny and havent had sex since all this quarantine shit started . I live in los angeles California were they been really strict with the lockdown . So i was really horny and needed something up my ass BAD!!! So even tho i knew he used condoms i was so desperate i told him fuck it come over. Ive got deep cleaned enema and all and called him over. When he showed up to my door my jaw dropped . I mean he was already good looking now he was even better. Hes tall about 6'4 nice worked out body he cuban/Mexican and has a nice full beard . Just how i like them . Im short 5'6 skinny twinkish ,smooth bubble butt so latin men like him are my favorite. Once we were in my roon we both instantly got naked and laid down on my bed. And for the first time ever in 2 years he pinned me down against the bed and started kissing me passionately he stuck his tongue down my throat and made out real good . He then started kissing my neck and going down and sucking on my pink nipples and bitting them again first time he ever did those things. What took me by surprise was that he also ate my pink smooth hole for the first time ever. Then i sucked him off he got rock hard then we 69ed for a while he ate my ass out while i sucked his dick . So he then put me doggy style and i tought UgH he gonna put on the condon now. But nope he for the first time ever sticked it in raw and with no lube only spit. Fuuuuck it Fucking hurt but felt so good cuz like i said his dick is huge and thick . He fucked me 4 times in that day every way and position imaginable and shot all his loads real deep inside me . It got to a point he was actually making love to me. It wasnt like before were it was a quick 10 minute one nite stand and no kissing. This time it was very different we made out while he was fucking me and he kissed all my body and made me hickies all over my neck and on nips . He was telling me how he always wanted to fuck me raw but never asked me because he always tought i was gonna tell him no. So after we were done i told him in available every day at what ever time. Since i live alone and working from home. He told me im also available every day 24/7 . He now gonna come over every day. Yum cant wait ! I guess something good did come out of this quarantine

I have had a few boyfriends whore me out and I loved it every time. if your boyfriend is a cumdump that loves taking anonymous loads from strangers then thats what he was born to have done to him. the first boyfriend started taking me to the bathhouse to watch men fuck me. first one or two then more and more. soon he started whoring me out online and taking me to guys places to watch them fuck me. sometimes he couldn't watch so he would wait outside for the guy to finish using me then take me to the next man. the second boyfriend who whored me out did the same but would also take me to the porntheatre, strip me naked and offer me to EVERY SINGLE man that came in. trust me, if your boyfriend is even half as slutty as me he will love you for whoring him out. the more men the better. the dirtier the better. thats what pussyboys are for. have fun getting him used

If I will have a relationship again, it must be open. Being a bareback whore is the point of my life. I hope, my future boyfriend will force me to have sex with others.

“Stop fucking flinching. Take it like the worthless faggot I always knew you’d become.” I could barely see straight through the fog of my high. It wasn’t anything hardcore yet that night, but the alcohol and edibles, paired with some fresh poppers and 8 loads earned deep in my cunt had me lost in pleasure and submission. There I was: ass up in a motel, taking anonymous loads… and it was him forcing my hole open. I knew his voice. It was the man who started it all. It was David. Again. 10 years ago I was a condoms-only college kid with a fantasy to submit. And then he showed me what it meant to really get used. What it meant to give myself to a real man. What it meant to regret it. And here he was - 8.5 thick inches pulsing deep inside me while he wrapped his hands around my neck and choked. 10 years ago I wouldn’t have recognized the shell of a faggot whore on that motel bed. Hell, I barely recognized him that night. As this beast of a man tore my hole open yet again, I realized just how far I had fallen. I was leaking in my cock cage, begging, and crying. But to him? I was just an object. No different than the object he’d raped 10 years earlier. And we both knew it. “Cmon, faggot. Put your mouth around the barrel of the gun. I want to play a game.” — 10 years earlier, and I was 20. It was the summer between my sophomore and junior years of college in Los Angeles, and I’d grown more and more comfortable with my sexuality. I was a good looking guy: nearly 6’0, Italian blood, dark features, hairy and tight body. I could fuck any college kid on that campus, but it just didn’t quite scratch that itch. I needed to get used. Or at least thats what I fantasized about when I jerked off. And “getting used” seemed to be getting darker. Rough fucking had become verbal fucking. Light bondage. Slapping. Pain. I needed it to be kinkier and kinkier to get me off. I found myself falling down the rabbit hole, searching for boys crying, having forced orgasms, and — and it made me hard to even type it into search engines - getting raped. I wanted it. Or I thought I wanted it. It all sort of blurred together as I busted orgasm after orgasm to the kinkiest and roughest porn I could find. But I also knew that it wasn’t realistic. Real rape wouldn’t be ‘fun’. Real rape couldn’t be planned. Real rape was just a fantasy. But that didn’t stop me from being a tease. And thats when David first came into the picture. I’d met David online. He was clear from the outset: he didn’t want my name, he liked to fuck holes as objects, it would hurt. I did not matter to him. And I busted a load that first night we chatted - a huge, thick load. And then I quickly signed off. I did to David what I did to all these guys: I teased. I played out my fantasy to earn my own orgasm. Days and days. Countless orgasms. He took me deeper in those conversations, deeper than I knew I could go. He told me he whored boys out. I came. He told me he came from seeing fags cry. I came. He told me he beat a man nearly to death. I came. He told me he wanted to do it again. I came. This went on and on. Until the night that I let my 20 year old sex drive get the best of me. I agreed to go to his place. He told me it would be rough, but that I’d be fine — that he knew so many of my desires were just fantasy. He told me he got it. He told me I’d enjoy myself - that we’d have some fun. And I trusted him. My dick was leaking, my hole was pulsing, and I was speeding down the 405… until I was there. Heart racing, dick hard, skin moist from nerves, adrenaline and sweat. I was there, knocking on his door. That knock would play out in my head for years to come. That knock was the start of a slippery slope — a slope that would ultimately lead me 10 years later, blackout in a trashy motel, throating a 9mm pistol, effectively destroyed no matter the rules of his game. But that night 10 years ago? I just thought it was going to be some quick, rough fun.

I wonder if guys are trained by their (normal, straight) peers to be monogamous, at least EXPECTING the OTHER to be so? That would then make us 'conditioned' to feel 'weird' about having our significant other 'violated', fucked, and inseminated for erotic purposes. Our gloomy afterglow regrets may be about LOSING CONTROL and allowing in 'competition' and trouble. All seems hot in the moment of passion but when the nut is gone, the seedy reality hits them like a nagging hangover. I wonder! I recall feeling AWFUL and violated in my amateur beginner phase, still obsessing about 'love' and monogamy with 'Mister Right'! It was hell when I saw my estranged BF take off with other guys, knowing full well that as he disappeared into his place, the hotel or whatever with him, a hostile contender, the nemesis, he was getting fucked: raw and reckless! Getting inseminated by 'that jerk', that total stranger, that smooth-talking hustler who somehow 'outbid' me in the mating game. Jealousy and anger consumed me and me thinking 'it can NEVER be the same again after this'. Knowing that the stranger's DNA was marking 'my man' as 'no-longer-mine'! Weird trips our minds play on us! Talking about kinks and tolerated behavior: One badass 'stealther' from this site whom I talked to on the phone disagreed with my 'open whore' policy my man and I developed. "IF I HAD A BF... he would NEVER be allowed to let somebody else fuck him!" Hinting that extramarital sex means that we have 'marital problems'! His one-sided cheating on a conned sub, yes! St@#lthing yes, but mutually agreed on whoring no! Go figure! Well guess what buddy; you don't have a BF and I'm going strong after ten years and even better since we agreed on 'whoring each other out'. I recall the first time I let a stranger fuck my man in front of me: me intimidated and in awe all at the same time. He was partial to my man and probably could have done without me there. He wanted to know if poz-talk was ok. I didn't even know what he meant. I took pictures of the stranger's cock slipping in and out of my man's hole, eventually nutting and delivering a cream-pie inside and on his hole. Unlike others (in the regret phase) , I felt in incredible sensation of arousal, one that had me crave for more: more cock, more sex, more promiscuity and lewd talk. I even took pictures of the raw insemination and licked the dude's cock as his throbbing cock-shaft eventually pulsed a load into my man. The picture on top of my profile is from that day featuring a stranger's cock on my man's DNA-juiced hole. The pictures and every event like that since turn me on enough that I can jerk off to it on the long COVID nights. Sometimes as my hubby and I have sex we tell each other about our exploits THAT DAY, or the intimate details of fucking with other dudes and call each other 'slut' and 'whore' as we fuck and jack off. So fucking hot once you both have completely embraced total promiscuity with your bro!

Voted with #7. I would love to have voted #9, but of course I am blessed with hands and forearm(s) to stretch a hole to my greedy satisfaction. I will add to the size that my Dick happens to have a strong curve when fully erect, and have been given feedback on how it glides over and into the prostate causing the pig I am fucking intense pleasure. I feel very blessed to have that curve! 🍆

See, if my BF was like this, I’d be so proud.

just got fucked by a guy with an actual 12 inch cock. thick and meaty. how do I know it was really 12 inches? he has a ruler tattooed on his cock. told me he had to take some viagra and an injection of something to keep it rock hard during the inkwork. pretty meaty too but it slid in fairly easily so he said "damn you really are a slut. it usually takes me awhile to get into a fuckhole. it helped that he got my ass after a fairly busy night. took him so long to cum but damn when he did his cock got rock hard and I could feel it pulsing inside me

I love to sit on cocks like this. Until they can’t hold back and shoot deep inside.

My exact same sentiment. Just that I am a top

I have never had a condom in me. I went from a long term relationship with my step dad to the man that would ultimately poz me. My situation was that I knew he was poz and he said he didn’t want a relationship with anyone that wasn’t poz. I convinced him to breed me and three months later I tested poz.

I think he was just looking to suck, but I went from jerking his cock as he blew me to rubbing his ass and fingering it and pushing some spit snot in to moisten him up. I grabbed his balls so he couldn't stand up, and went around back and shoved my cock in fast before he could say no. He let out a moan, but I was balls deep and fucking him before he told me he didn't like to get fucked. "It's ok buddy just relax" I said as I STILL was fucking. He stepped forward a bit but I had his waist gripped tightly so I moved with him, and kept fucking. He was clamping my cock really hard, and by the time he yelled at me to stop I was nutting inside him, so I stopped. 'You want me to pull out?" I asked him, and he said yeah. I took a step back and my cock plopped out. He stood up and quickly got his underwear and pants back in place, and just left without saying a word.

Part 15 - Apricots and Americans Mark woke with a thick head in the morning and rolled over to face Luca, cuddling and kissing for a while before they both showered and went down to breakfast. Oliver's flight from Rome was scheduled to arrive at midday and they were on the road just after 10am for the drive to Pisa airport. Luca watched Mark who sat there with a smile on his face the entire trip to the airport constantly chatting about how much fun he had yesterday and how he needs to speed up his language skills. Luca on the other hand was more worried about Mark's reaction when he finally met Oliver, it had been made clear that Luca now had a boyfriend but would Oliver heed this and still try his hand at getting him. The flight had just landed when they walked in to arrivals and checked the board. Luca busy on his phone and Mark was playing shag, marry, kill with all the men walking past. Mark's eyes acted like radars picking up the each sexy Italian that walked in view and some foreigners. "What have I got involved with" Luca laughed returning to his phone. Mark chuckled "Now that one I would definitely shag and marry" he suddenly said urging Luca to look. Luca raised his head "You can do, that is Oliver" he chuckled and waved waiting for Oliver to come over. "Blond?" Mark exclaimed looking at Luca "never had you down as liking blond guys". Luca glanced at Mark "I don't" he said smiling at Mark "anyway it is mousey blond". "Luca" Oliver called out a few meters with a big smile on his face. Luca stepped forward and hugged Oliver "Olly so nice to see you" he said warmly "This is Mark". Oliver looked at Mark who stood slightly taller "Pleasure to meet you Mark" he said drawing his words out. Mark nodded without realising his guard went up seeing him as a threat "Likewise" he replied. "I was disappointed when I found out about you" Oliver said to Mark "I can see why he likes you". Mark looked cautiously at him "As long as you remember Luca is mine" he said clearly firing a warning shot. Oliver made no show of the hiding the fact he found Mark very sexually attractive just like Luca. They grabbed coffees and headed to the car for the drive up to the Tuscan hills. It was a torturing drive for Mark, unsure if he liked Oliver, after all he knew that this guy was a threat to Luca and him. It annoyed him how Luca would chat aimlessly with him with the occasional prodding of Mark to join in. Gio was coming back from his run when the car pulled in to the villa courtyard. Oliver greeted him with a hug like long lost friends whilst Mark stood and watched for a moment then walked in to the villa bumping in to Sarah 'is he here?' she said excitedly walking past. Luca opened the boot of the car and pulled Oliver's case out, closing the boot he noticed Mark was missing. "Come on boys lunch is ready then Luca can show you to your room" Sarah said taking Oliver's arm. Gio took the suitcase from Luca "Where has Mark gone?" Luca asked his father with a concerned voice. "He went inside" Sarah replied hearing Luca ask his father. Gio stopped Luca "Is everything alright?" he asked "with you and Mark?". "Yes" Luca replied looking at the villa "at least I think so" he said "he was quiet in the car". Gio put his arm around Luca's shoulder "Go find him Luca, think Oliver being here may upset him". Luca walked through the villa on to the terrace where he spotted Mark wandering deeper through the apricot orchard. He called out to Mark and stepped down tracing where he saw him last. It took a few minutes but he found the legs sticking out from behind their favourite tree. Luca grabbed two apricots and sat down handing Mark an apricot. "Tell me what is bothering you?" Luca asked glancing at Mark. Mark looked at the apricot "Do you love him?" he asked surprising Luca with his question. "Hell no" Luca replied "why would you think that?" he asked trying to urge Mark to be honest. Mark glanced at Luca "The way you both reacted seeing each other and your parents" he said trailing off. Luca smiled "He is charming and yes he is sexy" he said stroking Mark's leg "but I love you Marco". Mark sighed "I'm sorry for being stupid. My instinct was warning me" he said leaning back against the tree. Luca sat forward and took a look around then kneeled between Mark's legs, his hand running up along Mark's thigh and firmly grabbing his cock 'your hard' Luca said to Mark as he bowed down. His hands freeing Mark's cock and quickly his lips rubbed the head and his mouth slipped around and down the shaft. Mark rubbed Luca's head 'Luca not here' he tried protesting but Mark was already too far in to an orgasm building up. Just the sight of Luca was enough to turn him on wildly, he was whimpering in sexual pleasure trying to stop himself crying out. Hips jerked up and Mark groaned feeling the release from his balls. His head scratching against the bark of the tree as he tried to control himself from crying out and ended up giggling holding Luca's head down on his cock. Luca raised his head and took a bite off his apricot and chewed it mixing the cum with the flesh of fruit he then kissed Mark deep. Passing the apricot flesh between one another Mark slipped his hand in Luca's shorts, swallowing the fruit he pulled Luca up to a kneeling position and ran his tongue over Luca's cock. Luca raised a hand holding on to the tree 'oh fuck' he sweetly whispered closing his eyes feeling the warmth and moistness of Mark's mouth around his cock working him. Mark took his time hearing the moans from Luca, he could feel the cock swelling slightly and knew Luca was going to blow his load. Luca took his hand off the tree and held Mark's head feeling the contractions pulsing in his cock, so oblivious he didn't even notice Mark moving his hand around Luca's ass inside his shorts until he felt the finger pushing in to his hole. Luca gasped and released a girly shriek his orgasm heightened from the simultaneous assaults on his cock and ass. Mark pulled his mouth off Luca's cock and looked up at him taking a bite from his apricot he chewed then pulled Luca down and kissed him passing his cum loaded apricot flesh to Luca. He rolled on to his back laughing and took another bite of his apricot. "Now do you believe me when I say I love you?" Luca asked starring up the dabbled sunlight. Mark laid on top of Luca "Yes" he said looking in to his eyes as Luca's mother called out for them. Luca leaned up and kissed him "We should go before they come looking" he said hugging Mark. Walking back to the villa hand in hand Mark purposefully kept hold of Luca's arriving at the table, mostly for show so that Oliver would see it as a defiant display of their love. Oliver looked over and saw the defensive way Mark behaved carefully looking in the eye defiantly, to Oliver it was a challenge he was going to take up. He might show a defiant stance now but Oliver loved nothing more than breaking guys that thought they were tough enough to stand up to him. Little by little he would wear Mark down until he was nothing but his bitch, then he would move in seducing Luca away. He knew Mark's inexperience would pale in to insignificance and show how pathetic he was being unable to hold on to Luca, stealing him for his own gratification and watch Mark disappear in to the shadows. Indeed he switched on the charm with Mark doing to his best to win him over pretending he was no threat. Mark sat there acting his part, aware that Oliver seemed to be playing him. One thing this American didn't know was never to come between a guy from Manchester and his lover, Mark could tell that Oliver had underestimated him and decided to see how far he would really go and show his true colours. At least the rest of Sunday passed peacefully and dinner was generally good natured. Luca seemed happy that at least Oliver and Mark were getting along, on the outside he was sure Mark didn't see him as a threat to their relationship but he had no idea what was brewing between them. Luca returned from the bathroom naked and kissed Mark getting in to bed. "You seem to hit it off with Oliver" Luca said snuggling down in to Mark's arms. Mark looked at Luca "He is playing me Luca" he replied with his finger rubbing Luca's nipple gently. "Don't be silly" Luca replied "what makes you think he is up to something?" he asked stroking Mark's thigh. Mark kissed him gently on the mouth "He looks at me like I am naïve maybe even stupid". Luca smiled "Johan" he said looking at a confused Mark "Johan is a psychologist, we will invite them over". Mark chuckled "Oliver doesn't scare me" he said wrapping his arms around Luca "do you trust him?". "Not in the slightest" Luca replied pulling Mark closer locking their lips together. Embraced in their loving kiss it wasn't long before Luca felt his body being pulled under Mark, their bodies already glistening from the humid air his cock slipped into Luca. Raising his head Luca kissed him hard his hand holding Mark's head close keeping their lips attached, he moaned feeling the sensual strokes penetrating his ass. Mark slipped his free hand under Luca's neck holding his head up, the closeness enabling them to share the experience of their love making as one. His moans softly echoing around the room from the increased intensity of Mark's hips producing loving and delicate thrusts. Luca aroused purely from the feeling of Mark's body lying on top of him, he continued the tender love making feeling every pleasure rising from Luca's body. His love and desire for Luca building in his groin rapidly, his breathing heavy and short gasps feeling the sensations tingling through his body to his balls. Luca moaned 'oh Marco' he whispered feeling the hips pushing down and locking tight to his ass. Luca's hand grabbed Mark's head firmly keeping him as close as possible together they orgasmed, Luca ejaculating under him and Mark sealed their love freeing his seed in to Luca's body. Breathing deep in to each others mouths, clasping their lips together kissing and riding their orgasms together. The moment of simply, pure and very real intimacy between two lovers. Their bodies drenched in sweat as Mark slowly extracted his cock and rolled on to his back catching his breath. His hand stroking Luca's back and ass who now moved closer and laid his hand across Mark's chest. Luca got up and fetched some tissue and cleaned the sheet as best he could, leaning over he kissed Mark and grabbed his hand 'time to cool down' he said taking Mark downstairs and out to the pool terrace. Mark chuckled getting in to the cool water but instantly refreshed, they swam around and kissed as quietly as possible. From his window Oliver watched, the darkness of the bedroom hiding him from view to the outside world. Admitting to himself that they looked good together, for now. When Luca woke he wanted to act quickly and tried to get his uncle and Johan over on today but they were not free until 5pm, agreeing to come over Nico had briefed Johan what Luca had asked him to do. Johan showed a lot more concern, he liked Mark from their initial meeting at the family BBQ and only too happy to help. Sarah and Gio had left at 9am to visit friends in Pisa and would not be returning until Tuesday. By the time Luca and Mark went down for breakfast Oliver was sat there at the table in just his shorts drinking coffee. Mark couldn't take his eyes off Oliver's body seeing in properly for the first time, Marzi appeared with breakfast and more coffee. Luca reached over and saw only one apricot in the bowl, he stood up and said he would go and fetch some more leaving Oliver and Mark alone at the table. Oliver reached over and took the last apricot and placed it on the table, Mark was sat opposite him and fixing his gaze he smirked placing one finger on the apricot rolling it around. Mark sat there with both his arms on the table playing with the spoon watching Oliver. "Did you sleep well last night?" Mark asked his eyes still firmly on Oliver. Oliver looked at the apricot then back to Mark "Yes" he replied "how was your swim?". Mark raised and eyebrow "You saw us?" he asked watching Oliver nod "we were hot and sweaty from love making". Oliver smirked at him again "There is only one apricot, what do you do?" he asked cryptically. Mark looked slightly confused "Share it" he replied watching Oliver roll it around with his finger. "What if this one apricot was worth half a million dollars?" Oliver asked looking up at Mark. Mark said nothing "Selfishly take the apricot and it's value then leave?" Oliver now asked. Mark sat there quietly aware of what Oliver was doing "It is a small price for such a priceless thing". Oliver smiled "What if it's value soared to one million?" he now asked seeing Mark's eyebrows raise. "Take the apricot and leave" Mark replied his eyes focused on the apricot. Oliver nodded "You take the apricot and disappear for good" he now said watching Mark carefully. Mark rolled the apricot around with his finger "Such an expensive apricot" he replied lifting his finger off. "Worth every dollar" Oliver said testing Mark's resolve and sensing he was close to taking it. Mark smiled and put his palm over the apricot "Apricots don't last forever, but I can crush your dreams". Oliver watched Mark crush the apricot "Crushed like your offer" Mark said "you can't buy me off". Oliver grabbed Mark's hands, his foot began working up Mark's leg "Waste of a perfect fruit". Mark moaned feeling his toes slip inside his shorts rubbing his balls under the table "Stop that" he said. "You should have taken the offer" Oliver said pushing his foot hard against balls gripping his hands tighter. Mark grimaced "You will not win Oliver" he managed to say "we love each other". Oliver released the pressure slowly massaging Mark's cock with his foot "Getting hard Mark?". Mark smirked and saw Luca walking back with a handful of apricots "Looser" he said looking at Oliver. Oliver tapped harder watching the grimace on Mark's face then removed his foot "We will see" he said releasing Mark's arms. Oliver smirked at him again and realised that Mark was not going to be as easy to remove like Andre was. Here was a person that was not intimidated so easily and could not be brought off. Mark sat with a steely determination, his eyes clearly warning Mark not to mess with him over Luca. Mark turned to watch Luca approach with a smile on his face until he sat down and placed the apricots in the bowl, he noticed the crushed fruit on the table between Oliver and Mark. "What happened to the apricot?" Luca asked looking at them both. Oliver chuckled "We fought over it and it got crushed in the process" he replied looking at Mark. Mark smiled at Oliver "Like the million dollars he offered me to leave you" he said seeing Oliver's shocked face. Oliver never expected Mark to say anything "Is that true" Luca asked looking at Oliver. "Million dollars of crushed apricot" Mark interjected quickly. Oliver looked at Mark then Luca "I had to try one more time Luca, but he won't budge". Luca shook his head "Value what friendship we have Olly, just don't come between Mark and I". He wasn't sure if he was angry with Oliver or not but it did seem to clear the air a little, he kissed Mark lovingly and more so for being honest about what had happened. Oliver knew it as a very stark warning from Luca and eased off, over breakfast he engaged Mark in conversation making it rather more pleasant. The day was spent enjoying the best of the summer weather by the pool, Mark was constantly on his guard watching Oliver's every move. By late afternoon Oliver was beginning to concede that Luca did only have eyes for Mark. Desperately he wanted to find love, he loved the fucking around and it had been a good few years. Seeing them together and how in love they looked was striking home that he had no one to share his life with. Mark had made it clear to Luca that as sexy as Oliver was he did not want to risk giving him the opportunity so sex with him was out of the question. laying by the pool Luca stretched and said he was going to get from fruit, Mark walked with him then dived in to the pool to cool off. Behind him a tremendous splash showered him with water, he turned to see the body surfacing out of the water. Laughing Mark felt the strong arms of Johan lifting him up in the air like a ballet dancer before dropping him back in the water. Oliver looked on shocked at the stranger who had arrived. Mark managed to swim away and called back 'toy boy' he shouted clambering out of the pool watching Johan give chase. Johan looked at Oliver 'Don't just sit there grab him' he shouted. Suddenly Mark felt Oliver grab him and pin him down to the floor smiling, Johan arrived and picked Mark up throwing him back in the pool then jumping in back after him. Oliver still confused by what was happening sat on the edge of the pool dangling his feet in watching them. "I see you met my husband" Nico said sitting besides Oliver who turned with a surprised look on his face. Oliver looked around for Luca "Who are you?" he asked beginning to see similarities to Gio in his face. Nico chuckled and held out his hand "Luca's uncle, Nico and that is Johan my husband". Nico smiled "Ciao Luca" he said feeling Luca's arms going around his neck. "Ciao zio" Luca said kissing Nico on the mouth "Sorry Oliver I forget to tell you they were coming over". Oliver though was completely fascinated and in awe of Johan and his build, definitely more muscular than Oliver and with his height he carried it off to perfection. He was oblivious to what Johan was up to and before he knew it he had warmed to him and opened up personally over a dinner of antipasti, bread and wine. After dinner they sat by the pool taking the occasional dip. Oliver found himself in the pool alone with Johan, unable to keep his hands from feeling Johan's body telling him how amazing it was. Johan kept his gaze fixed on Mark then briefly kissed him and held him in his arms a little to tightly for Oliver's liking. "They make a very nice couple Luca and Mark" Johan said quietly in Oliver's ear. Oliver nodded "Yes" he replied agreeing getting aroused held in Johan's arms. "Be bad if anything came between them" Johan said "nothing could protect the person who broke them apart". Oliver remained quiet for a moment "You mean me" he eventually said feeling the arms tighten sharply around him. Johan kissed Oliver's neck "Glad to see you are not stupid Oliver" he whispered kissing his neck again. Oliver leaned his head back like a powerful force had overtaken his body arousing him even further. Johan kissed his neck nibbling upwards then suddenly he let go pushing Oliver away and got out of the pool leaving him there alone. He was so aroused by the brute force of this man and leaned against the side of pool knowing full well he had been given a very clear warning this time. His body feeling like electricity, no man had ever made him get in to such a state without actual sex. Luca and Mark sat there watching Johan seducing Oliver into a horned up mess, he was smiling when he sat down at the table joining them. Nico looked up "Well?" he simply asked quietly "what is your analysis?". "He wants to break you two up" Johan replied looking at Luca and Mark who nodded. "How do we stop it?" Luca asked desperately. Joahn smiled "Don't worry, he got the message" Johan replied "dam sexy guy" he said picking up his juice. Luca leaned over and gave Johan a kiss "Thank you" he said feeling a hand on his waist. "What is this?" Nico asked spotting Luca's tattoo, Johan pulled the shorts down and looked at him. Luca felt embarrassed "Oh I forgot about that" he said shyly afraid to look at them. Nico was looking at him "Luca!" he exclaimed waiting for him to answer. Johan smiled standing up pulling his shorts down revealing a small biohazard tattoo "You?" Luca asked. Johan nodded "Yes, and you?" he asked watching Luca slowly nod his head he turned to Mark who nodded as well. "Why didn't you tell me Luca?" Nico asked holding Luca's face. Luca lowered his eyes "I didn't want to it splashed around the family" he replied. Luca looked in to his uncles eyes "And you?" he asked seeing him smile and nod. Luca and Mark both laughed then Nico spoke "You want to take Oliver home for the night?" he asked Johan. Johan looked at the Oliver in the pool "Depends if these two have any plans for him". "No" Luca and Mark replied in unison looking at Nico and Johan then laughing to each other. Nico went over to the pool and pulled Oliver out "Your coming home with us tonight" he said. Oliver grinned "Don't I get any say in the matter?" he asked knowing full well he was going. Nico chuckled "No" he replied. Luca and Mark said good night to Nico and Johan after being invited over Saturday afternoon and evening after they have dropped Oliver off at the airport.

How ironic the prequel to my next chapter as set out above is titled *Waiting*. For those who are wanting more to this story, and have been patiently *waiting* for more, all my stories have taken to the back burner as I have got a LOT going on in my personal life. I do realise a lot of time has elapsed so maybe interest has waned. However, if you are still eager for more, give this a like so I know to continue. I do have the next chapter almost ready to go to print, ha, and have concrete plans on how I want to develop the central character Stevie boy, and most definitely have plans for his boyfriend Lew, and the next door neighbour Ramon. ☣️ I sincerely hope everyone is keeping well in light of global events that have unfolded during the last few months, and continue to evolve on a daily basis.

I’m an uncut guy myself but have never turned down a decent circumcised cock because here in the US most guys are circumcised. So basically any European foreigners and Latin and Asian guys are usually circumcise. The rare uncircumcised American dude has crossed my radar. Latex warped cock is indistinguishable and brutal on the sensitive anal walls. So, do you bareback loving bottoms crave uncut juicy wet cock or dry rough circumcised cock. Obviously there is line to be added to the mix but I’ve noticed that even when an uncut dude is lubed up his cock head is also already super moist soft and throbbing purple ready to breed at any moment. Which is a trade off not all uncircumcised guy cum fast but most do. Uncircumcised guys last slightly longer pressed up against my sensitive prostate. As if uncut cock needs to be soaked first in a cumdump absorbing all his cum into his cock head gland and after hours of fucking is silky smooth. Don’t get me wrong I’ve had some amazing impregnating sessions with large cut American guys that made my nipples and ears tingle. All caveats aside the smells and foreplay associated with an uncut cock is sexually Arousing. Especially when their glorious foreskin is super wet and stretchy and knocking at my boipussy’s door. The feeling of the folds of skin stretching open and Trojan Horsing a super warm, wet and silky moth cock head immediately after unzipping and flopping out his cock, screams ready to fuck. my last hookup an extremely large cock head, larger than average scraped the shit out of my ass for the first 30 mins and I was super sensitive the whole fuck. He came buckets but compared to the last Latino Papí at the mall restroom. Oops guilty. He was leaking and ready to fuck. He slide His large uncut cock inside my tight hole, no, he snuck his large uncut cock inside my hole immediately after presenting my pussy under the stall and pounded his babies deep inside my happy hole. It happened so quick and intensely that I was left craving seconds. uncircumcised natural cock is my preference when barebacking. What do you BB bottom sluts prefer?

It has all seemed so normal. Todd hadn't known anyone at State. The 19 year old had left his small town home where his only fuck buddy was a football star on his high school team. When Todd was assigned Dan as a roomie, he was happy to have a football player. After all Todd's major was athletic training. What a break to have an in with the football team. Dan was a Soph who knew the ropes. He took Todd under his wing; helped him learn which profs to avoid, how to get free cable tv, got him a fake ID, and introduced him to homebrew. The last was Todd's downfall. Dan said that it was an acquired taste. Todd discovered that it was. After the first month, Todd could hardly hide his hardon from Dan. Dan was 6'5" with shoulders like a bull elephant. His body had a covering of dark hair and his beard, well let's say he had 5 o'clock shadow by 9 am. His strong dark eyes showed strength of purpose. It was too much for Todd who was blond, lean, and virually hairless. His blue eyes sparkled in an attractive way. It was Todd's cock that made him different. It was almost nine inches. He was always embarassed by the size in comparison to his 5'8" stance. He had manage to catch a glimpse of Dan from time to time. He was large, Todd knew, but buried in public hair. It was a free weekend for football and Dan asked Todd if he wanted to go to some friends. It was byob so Dan and Todd were filling the cork topped bottles with the homebrew. They loaded them in an old wooden soda case and started for the party. It was mostly guys that Todd didn't know in a townie's house. The house was run down and a good distance from the city. When they entered, Todd thought warm beer, no good. Dan had a co2 fire extinguisher from the rec center to cool them as needed. After the 3rd beer, the guys put pornos in to watch. They were home made and Todd could see Dan pumping pussies. It made him uncomfortable as his dick began to rise. When Dan handed Todd the 4th beer, he had already opened it. Todd thought nothing of it. Good old Dan. After a few minutes the room began to be unclear and soon Todd was out cold. Dan picked him up and was led by the 7 other guys to the basement. It wasn't that he didn't know the way, Dan had been here many times before. In fact, the porn scenes from the vid were filmed here. The guys pulled out their blue pills and swallowed. It would be about 10 minutes before Todd came to. While they waited they pulled out the blunts, smoking and passing them around. When Todd began to stir, they all moved over to him. Dan slapped him to wake him. Todd found himself strapped in the sling, naked, surrounded by naked jocks with amazingly hard cocks. He wondered if it was a dream. He saw the glass pipe that Dan was using, he saw the torch, he saw Dan inhale the cloud. When Dan blew the cloud into Todd's mouth, Todd wanted to cough. Dan held the boy's nose and mouth tightly shut. He repeated the action 3 times. As the drug began to work on the strung up boy, Dan said, " I know what you want. You will get my cock tonight and at least 7 others. Do you want it?" Todd could only nod in disbelief. The redheaded guy brought Dan a baggie filled with crystals. Dan licked his middle finger and pushed it deep in Todd's waiting ass. Todd like the fell of the finger but there was a burning sensation. Dan repeated the action three times. Todd felt hornier than he had ever felt. He begged someone to touch his cock which must be huge by now. They laughed. Dan said, "Boy, that cock has done shrivelled up into your body, and he rubbed across to prove it to the amazed boy." Todd's ass needed it. He craved it. He begged someone to fuck him. All deferred making him plead. Dan finally said, "Okay, boy. I go first. You will never be the same." Todd begged, "I need it!" Dan wet the head of his purple cock and stuck it in the bag of crystals, then into the waiting boycunt. He loved fucking and it showed. Todd urged him on every thrust answered with a pleasured moan. It took Dan almost ten minutes of hard fucking to leave a huge load in the boy. He pulled out and had Todd lick his still purple cock. Meanwhile the redhead stepped up. He teased Todd with just the head of his cock. Todd yelling fuck me, man. Please fuck this ass! Slowly but surely the other six left loads in Todd's pulsing cunt. Then, they went for another round. After the redhead's second turn, he left the circle of guys long enough to return with 2 syringes. Todd felt the rubber around his arm, he watched as the needle entered his vein and a little red blood want drawn then the syringe was emptied into his arm. When the rubber was pulled away, Todd coughed violently. He was a cum whore. All he wanted or needed in life was cock. He couldn't get enough. Dan had posted a craigslist ad and the guys began arriving. Some repulsed Todd but he didn't care as long as his ass was filled. Todd lost track after the 10th load. He knew each had given Dan $20.00. They left him to sleep in that sling. They didn't clean him up. They put a wash pan under him to catch the cum as it dripped out. On Sunday, Dan dressed a still groggy Todd and carried him back to their room. That is where they watched the video!

Who wants to cum fuck me and take A picture with my bareback ass kik TsSelenaLopez currently in dallas

So, this is going to take some explaining. I have a FWB, closer to boyfriend, but neither of us is great with labels. He works as an installer for home theater systems, installing these immense actual theaters in client’s homes. Not always an actual theater, but more often than not, yeah, full fledge theaters. What I am trying to say is that my Friend works for some pretty rich people. He has also been whoring me out to some of these clients since we got together. It’s a fetish he and I both have. But that bit is a different story. So one of my Friend’s clients contacts him and tells him that he is gonna have a stay-cation for a couple of weeks and that he was wondering if he could provide some entertainment. Meaning he wanted my Friend to whore me out to him for his two-week vacation. But this time it would be no clothes, full bondage, my hole would be open season for whomever was in the house. And I had to be okay with that. Little different then us meeting up and him fucking me for a few hours, having a beer, and then me going home. And while it was a hot idea, I wasn’t really sold because two-weeks is a long time and that kind of sex means I get to eat jell-o and drink water so my hole stays as ready as possible. But my Friend knows how to convince me to say yes and after fucking me to the tune of four cum loads in my hole he got me to agree. SO the day that he is suppose to take me over there comes but we are waiting for a text from the client. By the time it comes its super late and it had a fun instruction for the drop off. The client wanted me to be naked and hooded in the trunk of my Friend’s car. Hot, but again no go for me cause weird. I have been fucked by this particular guy before, but this was some new territory for us. And I was a little nervous. Again my friend got my clothes off and fucked me, but then wouldn’t let me cum. I make bad decisions when I’m horny and recently fucked without release. Which meant on went the hood, off all my clothes, and me in the trunk of a car. I was never so thankful for a garage as I was in that moment. So we went on a drive to the client’s house, which was still not the weirdest way I have ever been transported naked. We arrived and after being let in to the gate the car was parked and I was let out of the trunk and led to the house naked. I could hear people around, more than just the client and my boyfriend. After we were in the house the hood still was taken off and I was led to an area where my hands were cuffed and secured above my head to something that was hanging from the ceiling. I waited then for the hood to come off, but it didn’t. Instead I heard the client that I had been whored out to announce that some more entertainment had arrived and to “enjoy.” For a minute nothing happened and then I started to feel hands. A lot of hands. Everywhere. Now I know I had agreed to this. It was my fetish, but I couldn’t see anything. I didn’t know where my Friend was. I didn’t know anything so I was obviously nervous. And that made some of them even more interested. Maybe a little more forceful. What started out a simple groping turned quickly into pinching, pulling, and greased up fingers stretching my hole. They weren’t quick about prepping me. They took their time. Multiple hands spending time finger fucking me until my nervous squirming turned into writhing like a slut. I may have been nervous but this was still getting me hot. Once my hole was loosened up I felt the first cock slide in me. I was fucked by the first cock for what seemed like forever but was probably more like ten minutes before he left my hole empty and a little gaped. And thus began a parade of cocks that fucked me and filled me. Every now and then one of them would cum in me and when they slid out of me they cum would leak out of my hole and down my leg until the next cock came and used the cum as lube to fuck me some more. Mind you the hood still had not been taken off. In the end if everyone that came in me wasn’t a repeat I took twenty different loads in my hole. By this time my arms were sore and my legs were starting to give out. And that’s when I felt myself being let down and led up some stairs. I was put in a room and the door closed behind me and finally the hood was taken off. It was the client. I asked where my Friend was and he told me that he had left an hour ago. He then petted my head and asked how I was doing. I told him I was a little tired and he made a sympathetic face at me. He then asked if I was going to hold up my end of the deal, he said this while playing with my cock. I was still hard. I hadn’t cum yet. So of course I said yes, because good decisions. He told me he was happy and that I could relax in the room, but he needed to get me in position first. That’s when he led me over to a fuck bench and laid me down on it, strapping my legs and arms down. He told me to go ahead and get some rest, but not to be surprised if one of his guests came in to use my hole some more. With that he left and I was strapped to a fuck bench hard as a rock, but nothing going on. I must have fallen asleep, but was woken up to a massive cock thrusting into me all at once and another cock being shoved in my mouth. And so continued my first night as rented out sex toy.

A perspective into a dynamic that I also relate to, understand, and fully appreciate.

It sounds like there is the possibility if you’ve put restrictions on his whoring ways you may find yourself disappointed. I may be misreading what you said. My sense is your BF is a complete cumwhore. Are you sure that’s okay with you?

This vid may not exactly fit the category, i.e. porn/breeding, but it's I've posted several lately of my titwork. My tits are hot-wired to my hole, so whoever works 'em owns the hole. During quarantine there's been no use of it sad to say, but as soon as this is over - Oink! From this video you can also link to some of my breeding videos - not the greatest but, that's why I need to make more when we can. The position is open - hit me up. Thanks! [think before following links] https://www.xtube.com/video-watch/isolation-clamping-tits-with-elastrators-on-part-2-oink-43829081

Mask-up and we'll fuck this week.

If you want a gay bareback haven in Asia, visit Bangkok. I never get tired of going back.

Intent. That is the relevant word here. These absurd false moral equivalencies some of you are holding up hare, where the idea that someone will ‘probably’ end up infected anyway actually justifies intentional stealthing, or absolves the perpetrator after the fact, are irrational. The enduring customs, traditions, rules, laws and taboos that regulate human societies at the base level can pretty much all be distilled down to necessary actions to ensure the survival of the species and individuals within it. While we might question whether it is “moral” or “ethical” or “good” or “right” for an infected person to stealth another, the actual underlying question is, is it consistent with the survival of the species and the individuals that comprise it for diseased individuals to intentionally make others diseased? The answer, by every possible measure, is NO. Some argue that bottoms who leave themselves more vulnerable to infection “deserve” to be infected, are “asking” to be infected, or are In some way destined to be accidentally infected, so in each case a stealther feels that any normal constraint should not apply. But the bottom, regardless of his carelessness, naïveté, or trusting or promiscuous nature, in this scenario is an undiseased member of the population. Remember the base question? Is it consistent with the survival of the species and the individuals that comprise it for diseased individuals to intentionally make others diseased? The answer, again, is NO. No, just because he’s a cumdump doesn’t make him fair game. No, the fact that you’re in a bathhouse doesn’t give you a special privilege to hurt people so you can have your fun. NO. Even if, in some inexplicable way, it could be logical to argue that as long as someone has become infected it doesn’t matter how they got that way (?) (!??) the matters of disease, morbidity and mortality are too grave for the society to accept the idea without challenge. The question must be asked: Could the transmission of the disease have been prevented? In the case of the stealther, who has positive knowledge of his condition, the answer is Yes. Yet we know that by base principal the answer to whether one diseased person may knowingly infect another is NO. So if the action that caused the forbidden infection could have been prevented, why wasn’t it? Here we come to Intent. In this situation, something has gone wrong with the social order necessary for species an individual survival. It must therefore be considered a threat and a present danger. The society must respond in such a way as to eliminate the threat. Earlier cultures might have gathered all the individuals with disease an either culled them outright or segregated them in colonies. With the advent of modern medicine, the onus of upholding the bedrock societal imperative falls upon the legal system. And so we see that in many jurisdictions, knowingly and surreptitiously infecting another person with a disease through sexual contact is considered a form of sexual assault. That is to say, stealthing is a criminal act. But what separates an accidental infection from a willful one? What makes one an accident and the other a crime? It is the Intent of the stealther. Regardless of whether a bottom might or might not eventually end up infected, it can be absolutely said that that bottom would not get infected by that stealther except that the stealther made a positive decision to cause it. Any argument that places the responsibility on the bottom for not preventing the transmission from happening fails on causality because had the stealther had not acted on his intent, there would have been nothing for the bottom to prevent. No, there is no defense for stealthing. No, it is not a matter of personal opinion or lifestyle. No, it is not a question of religious dogma. No, just because you person don’t see a problem with it does not make it okay for you to do it. No, the fact that somebody did it to you (sorry) does not give you any right of retaliation. No, just because you’re in a bathhouse make it suddenly acceptable when it isn’t anywhere else. Is it consistent with the survival of the species and the individuals in it for one diseased person to knowingly infect another? NO. It’s fucking wrong, and you know it.

For those who are wanting more to this story, and have been patiently waiting for more, all my stories have taken to the back burner as I have got a LOT going on in my personal life. I do realise a lot of time has elapsed so maybe interest has waned!? However, if you are still eager for more, give this a like so I know to continue. I do happen to have the next several chapters almost ready to go to print, and have even jumped forward past the end of this story to develop the sequel which is already looking to be much more p☣️sitively nasty 💉 with many elements/ideas already developing very nicely; I even have plans of a central character to another one of my stories for the sequel to this story, joining Thomas in his journey as a pig. As always I sincerely hope everyone is keeping well in light of global events that have unfolded during the last few months, and continue to evolve on a daily basis. Keep well.

I'm sure the both of you are more than a few members' fantasy pairings for a video to watch.

I hope you will continue this hot story ,,,🙂

So I had decided to be a bugchaser. I craved it. All the time. Fantasized about poz cock and toxic cum. I started spending time at the Hospice my congregation served. Anytime a man with AIDS came in to live his last few days, I spent time with him. Talked with him. Lusted after his wasted body. Offered comfort. More than once I held a hand while the virus took its final toll. More than once I helped a wasted AIDS patient shower. I even went so far as to strip down with him and stand in the shower with him. More than once someone on the verge of death grew hard with desire as I gently washed his body. More than once I used my hand to bring him to pleasure at least once more before he passed. More than once as I stood behind a wasted man, supporting him in the shower and let him grind his ass against my hard cock. A couple of times I let my cock slip into his body, giving him on last moment of intimacy. Allowing him once more to give himself over to desire and lust. No one knew what I was doing, sexually, with the patients. They knew I helped with bathing and personal care. But the staff trusted me and left me alone with the patients any time I came in. Two gay male nurses suspected. More than once they ran interference when another staff member was about to enter the room. They thought I was a good guy for being intimate with these men who had little time left. One of the nurses, Greg, a 23 yr old hot-as-fuck jock with a smooth torso and electric blue eyes even went so far as to whisper a quick "thanks for what you do" wink. wink as I left the hospice one night. I asked him to walk me to my car. I was overwhelmed by his raw sexuality. His beautiful form and masculine energy. He had a nice bulge in his scrubs. I guessed he had about 8". We got to my car having had a more frank discussion on the way there. I said,"Look Greg, I am not entirely altruistic in what I'm doing. I have some ... well ...ulterior motives. I just don't like people thinking I'm some kind of saint or something. I do care about them but I also am....." "Pastor," he interrupted me, "it's pretty clear to me and Kevin (the other gay nurse) that you are really a fag and that you're probably looking to get infected. You're a bugchaser right?" "ummm..." I hesitated. "Or at least a serious wannabe," he said quickly. It was dark out but I think he could tell I was blushing and half-terrified. "Nobody has a clue, except me and Kevin. We've been keeping you safe from prying eyes. Hell, we've both wanked a patient or two in our time here." he spoke softly and quickly, "the thing is we've never met a religious person like you. These guys are getting the best of both worlds from you. Keep up the good work." He turned and walked quickly back to the entrance. "See you next Wednesday, Pastor." he yelled back before he went inside. I opened the car and practically fell into the seat. Good thing I didn't have to fumble with any keys because my hands were shaking so bad I couldn't have held onto them. I realized I was playing with fire. Not the bugchasing but living this double life. It had been two years since the kid in the park had shot a toxic load up my hole. Two years of playing in porno stores and parks and mall restrooms. Two years of more cocks than I could count, more cum than I could remember. I had started PREP until I figured out how to do this. It was time to get serious. I had to get my shit together. I may have become a depraved faggot but I still loved my family and my work. I needed to get some things in order so when the shit hit the fan they'd be ok. I slumped back in the seat of the car. My cock was hard as a rock and bound up in my briefs. I reached down to adjust it, still thinking about my family. My wife who, because of physical issues, was no longer sexual. My younger son. Jason, 16 and so like me. Furry at 16. But a wrestler and built. He was also hung. My older son, Kyle, 18, collegiate swimmer - definitely his mother's child. I loved seeing him naked at the gym. He was smooth. Hung, I instinctively reached for my cock and started rubbing against the fabric of my chinos. A wet spot was already forming. My lips parted slightly, I moaned lightly and dropped my head back. Kyle is so smooth and beautiful. I remembered last time we were in the gym shower at the same time. I was looking at his body as he showered across the room, my cock chubbing up. He was so attentive to his washing. Soaping his broad chest and supple abs. He bent over away from me and his beautiful bubble butt parted slightly as he washed his legs. His hole, pink and perfect, winking at me. I turned quickly away as he stood. My cock was at full mast. I was [banned word] on my own son. In the car my hand rubbed harder and faster on my crotch. My cock twitched in my pants. So close to cumming. I could see him reflected in the shower hardware. He had turned full frontal and was absently wash/stroking his cock, getting harder and harder. I was seeing my own son getting aroused. He looked up and suddenly realized what he was doing. I swear he kept looking for a long moment. I swear that I saw in his reflection a look of pure lust as his eyes ran up and down my body. I shifted as though I was going to turn around and he quickly turned his back to me and started rinsing again. I grabbed my towel and practically ran out of the shower. My breathing was ragged and I was moaning so loudly in the car that had someone passed by they'd have known exactly what I was doing. My thoughts returned to that day in the gym. I had calmed down, had my boxer briefs on and was sitting on the bench rubbing out my head when Kyle came over the his locker next to mine. He opened the upper locker door. I couldn't see his face but he turned facing me and dropped his towel. There just inches from my lips was my son's beautiful, plumped up cut cock, twitching and just begging for me to.... In the car I groaned loud enough to be heard across the parking lot and started shooting load after load of jizz into my pants. In my perverted mind, I gave into my base desires and took that beautiful cock into my mouth. I had the most evil thought flicker through my brain as my orgasm began to subside, "Soon I'll be toxic. Soon I'll be filled with AIDS babies. Maybe I should share my gift with my son." As I came down. I was so turned on. So appalled at my own thoughts. I needed more cock...now. I put the car in gear and headed off into the night, headed to the park where it all started to have more random anonymous cock and cum.

Louis calmed down and we talked for a few minutes trying to decide who and in what order. "You know, if we really want to fuck with a few people, we can just grab them and then when they admit their fate, we just tell em that they're really not worth fucking and walk away" I told Louis. "That's evil" Louis replied with a sneer. We walked back to the tent and got a few things, stuffing them in the pockets of our cargo shorts before heading for our first victims. We snuck up on their campsite and just as we planned, jumped in from both sides. I grabbed Larry and Louis had Trey in a choke hold. Trey yelled out "FUCK!!! NOOOOOO!!!" "Shhhh, Trey. You're just going to attract an audience... unless you want a bunch of horny guys to watch you get fucked" I said. "I ain't no fuckin' bottom" Trey said defiantly. "Bottom, top, it don't matter to me. You know the rules. We got the cuffs and today we get to do what we want" I replied. Louis chuckled and said "We might have a virgin here. Score!" "Let my boy go. You can do what you want to me, just leave him be" Larry said. "It isn't that easy, Larry. You know the rules and you guys are a package deal. I always wanted to do a father and his son" I said as I watched a few other campers come closer to see what was going on. "Fuck..." Trey said. "Mmhmm. That's the idea. So, you ever see your dad suck dick?" Louis asked. "Fuck no! He doesn't do that shit" Trey replied. "He is today... just like you are" Louis said, chuckling. I pushed Larry's sweat pants down, letting them fall to the ground. It didn't take much for Larry to realize what he was supposed to do and kneeled down on the sweats. I reached down and unbuttoned my shorts and let them drop to my feet. He just stared at the bulge in my cum and piss stained jock. I looked over at Louis and saw that Trey was trying to break free from him. "Don't be an ass, Trey" I said as I pulled my semi-hard cock out of my jock. Larry sighed and opened his mouth as I moved closer, rubbing the head of my cock over his lips. I pushed in and then waited to see how good a cocksucker Larry was. It took a few moments, but Larry started giving me a decent blowjob. He began taking me deeper and really using his tongue and lips. I let him go at his own pace for a few minutes before I put my hand on the back of his head and rocked my hips, fucking his mouth. "Hmmm, your dad seems to be used to sucking dick" Louis taunted. "Fucker!" Trey yelled out. I plowed another minute or two and I heard a few grunts as my cock dipped into Larry's throat, but he didn't struggle to get away. Unlike his son. I heard Louis fight with Trey, trying to keep hold of him yelling out "You're gonna regret this, asshole." I stuffed my cock deep in Larry's throat and looked over just in time to see Trey break free. He only made it three or four steps before the now larger crowd that had circled the campsite grabbed him. Two guys held Trey and another gave a quick knee to his groin. Trey buckled over and they dragged him back over to the picnic table and pushed him face down on it. Louis pulled some rope out of one of his shorts pockets which was quickly grabbed by one of the guys. The guy yelled over at me "Put him on the table." I pulled my cock out of Larry's mouth, hearing him gasp for air as I pulled him up and pushed him over the top of the table, facing his son. The guy quickly wrapped the rope around both of their left arms. Louis tied another short rope around Trey's right wrist and then secured it to the picnic table. Larry looked over at his son and said "You stupid fuck. You know the rules. Now they're really gonna work us over." I dragged my spit covered cock along Larry's crack and then spread his cheeks, pressing my cock to his hole. I added a couple gobs of spit to his hole and started to sink in. I looked at Louis who spat on Trey's hole and was trying to stuff his cock inside him. Trey was obviously trying to be difficult. "Open up fucker!" Louis said as he gave a couple hard whacks on each butt cheek. It must have worked because a few moments later I could see Louis pushing in and heard Trey scream out in pain. "Shut the fuck up, son. Relax and take it like a man" Larry said, sounding irritated at Trey. Louis pulled out, adding more spit before shoving back in. We kept fucking Larry and Trey and after several minutes Trey's groans, grunts and whimpers seemed to change over to moans. I smiled and began fucking harder. Larry seemed to actually enjoy the fuck and was moaning louder and even encouraging me to go harder. Whether his son knew it or not, Larry was no stranger to getting fucked. I looked over and Louis now seemed to be having a good time fucking Trey, the smile on his face and moans were much better than the growls and cursing from earlier. Soon Louis was giving all the signs he was about to cum. I was close too and once I heard him start to orgasm, I shot seconds later. I don't know about him, but the ropes of cum that shot out were huge and had a lot of force to them. I stayed inside Larry for a minute after the last throb of my cock and smiled over at Louis. "Fuck... thank god that's over" Trey muttered. "Not quite. Remember, I said I wanted to experience a father AND son" I said as I pulled out of Larry's abused hole. I moved over and dragged my cum covered cock and piercing over Trey's face, letting him see what was about to go into his ass. Louis was chuckling as he pulled his dick out of Trey and walked around, getting between Larry's legs. He rubbed his finger over Larry's hole, pushing some of my cum back in. I took my place behind Trey, looking over and Louis. I nodded and we both plunged in. I heard a groan from Trey and felt his hole quiver around my cock. Larry let out a moan and I heard a bunch of the guys behind me say "Oh yeah." I started plowing his hole and it felt good. He was tighter than his dad's hole and he was not trying to prevent me from fucking him. The stallion was broken. I varied the pace, enjoying the cum filled hole and realizing that Louis had dumped a big load in him. The more I fucked him the more I wanted to make sure that he knew his attempt to run away was not going to be forgotten. I looked around at the crowd of about 20 guys behind us and thought that a few might want to take advantage of Trey's ass. Top of the list were the guys that caught him, but I also looked for guys that would appreciate his twenty one year old near virgin cunt. My thrusts got harder and I heard the moans shift to grunts from Trey. I shoved in and let my cock start to pulse, shooting ropes of cum into his gut. Looking over, Louis was still drilling Larry and I knew from experience that sometimes it took him a while to shoot his second load. With my cock still deep inside Trey, I turned and pointed to the two capturers and said "One of you, come here." I watched as they decided whom and seconds later the thinner of the two walked up next to me. "Thanks for your help earlier. I think you deserve a reward" I said to the guy. He smiled and pulled his cock out and stroked it the rest of the way hard. I pulled out and he quickly took my place, shoving his dry cock into Trey's hole. There was enough cum that it probably didn't hurt Trey and the guy was pounding him in no time. "NO! It was just supposed to be you two" Trey yelled out. "Yeah, that's before you tried to escape. Now you get a few bonus dicks" I replied, chuckling. My dick was partially soft and still covered with cum. I wasn't going to chance putting my dick in Trey's mouth since, frankly, I didn't trust him. I thought about Larry, but his current position on the picnic table didn't lend itself to a good BJ. The growls coming from the guy fucking Trey told me he was close. This was followed by a few loud grunts from Louis as he loaded up Larry. I pointed at the two polar bears we saw earlier and as they came up to me I said "One of you gets him next, the other can suck me clean if he wants to." They looked at each other, grinned and took their positions. Now, age doesn't equal experience and experience doesn't equal ability. But in this case it did. The guy that went to his knees and started to suck my cum covered cock knew what he was doing. Decades of sucking dick had made this guy an expert cocksucker. His tongue, lips and suction were amazing and he had me back at full mast in no time. Meanwhile, his partner was now enjoying Trey's cummy ass. For someone that seemed really gentle and polite when we talked at the campsite he now had a very different demeanor. He wasn't rough and animalistic like Louis or the last guy, but fully in control of Trey and he firmly drilled into his hole. It was hard to concentrate while my dick was getting sucked so well, but I thought that I needed to find one more guy to use Trey. I looked around and spotted the light skinned black guys who were still naked and seemed to enjoy watching the dad and son get fucked. I repeated my call, telling them to pick one. The guy with the full goatee got pushed forward and he came up to me. I positioned him next to me and the older guy got the hint and started to suck the new guy fully hard. A few minutes later and I heard groaning from the table and the other older guy was breeding Trey. When he moved back I could see a big grin on Larry's face. The new guy started to head toward Larry and I said "No, he's good. Take care of his son." I saw the sun glisten off the spit on his nice eight plus inch shaft as he walked over behind Trey. Apparently Trey saw it too and cried out "Oh god NO!" Trey shouldn't have worried, his ass was stretched out already and he had plenty of the best lube around. The guy slid in most of the way with one long push and then gave a little shove to get the last bit in. "FUCK!" Trey yelled out. "Yeah, you're fucked n bred like a good little bitch. Now shut up n take it" the new guy told Trey. He really looked good standing there fucking Trey. His body was lean and toned and he had a nice strong, fluid motion as he fucked. Every time he went deep, though, Trey would groan loudly. The crowd continued their comments, clearly liking how he was fucking Trey - "Pound that cumdump", "Make him pay", "Teach him a lesson he won't forget" and "Breed him good!" I heard Trey start to cry out as the guy started to pound him harder. Louis was standing next to me watching Trey get boned and stroking his cock. The thrusts slowed down but the sound of their bodies slapping together got louder. He shoved in once more and grunted as his load pumped deep into Trey's wrecked hole. He stood there a while and I wondered if he was still shooting or just enjoying the warm, wet hole. It probably was a bit of both. Louis moved in as the guy pulled out and walked back to his partner with a huge grin on his face. Louis plowed in and slapped Trey's ass hard. "Fuck, that pussy is loose! Tighten up, fucker" Louis yelled out. All I heard from Trey was a whimper. Louis jackhammered his hole and then grunted as he dropped another load inside. I decided that we had put Trey in his place and besides, my balls were empty for the moment and I needed some time to refill. I went over and slapped Larry's ass as I reached down and stepped into my shorts, pulling them back up. I patted Trey's face and said "Thanks guys, I needed that" before untying the ropes on their arm and Trey's that bound him to the table. Louis gave a few more slaps to Trey's ass saying "Yeah, thanks" as he pulled his shorts up. Larry got up but Trey just laid there on the table. The crowd started to head back to whatever they were doing before and Louis and I went back to our tent. We crashed for a little bit, smelling nice and ripe from the sweat and cum.

Huge popper pig here too. Some of my favorites: https://www.pornhub.com/view_video.php?viewkey=ph58e0eb52b3201 https://www.pornhub.com/view_video.php?viewkey=ph56f3bec18516d https://www.xvideos.com/video12132021/popper_trainer_compilation_for_popperbators_only_male_ https://www.pornhub.com/view_video.php?viewkey=ph5620a52748743 https://www.pornhub.com/view_video.php?viewkey=ph57d6a9d34393c https://www.pornhub.com/view_video.php?viewkey=ph5938aa144c937 https://www.pornhub.com/view_video.php?viewkey=ph5c83e63041fb5 https://www.pornhub.com/view_video.php?viewkey=ph5baad288d22ee Last two are my go-tos when I want to finish off a long edging popperbating session. So fucking filthy. Makes me want to get pounded hard.

https://www.xtube.com/video-watch/breeding-my-cum-sloppy-hole-gets-filled-with-creamy-cum-29592141 according to the description:I get my hole filled with creamy cum as I beg for his charged up load deep inside of me. His cock felt amazing and definitely was an out of this world experience.

Thanks @Fistcumslut but you can always hit me up anytime. So how does this sound?

11. Manetti Unleashed Both under influence, we had divine sense, To know what to say: mind is a razor blade In the photo, Mike’s and Ben’s arms drape over each other. Chris took the Polaroid off the refrigerator to examine as he ate leftover soup. Staring at the image for quite a while, and thinking about them over the past several days, Mike and Ben’s loved seemed so casual, almost sloppy. Unafraid of putting love on display—whether quiet love staring at him in a photo like this, or howling on a VHS tape, fists flying up each other’s asses in crazed ecstasy—they remained unfazed if there were someone else in the picture, as long as, at the end of the day, they both came back to this dingy apartment. Hard to wrap his mind around it. He was envious, but not jealous, of their pact. Weighing their casual love in his hand, he ran a thumb across Mike’s face. He knew what he had to do, he just didn’t know how to do it. He needed Ben. It’d been several days since he returned to the apartment with his new nipple rings and small Prince Albert. He’d been soaking the P.A. in a cup of salt water as Dr. Buchon had instructed. It was pretty much heeled. The doctor said the salty urine would make him heal faster so he peed at every opportunity. His cock was tender but didn’t throb anymore. He even wacked off last night watching porn. It gave him this really massive orgasm, tickling him under the hood, as it were. He didn’t know that that came with the territory. He thought about what it’d be like when he got it in his first manhole. He hoped Manetti would let it be his. He remembered vividly the needles that pierced his tits, but the actual memory of receiving the P.A. that was a lot duller. He recalled that pain was nothing compared to the earlier torture the doctor had put him through. If the butterfly and the needles through his cockhead was a ten, the P.A. was about a six. It remained, though, way back in his mind, the dildo machine foregrounded, with a vague but intense slicing pain in his dick sometime in the middle of the night. It was like a gut punch in the blackness, but it quickly faded. Gauze wrapped his peter, but the dildo machine, which persisted unabated, was all he felt for hours and hours until the black hood came off in the morning. The doctor released him to Drax at noon. Drax played with his new nipple adornments, causing Chris to flinch at each touch. The doctor reminded Drax that they needed to heel before he played rough with them. Drax acknowledged this, which was why he figured he’d been left alone in Mike and Ben’s apartment for the past couple of days. Ben was asleep when he got back Monday afternoon. He laid down next to his brother, fell quickly asleep, and didn’t wake up for an entire day. Tuesday Ben was still snoring away. Chris went to the refrigerator, looked inside and found the soup Mike had made days before. It smelled okay, so he heated it up and ate it at the kitchen table taking the Polaroid in hand. While studying the photo, he felt Drax’s presence across the airshaft observing him. He wished Ben and Mike had invested in curtains or something, but he figured that was part of the arrangement. He also wished Ben would wake up. At nightfall, he again climbed into bed with Ben and put on one of their many videotapes. All they owned was porn, some with them in it, some of other guys. He put on one that he thought they weren’t in but, sure enough, three scenes in, Ben and Mike were at it at some cheap motel with a guy Mike was calling Dad, although the guy didn’t look like him. Then the cameraman got involved sticking his dick into the shot, but by that time he’d already jacked off, surprised by his intense orgasm, and wasn’t really paying attention anymore and fell asleep. The next day he got up, put on jeans and his Ramones t-shirt and shuffled into the kitchen. He searched the cupboard looking for food, when he heard rustling coming from the bedroom. He peeked in and saw Ben sitting up. He ran over and threw his arms around him. Ben clutched him back tight, wrestled him to the ground, crushed him, rolling side to side in a tremendous bear hug. He drank in Chris face. “Buddy, you are the absolute best and last thing I expected to see,” Ben said warmly embracing him. “What can I say? I made a tremendous mis…” He didn’t’ want to finish the sentence and instead kissed his cheek, and squeeze him again. An awkward moment of silence passed between them, neither knowing what to say. Chris ended it. “You know what you can say? You can say you’ll help me get Mike out.” “Mike? From where?” Ben asked, clutching his crotch painfully. He got up a bit wobbly. “Where is he? Sorry, bud, but I gotta piss like a race horse. Keep going.” As Ben stumbled crouched over heading for the bathroom, Chris inspected his brother’s scarred back. It was a horrible crisscross of healed over slashes. He looked down, troubled and puzzled. Ben’s eruption in the toilet bowl rang deep and thunderous. “He’s at this Doctor Buchon’s clinic,” Chris called to him. “Buchon? Nasty fucker,” hollered Ben over his pissing. “I know he’s in trouble, Ben,” Chris said. When Ben came back in, Chris began filling him in on his misadventure since he’d come back from Fire Island. He related graphically the fight with the orderlies, Mike getting knocked out, and his own experience with the doctor. Ben sat down next to Chris, lit a cigarette and, with a knitted brow, looked him over. Chris told him about his P.A. and pulled up his t-shirt to show Ben his nipple rings, as if it was proof he wasn’t lying about any of the events. He felt sure Mike was in trouble, he said. “He hasn’t come back for four days now and Master Drax was really pissed off at him for taking me to The Pines. We have to get him out, Ben,” Chris pleaded. “I think they’re going to skin him alive.” Ben glanced across the airshaft, took a drag off his smoke, then looked back at Chris. “He’s been gone since Sunday? And what’s today, Wednesday?” Chris nodded. “I promise you, they won’t kill him. That’s not Drax or Buchon’s style. But I agree with you, we gotta get him out.” Ben put on underwear and pants, dressing and thinking while he talked. “I’ve been to Buchon’s clinic too many times to count and, let me tell you, you got off lucky with only light CBT.” Chris shivered that that was considered light. “I can’t imagine what Mike’s going through for four days. He’s gotta be deranged.” Ben took another hit, rubbed his eyebrow sleepily, and exhaled pensive. “Why’d he take you to Fire Island in the first place?” Chris thought for a moment, and then relayed the whole saga with the crooks, the dead family, and finding the money in the air duct. He skipped over the buried treasure part in case Master Drax had the apartment bugged, and avoided the whole Towel Party because he was afraid where that could lead. He wasn’t ready to talk about any of that with Ben, and Ben never directly brought it up. But even so, Chris saw his brother in a new light, a light he could never have understood before he came to New York. He’d no real experience with so much that he’d experienced since he met Mike, and what Mike and Jamal and Master Drax and so many others had shown and done to him, so much pleasurable and some not so much. He struggled to put this feelings about it into words. It was impossible, he couldn’t really, it was too fresh, unprocessed, but he tried anyway. “So am I weird? Maybe I’m just a freak, Ben,” Chris began shyly, “but when that doctor forced me to cum with his vibrator with all those needles in me, I’ve never had anyone hurt me so bad—‘cept maybe dad, but he never did it down there—but when the doctor make me to shoot, I’ve never shot that hard before.” Chris looked at the floor, embarrassed, then made his way up to his brother’s understanding face. “Is that why you do it, Ben? Like what you did to your back. Because somehow you want to have that feeling again?” Ben took a final drag off his Marlboro, exhaled, and then stubbed it out. He pulled on a rugby shirt and stood up. “Put your shoes on, kiddo. That’s how we’re getting in.” *** Lightly sedated but awake, he kept hearing a series of cracks. He focused his eyes. If it was lightning outside there were no accompanying flashes. They continued. No, they were too methodical, too evenly spaced, sharp and deliberate. He shook his head trying to get rid of cobwebs in his head. Then one last piercing snap! Unmistakably, it was an echoing report of a whip biting flesh down in the garden. There was some indistinguishable murmuring from below, then the murmuring became faint until it was quiet. Eyewitness news was playing softly on the television console. Frank Fields at the weather desk pointed to a fast moving summer storm traveling across central New Jersey. It would hit the city within the next hour, he related, and Long Island an hour after that. Maybe the cracks he’d heard were approaching thunder. His brain had been fried long ago, so putting two and two together was a struggle. Big orderly Barkley was sitting on the blue velvet settee looking as if any second he’d break its delicate legs. The orderly stared at the TV with his lower lip protruding. Manetti expected drool might fall off any second. Barkley looked over at him. “You’re awake,” he said. “You got a keen eye there, pal,” Manetti replied. He flexed his hands bound to the rails. “Hey, wadda ya say. These things are cutting off my circulation. How ‘bout you loosen the straps just a little.” Barkley ignored him. “Really. Feels like my hands are numb.” “Doctor says not to. He says I can play with you however I want, but not to fuck your pussy. Not yet. He says you like to get fuck in your ass. I can fuck your asshole, he said. If I want. Strap your legs up to those hooks.” Manetti looked up and saw the leg straps on the headboard he was talking about. “Oh, he said you could do that, huh?” The big orderly nodded. “Well, how you gonna do that with my legs strapped at the bottom of the bed? How you supposed to get to my hole if everything is pinned down? You gonna break the laws of physics, Einstein?” “He says I can undo your legs and tie them above your head, but under no circumstances am I to loosen your arms. Not even a little bit. You’re a cagy one, he says.” Manetti stared straight ahead out the open French Doors. It was humid and the air was still. At the top of the garden wall light was hitting at an obtuse angle, but fading slowly, he guessed, because of the approaching storm. “You might want to close those doors, Mongo,” Manetti said. “Maybe turn up the A.C. a little.” “I don’t like a be cold. And my names Barkley, not Mongo,” he snapped, annoyed. “I don’t give a fuck what your name is, pal. You’re nothing but shit to me.” Barkley turned up the sound on the remote as the weatherman handed off coverage to sports. “You best watch your mouth, freak. You know, you ain’t in no position to mouth off.” The freak comment struck Manetti deeper than it ought to have, although he didn’t allow it to show, but it did keep him quiet for a few minutes. The sedative was definitely wearing off, and what had kept him calm was now emerging as anger mixed with good dollop of depression. Maybe he could get Barkley to just off him, put a pillow over his face, put him out of his misery. “Hey, Mongo, so why don’t you fuck my ass. I haven’t had my ass diddled for a couple of days, and I could sure use a nice, tiny prick up my butt. Wadda ya say?” “I’m Barkley!” he insisted. “I want to see sports first, and then I gotta see Spin the Wheel. Then maybe I’ll fuck ya. If you’re lucky.” “Oh, I’d be lucky alright. I’d be the luckiest guy in the world, or am I the luckiest girl in the world now?” “Hush,” Barkley warned, making a fist, turning up the sound once more. The sports announcer shouted off highlights from last night’s Yankee’s and Mets’ games. The Mets coverage showed a melee breaking out in the bleachers over a foul ball. Fans were climbing over each other to get to it. “I don’t know, Mongo,” Manetti yelled over the television. “I still feel like a guy. I still sound like a guy. I got a guy’s urges,” said Manetti. “Somehow, I still feel like I want to fuck your mama.” Barkley shot up off the settee and stomped over to Manetti. A cloud of thought passed across his face. He looked at the door, then punched Manetti in the face. “You don’t talk about my mother.” Manetti picked his head off the bed. With his tongue he felt a thin red line where his lip split. He snapped his teeth and growled at Barkley, trying to get a piece of him, but as big as Barkley was, he agilely jumped back. “Anyway, you ain’t got nothin’ to fuck with no more, freak,” he scoffed and tittered. Manetti flexed his hands wanting to get at the orderly. He eyed the man standing still beside him. The orderly had lost focus on him and was watching the television instead. “I don’t know, Barkley,” he confided. “I still got a couple of fists I could stick up your mama’s flabby old twat!” he snarled. Barkley was back at his head again and this time smacked Manetti a few times in the face. Manetti’s head bounced to the side against his pillow leaving it blood stained. He laughed madly at the orderly, coughing out some red spittle. “Yeah,” he taunted, “I still got two good fists. One for her sloppy cunt and one for her shit-stained ass.” The orderly was seething. “You’re a pig, freak,” he shouted, taking off one of Manetti leg straps. “I’ll show you who’s gonna get a fist. Even if I can’t touch your pussy, I can still punch your asshole. Doctor said I could.” “Yeah, Mongo, punch my hole. Punch it, you fuckin’ dumb ass bitch.” Manetti kept working the guy up in a froth. “Yeah, fist me Mongo. That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Bet you do this every night you get home, don’t cha? Hey, mama! Time for your sponge bath and fist fuck!” Barkley undid his other leg and pushed Manetti’s legs up in the air, leaning over Manetti, getting a strap ready at the headboard. “Mama likes baby’s big mitts in her smelly butthole, don’t she boy?” Barkley bent over Manetti’s torso, anger overcoming and frustrating him because Manetti’s feet were dodging and uncooperative. He couldn’t get his feet in the overhead straps. Then in one move Manetti got both feet against the orderly’s shoulder and shoved him with all the power of his muscular thighs. Barkley went flying back, airborne for a moment, then hitting the ground stumbling back, arms flailing on both side like a crazy windmill. The orderly passed through the French doors, just about regaining his balance, but took one last step back, hit the low balcony ledge, and flipped over backwards. There was a split second of a high-pitched scream, then a tremendous splat, like three hundred pounds of wet Jell-O slapped the concrete. Manetti felt the sound and winced. Two dim flashes of light lit the garden followed by a low, rolling thunder. Manetti sat there breathing heavily, stunned, flexing his anchored hands uselessly. His eyes flicked around the room. “Great move, genius,” he mumbled to himself. “Now what?” From the TV, a very excited contestant squealed, “Pat, I’d like to buy a vowel.” *** Chris pressed the intercom button below the video lens and waited. “Yes,” came Dr. Bichon’s voice through the speaker. “Um, Dr. Bichon. I wonder if I could come up,” Chris said to the camera. “For what purpose, son?” replied the doctor. Chris looked around him. A lady with her Pekinese passed on the sidewalk in back of him. “Uh, I’d rather not say out here, if you know what I mean.” The door buzzed and Chris slipped in. The plan was to drop a small tree branch so that Ben could come in a few seconds later. Then he and Chris would force the doctor to tell them where Mike was. Pretty solid plan. Chris set the branch down and made sure the door remained ajar, then went inside looking back over his shoulder at Ben waiting across the street. He took the stairs to the second floor and called out for Doctor Bichon. Down the hallway, the orderly with the close-cropped haired, the one that had yanked him out of the Camero, marched toward him. “He’s on three, waiting for you,” he leered, passing Chris as he went down the staircase two steps at a time. At the entrance the orderly came across the tree branch wedged in the door and kicked it out as he left. Ben was forced to wait as the orderly took the stoop’s steps two at a time, and then ambled toward Madison. By the time Ben got to the entrance, the heavy glass and iron door had just click, and their plan derailed. Ben paced frantically scanning the front of the building. Above the roof, clouds were forming, blocking out the sun. It was getting prematurely dark and he didn’t know what to do. To Chris, the hallway seemed darker than the first time he was here. He heard the familiar tic-toc of the grandfather clock and crept down the hallway to its end. The old-fashion examination room was open. Dr. Bichon wrapped the lab coat around his otherwise naked body. Chris went inside and Bichon closed and locked the door. “What a pleasant surprise to see you so soon,” he said. He patted the metal tabletop. “Master Drax said we would have weekly session to acclimatize you to high levels of tolerance. He seems to think, and I would agree, you have strong masochistic tendencies. It appears you’re taking the initiative, which is always a good sign, but, to be honest with you, if you’re anything like your brother, I’m not truly surprised.” Chris climbed cautiously up on the table. “How are you little nipple rings? Sore or tolerable.” “They’re okay, doctor.” Chris wondered where Ben was. He should have been here by now. The plan didn’t include Bichon locking him inside, and certainly didn’t include getting back in that hood and getting slammed with meth again. The doctor raised Chris t-shirt and gently pulled Chris’ rings. He spoke to Chris low and seductively, “Does this feel erotic to you? Does it cause a stir?” Chris nodded. “Your pupils. When was your last medication?” “I guess Master Drax has been letting me alone so my P.A. heels.” “Well that’s no good at all,” said the doctor, going to his cabinet to prepare an injection. “Truth is, Doctor Bichon,” Chris blurted out spontaneously, “the medication makes me forget so much and I really think you’re probably the hottest man I ever met. You did things no one ever has. All night when the machine was fucking me?” Bichon eyed him warily. “Honest, doctor, that’s all I thought about that night, when that machine was inside me, was what it would be like if it was you. It’s what I’ve been thinking about every night since. It’s what I got off thinking about last night, the first time I came with my P.A. No matter what you want to do to me now, no matter what I had to do to earn it, I swear I’d do it, just to have you fuck me once.” Jesus Christ, where was Ben? He didn’t know how much longer he could fake this. He masked his feeling and pleaded with his eyes as much as he could. Bichon considered the offer. “Anything I want, just to fuck you once?” A sly smile curled his thin lips. “You know I don’t use safe words?” Chris nodded. “And my strongest addiction is to the whip.” He waited for Chris’ reaction. None was forthcoming. “Ask your brother. I was the one to first lead him down that path. Perhaps, a gene runs in the family.” Bichon ran a hand inside Chris’ jean. Chris smiled as the doctor groped his cock, playing with his P.A. “You agree to the lash, accompany me to the garden where I can introduce you to the whip?” Chris nodded, keeping his poker face. “Yes, Doctor Bichon. If that’s what I need to do? But then you’ll fuck me?” “I warn you, I won’t be starting off gentle. Spare the rod, spoil the meat, is what I say. Leave your clothes up here and wear this collar and leather jock. I don’t want the whip to damage your genitals. That’ll be my desert.” Chris put on the leather gear. “Good boy. Magnificent.” Bichon removed his lab coat, already in his leather harness and knee-high boots. He curved cock was fully erect. “Proceed,” he said unlocking the door. They went down the stairs to the garden level, and stopped before an oak armoire. Bichon unlocked it. Inside were a series of whips, canes, floggers, and riding crops. He studied Chris for a while. Chris tried to look calm, although his heart raced fearing Ben wasn’t coming. Bichon picked up some nylon rope, then ran his hands over several whips. He landed on one, whose braided handle ended in an amber bead, a small preserved scorpion suspended inside. He traced the handle between Chris’ legs, which made Chris jump. “I want you to be intimate with this instrument for it will be intimate with you. It’s an Australian bullwhip given to me by a Saudi Prince fifteen years ago. It was made at the beginning of the century, nicely broken in by its many owners, all for the same purpose. It is the first whip I used on your brother. I would say it still is his favorite.” Bichon ran the long whip over his palm. “You see the handle connects to the lash, this braided part here? Fifteen feet in length. The lash connects to the fall, a single piece of leather another fifteen feet long. It ends in these strings called a cracker, which produces the pop.” Bichon’s eyes widen, and he exploded his fingers apart like fireworks. “The cracker you should not fear, it only makes a loud noise. The fall, this middle piece between the lash and cracker, it is what strikes and makes the deep cut. It does its damage long before you will hear the snap.” The doctor paused examining his victim. Satisfied with the fear building in Chris’ eyes, he ordered, “Allons!” and pushed him through the garden doors. The small bricked off area had a fountain on the right. Three trellises lined the back wall, each with ivy climbing them. Bichon marched Chris to the left trellis and ran one of the ropes through an eye loop on one side of the trellis anchored in brick. He pulled Chris arm up and put it through the slipknot. “You see, you are not even locked in place.” He took Chris’ other hand and slipped it on the other side of the trellis. Chris faced the ivy biting his lip for fear this was actually going to happen. “You are free at any time to disengage, but then that will be the end of the session, and you will go home and not return. Comprends-tu? Donc, no fuck. Shall we begin?” Chris was frozen, not able to respond. “Uh…” he said hesitantly. “Forgive me. That was not really a question. It was rhetorical.” Bichon pulled both of Chris’ arms down sharply and the slipknots tighten, trapping him to the wall. Bichon pulled each rope a bit and re-knotted so Chris was on tiptoe, dangling. Now there was no escape. “No, no, my son, no chance to disengage now.” Bichon smiled watching Chris trying to balance on his toes with his arm stretched like wings. Whether he wanted it or not, Chris was part of Bichon’s scene. A moment later he heard a whirring in the air behind him, and suddenly he felt something like a red hot poker shred his back, followed on top of it by the whip’s crack. It echoed against the bricks and flew into the gathering clouds. The pain was like a knife of fire slicing his back, cutting deep down to his spine. From the sidewalk, Ben recognized that crack. He knew what it meant. Bichon had pulled out the Australian bullwhip and he feared who was on the receiving end. In the garden the whirring began again. Chris counted three rotations in the air, and then felt his skin flay as a lightening crack reverberated in the garden. A knife ripping flesh from his back in an opposite diagonal. “What? No tears, Christian?” mocked Bichon. “Not even a small cry for doctor to stop?” Chris stared straight ahead, focused on the leaves of ivy, extinguishing everything else in his mind and everything else in his field of vision. He gazed at the darkness between the leaves, the negative space where nothing existed, when the whirr took up again, and once again a blow streaked across his back and exploded skyward. All pain was internalized, screaming inside his core, silent outwardly. Ben leapt up on the wall, began clawing the building, frantically trying to scale the sculpted cement. He made it halfway to the second story windows finding some ridges to scale, but before he made it up, another snap resounded from the building. It distracted him, his hand slipped, and his weight yanked him off the façade. He fell hard to the ground. “Here is a lash for your buttocks to join those of your brother’s.” The whip whooshed in the air. “I was told your brother’s caused those welts but never broke the skin. Not this time, my son. Breaking skin is the point.” The whip slashed the air and cut across his ass cheeks, leaving a horizontal line that seeped a trail of red beads. Chris bit his lip hard. Teeth marks drew blood from his lower lip. “C’est très beau. Look at that. Two more on the ass to make a star.” Two quick slices through the air, two resounding cracks of the whip, and Chris’ butt became a crisscross of slashes. Chris collapsed against his bindings. He didn’t weep or sob, but his face was contorted in pain. His head fell into the trellis leaves. In the hot, humid air, the ivy felt cool against his forehead. He didn’t crying but salt water stained the leaves. His will was indomitable. Pain couldn’t conquer him. Not yet. “I am impressed. Even your brother couldn’t take seven lashes. He begged after only five. The Prince himself could take only six. No other initiate has done as well. Christian, you arouse me. I am very hard. Here feel.” Chris slumped into the ivy and Bichon picked up his hand for him to feel his erection. “Let us break the record with one last strike, and then consummate your victory.” Chris forced himself to stand again, to suffer but not surrender. Bichon stepped back. He heard the whip spin through the air for an eternity. It cracked over Bichon’s head before the doctor brought it down, ripping over Chris’ shoulder, slicing skin along a trail that cut down his breast bone. And again, the whip came down a second time, ripped down to his ribs, whirled in the air, until it fell on him for a third and final time. He looked down and saw the damage of his torn chest. He started to convulse. Suddenly, Bichon was there, holding him in his arms, unstrapped his hands. “Ten times, my son. You shall go down in my journal.” Bichon cradled him like the Pietà, sitting on the iron bench, kissing both his cheeks, feeling him thrash and shudder in his arms. He waited for Chris to come back from where he had sent him, and then carried him back into the clinic. The doctor stood him up at the stairs to see if he could walk. Chris stumble with his arm draped over the doctor’s bare shoulder. “You are in shock, my love,” the doctor said as they climbed the stairs. “Don’t try to speak.” Chris collapsed on the third floor staircase and the doctor carried him the rest of the way. Within the antiquated examination room, Bichon propped Chris on the table ledge. Chris was coming out his fugue state when Bichon tried to make him lay back. The cold metal table against his torn skin made him jump up in pain. He was coming around. He sat on the edge, tasting blood on his lip, seeing lines of flayed skin across his chest. “You remain in shock,” repeated the doctor brushing his hair. Chris reached out and drew the doctor’s face to his, kissing him tenderly, climbed off the table, climbed onto the doctor, delirious, as if Bichon were a tree, a mountain, a tower to climb. The doctor had seen this before. A cascade of gratitude caused by a flood of endorphins, uncontrollable, unstoppable, insatiable. It made for the best kind of fuck. The doctor was hard and ready. “I want to milk you, Sir,” Chris rasped, a manic look in his eyes. “Please let me milk you. I want your seed. I need it in me.” The doctor smiled his joyless smile and climbed on the table as Chris worshipped him, licked his balls, ran his tongue from the bottom of his boots, up his thigh, and sucked on his dick down to his root, down to where the doctor’s trimmed pubes rubbed into his bleeding lips. He threw himself into a frenzy of lust, abandoned reason, enacted pure submission. He hovered over the doctor, running his tongue over the black hair of his armpit, so wet from his recent flagellation, so covered in musk, they both were seduced. Chris found lube on the counter, lathered his mangled ass and the doctor’s cock. He climbed on the table startling Bichon with deranged intensity, found the center of his hole, aligned the erection and impaled himself punishingly. The swiftness of Chris decent was unexpected and Bichon curled his toes in pleasure. Frantic and insane Chris was, hammering onto the doctor in a fervor of madness, again leaning over him, licking his pits, pushing the doctor’s arms to the table’s edge, flattening himself on him like a supplicant, running his tongue along the veins of his arms, gnawing, rutting against the man like a rabid animal, pleasuring the man with his oscillating bruise ass, pleasuring himself at the same time. The doctor closed his eyes in self-satisfaction, completely stretched out on the table, Chris fingering overhead until he found the straps he was seeking at the tables edge, and wrapped them tightly around Bichon’s wrists and knotted them above his head. He jumped down and, before Bichon fully grasped what was happening, he grabbed Bichon’s right legs and pulled it over a stirrup with all his weight. He held onto the man’s legs in a wrestler’s grip, searching for a leg strap, found it and knotted it so the right leg was secure over the stirrup. Bichon, with one leg free, kicked wildly at the kid, who dodged and weaved avoiding being struck. Chris picked up the metal tray of instruments, and tossed the tools to the ground. He raised the heavy tray above his head, and hurdled its sharp edge straight into the doctor’s kneecap. The man shrieked in agony, and Chris took quick advantage to secure the injured leg over the stirrup. In one movement the second leg was captured. Ben came flying into the room drawn to the scream. Chris heaved with labored breath, taking in his accomplishment, then taking in his brother. “Where the fuck have you been?” Chris demanded, panting, bent over with his hands on his knees. “Fuck! Dude,” Ben cried. “Your back!” At that moment there was a splat, like three hundred pounds of wet Jell-O hitting the back patio. “Forget my back. Find Mike,” Chris urged his confused brother. “He can’t get up?” Ben asked with suspicion. Chris shook his head while testing each of the straps. “This guy,” Ben stuttered, “this nurse, he came out after you went in and kick away the branch. I finally got in through the second floor and broke through the window.” Ben displayed his scraped fingers and cut palms. “Find Mike, Ben,” Chris repeated. “Go!” Ben gave him a glance like he was seeing him for the first time, then shot out of the room running to where the splat had come from. Chris stood near, but not too near, Doctor Bichon. “My old man,” Chris began, judging his abuser. “He’s dead. Cancer. Ate his brain from the inside. Didn’t know mom or me at the end. You know what, doctor? I couldn’t have cared less.” Chris circled him, examining him from different angles. “He was about as mean as a fuck as you. But honestly, compared to him, you’re a sadistic featherweight, Doctor Bichon.” Chris ripped off his collar and jock strap and threw it at him. “Costume,” he pronounced. He stood naked in front of Bichon displaying his bloody body. He climbed onto the metal exam table, stood tall between the man’s legs. “You should let me go now. Master Drax inevitably will find out about. If you don’t release me I cannot help you. You, your brother, and your friend Manetti will pay. Truly, you will be skinned alive. I promise this will happen,” Bichon threatened. Chris looked thoughtful for a moment, then began urinating over Bichon. As his stream of piss grew in strength, he aimed for the doctor’s face. Bichon laughed and swallow some of the piss at first, then as the stream was steady and strong, and wasn’t letting up, the force of it started making him choke. “My old man,” continued Chris, pissing hard, now urinating over the man’s whole body, “he used to give me the belt almost every Saturday night, whether I’d done anything to deserve it or not.” He finished pissing and climbed off the table. He put on his pants and shoes. His torso stung, so he gingerly pulled on his Ramones t-shirt. Blood stains seeped through the white cloth. “My favorite shirt,” he observed emotionless. “He wouldn’t, my old man, just give me the belt. No. He like to whip me with the buckle. Your whip hurt like fuck. It sure did.” He slapped his chest, and the pain of his torn chest warped his face but brought no tears. “Do you must know what metal feels like on a skinny body, on a bony body like mine? It rings, doctor. It rings through your bones like a bell. You hear it in your brain. I still hear it. Your whip? Feathers.” Ben stormed into the room. “You should’ve seen it,” he told Chris. “Mike threw this big orderly over the balcony—big bloody mess—and he’s just hanging out watching Wheel of Fortune.” He was trying to make light of what he’d, not just the repulsive scene of the splattered orderly, but the shock of seeing Manetti with his gown above his neck. But he sensed immediately, looking at Bichon and Chris, knew that he’d interrupted something foreboding. Chris’ mood was as dark as he’d ever seen. Manetti’s walked into the room. His mood was darker. The promised storm broke over New York, and with it, thunder, lightning, and the wrath of Manetti. Bichon, splayed helpless on the metal table, tried to remain composed. “As I promised, Christian, only a moment ago, it would be better for you, all of you, to release me. Drax would not stop until he has your skins. And I do mean literally. Michael, you’ve witnessed this.” Manetti spoke so quietly, with rain pouring in the garden and thunder rumbling through the city canyons, he was barely audible. “I told you,” he said to Bichon, “that I would raze you.” He looked around the room, and spied a bottle of rubbing alcohol. “You have matches?” he said to Ben. Ben produced them. “When you skinned Johnson alive? Yeah, I remember. But I have in mind something different, faster, and I gather more painful. You won’t have the chance to skin me alive because I will roast the skin right off of you,” he said, pouring rubbing alcohol over hair, over his chest, his groin, feet and down the table. He then spilt the liquid behind him as he walked out the door. He showered the hallway walls, tossed some on the curtains. Ben backed Chris out of the room. Manetti looked at the doctor. “You took one invaluable thing from me. But now I’m taking everything from you.” Manetti flicked a match and dropped it on the alcohol-soaked carpet. Bichon howled mad laugher from his inner sanctum. The flames crawled the hallway walls, igniting chiffon curtains and oriental rugs. The flame followed the combustible trail back to the exam table. It crawled up and ignited the man entirely. His howls of laughter turned to screams of torment. Black smoke billowed and gathered at the ceiling. Just as Manetti, Ben and Chris made their way through the soot-filled corridor, at the staircase, a torched wraith, his bindings burnt away, ran toward them screaming the wail of the dying. The fiery specter collapsed in a heap of blackened flesh at the top of the stairs, inches from where they stood. They descended to the entrance, as the building around them engulfed into an inferno. They stood in the torrential rain, mesmerized, their faces aglow from the clinic’s blaze. Far across the street, in the shadows, they still felt the heat. Firetrucks' red and blue lights illuminated their faces. The townhouse was gone. It acted like a chimney sucking in air from the base, rising up through the stony structure, erupting flames like a volcano, shooting fires from hell into heaven itself.

10. A Record of Mike and Ben Mike and Ben captured in a photo lie under a magnet on the refrigerator. Mike wears a goofy, stoned smile and Ben looks supremely happy, happier than he ever had a right to be. We like to think photos stop time, but they’re really markers of time passing. We say photos “capture” us and they do. They’re traps, like tar pits or quicksand that stop us in our tracks. We shed the image, leave it behind like a skin, and we move on leaving our past self preserved in celluloid, or pixels, or amber. A photo is “shot,” you “take” a picture. And you pay a price for this tiny immortality, you, who always will exist at that moment, in that frame of mind, never changing, never growing another day older, innocent of the future course your life will take. They’re breadcrumbs, we believe, that will bring us back to our original selves, as if there were such a thing. We collect these images and put them in a box of memories, or in an album that sits on a shelf, or in the attic long forgotten. The more industrious of us sell the most salacious ones. Think Drax. The brilliant make them art, think Mapplethorpe, objectifying their subject; that is, make them an object of desire, whether the sculpted form of a black dancer, the long stamen of a calla lily, or a close-up of a ten-inch cock. This objectification, this simulacrum—merely a representation of the thing itself—exists in the humble Instamatic vacation snapshot, or the family posed and idealized at Thanksgiving through a Brownie lens, or the selfie we take pressing a button, our phone held aloft, revealing our junk in a bathroom mirror to an indifferent, anonymous world where we hope someone will notice. We do this to ourselves, as we do unto others, capturing a moment, taking a slice out of time, interrupting life’s unrelenting progress, its numbing continuity, in exchange for a piece of eternity. That, my brothers, is the bargain—and what a bargain it is. *** Jesus Christ Almighty, did this guy who how to fuck! Ben, as a top, was a power driver, pounding away at any available man cunt or boy pussy that was under him, only every now and then tuning in to see how his bottom was doing. And that was purely optional. But this guy who was fucking him? Damn! The way he closely surveyed Ben, every twist and turn of his big uncut Italian dick registering in some lewd and impactful way, he was there, in the moment, with his big brown eyes looking down, checking how his cock was making Ben feel. Most guys at the baths, himself included, were there to get off, but, Shit! this guy in the public area was sending him to the moon. No, not the moon but Pluto or whatever was beyond that. And purposely doing it for all to see. And he, Ben, was on his second round of cumming. Think of that! He didn’t even leave after he got off. He came once by this guy, yes, but this fucking guy wasn’t letting him go anywhere so soon. He was still drilling into him, wildly, bucking against him like a stallion, pressing Ben’s feet against his shoulders, fucking him like he was his bitch—oh, he was—spreading his legs, pressing deep into his hole, then twisting him around, screwing him literally one-eighty, setting him upright on his knees, doing him, pulling him back, driving him wild until—Ben couldn’t believe it—Ben was the one slamming his ass back on this guy’s long and extra-wide boner, humping it like a drugged up whore—which, okay, he was—but still, he couldn’t get enough of this fucking guy’s shit! The guy let Ben fuck himself silly on his big ol’ Johnson, that is until he (fuck, what’s your name again?), Manetti, chose to drive, and then he, Manetti, would just hold Ben’s hips stationery and undulated like a snake, slapping Ben’s ass like he was some fucked up cowboy smacking his horse, slithering and slamming, bucking and ramming into his hole again and again, then climb all over him, mounting him higher, throwing his hairy brown legs over Ben’s butt and just fucking the shit out him. Fuck! It drove Ben insane, and that was the point, wasn’t it? He wanted to drive Ben crazy in front of this crowd, which started off with a couple of bystanders, but now was a group of around twenty men, whacking their oh-yeahs, watching this horny ass stud fucking this other horny ass stud. What was it? Twice they’d flipped? No one kept count. The sight was its own aphrodisiac that made men watch for a while, then suck off or fuck their neighbor. You couldn’t help yourself. The Italian would unmount and take Ben from the side for the bath house to observe, holding Ben’s right leg high up in the air, Ben’s enormous cock bobbing hard in front, lying next to him, making sure he knew the Italian was in charge. (For now.) And slide repeated up his chute, reaching around, seeing where Ben was at. Was he still hard? Was he close to coming? How did this feel if he torpedoed into his butt like this? How did Ben feel if he slowed it down, a nightcrawler in his ass, smoky Barry White bass strokes, almost sliding out, then fucking shooting back in, hard, hurtful, audacious? Did he feel fucked and controlled in front of the crowd? Did he like being controlled? Did he like everyone seeing he was a fucking bottom toy to this hairy wop? Dealer’s choice, pal. The amazing thing, the thing that got him hooked, that made him want to see him outside of the bath house, afterward, for a lifetime, was that when he heard him cum, when he whispered in his ear he was cumming, he still kept fucking him after he shot. Not only was he a good fucker, he was a giving fucker. He allowed Ben to get off while he still poked his chute. But Ben wasn’t going to let this fucker off that easy. After Ben felt cum dripping out his hole, he pushed the guy off and, to the bath house’s amazement and captivation, Ben flipped the fucker for the second, or was it a third time, sticking him with his patented Big Ben dongle. How’d he like that, motherfucker? Wham, bam, and now Manetti’s legs were spread in the air, Ben rapidly jack hammering that sexy, hairy Italian ass. Ben fucked the living shit out of him. Plowed him, swirled his hips, gyrated into him like the guy was all seven cars on a Tilt-O-Whirl, spinning him like a top till Manetti’s big uncut cock was hard again and leaking as severely as a faulty water hose. *** There was a sound of trickling water. It reminded him he had to pee. His vision was cloudy but he was sitting up. There was greenery around him, a wall of bricks, something gleaming white. Okay, what was that? It had a name: oh, a white fountain. The white fountain had three tiers dribbling a constant stream, splashing away in the quiet garden. Ivy hung on trellises over the brick. He looked to the sky and felt dizzy. Clouds drifted overhead, four stories above. He watched the clouds for a while trying to focus, trying to remember, but found it impossible, like gauze wrapped his brain. Why couldn’t his hands move? Goddamn he had to pee, wished the fountain would stop reminding him of it. His head fell forward heavily. He noticed his arms were bound with plastic ties to the rails of a chair. His right arm had a tube that ran to an IV bottle standing next to him. The chair had wheels. It had a name: a wheelchair. Why was he in a wheelchair, with an IV in him, in a small, private garden, sitting across from a wrought iron bench with metallic flowers swirling as a backrest? The white fountain continued to flow. At the top was a frog whose mouth sprayed upward a small finger of water. He had to pee. He couldn’t stop it now if he tried. His bladder flowed and he waited for the humiliation of wetting himself, but it didn’t happen. No stain spreading in his hospital gown, no splashing on the stone pavement below. He looked up at a man sitting down in the wrought iron bench watching him, watching a colostomy bag start to fill with brownish urine. The man’s name was Drax. He remember that much, but someone was covering the sun. The garden was growing dark. The trickling fountain grew faint, till there was no sound. No light. Nada. *** Ben gave his step-dad the finger. His mom yelling but why New York over his step-dad yelling what kind of job do you get offered in a bar, while eight-year-old Chris stood on the curb crying rare tears. Ben knelt down to his little brother. “You be brave, buddy,” he told him. “You just wait. We’re going to be together again, just wait and see.” All he had was his wallet, his windbreaker, and a business card that had a Bel Air Motel room number on it. He left everything else behind, his record collection, his clothes, his pot, his porn. But it was Chris he felt the deepest pain abandoning. But what was he supposed to do? He was just eighteen. Two weeks before his step-dad jumped him out in the front yard for being insubordinate. Insubordination was a big thing with that stupid ass, all former marine, all present-day dick. In a reversal from earlier fist fights, John, his step-dad, received most of the punches before the police came. John was stronger, way stronger, but Ben was angrier, insanely mad, in fact, lost it, on how the guy treated his mom and especially on how he beat his little brother. Chris could be a pest, he knew that, but he never deserved the physical drubbing and mental abuse John doled out. But he was eighteen and had no Plan B, just had to get out at that moment, or wait for the police to arrive and arrest him. That was John’s threat anyway, accusing Ben of dealing pot out of their house. No matter how much Ben argued he was just holding for a friend, partly true, alright, he was lying through his ass—still, dealing pot in their rundown neighborhood, where the nearby penitentiary let out its cons? Seriously? Where if you wanted to score something harder all you had to do was hang out at the local Burger King? Where at the nearby Bel Air Motel, you could have a girl by the hour, or a boy, or anything in between. Dude, c’mon. Open your fucking eyes, John! Look where we live! Which was what Ben spat out, fed up with this shit. John, of course, who’d had it up to here with Ben and his insubordinate mouth shoved him out the door. Dirty faggot! That was the straw. Ben flipped him the bird. Walking away as pissed off as he’d ever been, then walking quickly down the street because of the approaching siren, he turned down an alley and pulled a card out from his jacket. He examined it. Three Jolly Rogers, their three cross bones spelling out X X X and Drax Enterprises in raised type underneath. He flipped it over. Room #12, it read in chicken-scratch script. Drax was this older biker dude he’d met in the alley behind the Tic-Toc Bar where he dealt weed. Okay, let’s pretend that that how he made his money. Sure, we’ll go with that for now. Lot of bikers hung out there so Drax didn’t really stand out much, just one of many forty-year-old plus leather losers mixed in with the ex-cons. You try to pick out which is which. A lot of the patrons knew Ben since he was a kid. Many lusted after him. Why not? This stony, surfer dude act he had down pat. Also his herb had a good reputation. Imported from Hawaii, distributed through a Samoan classmate who dealt large quantities, it was a gazillion times better than its Mexican cousin. Maui Waui, Thai Stick, and Purple Rhino were his most popular brands. Hanging out with some of his regulars, he’d do a doobie with a few of them in their homes or motel rooms. One thing might lead to another. Not that he turned tricks for a living—which is what he told himself at first—but it was just a little extra income. He had a nice stash of cash saved up and thought he’d get his own apartment, before John busted in on him as he was weighing out baggies in his bedroom. I mean the guy didn’t even knock. He knew John had been looking for a reason to boot him out since June when he graduated. So stars converged, bridges got burned, his stock got confiscated after he stormed out, and little brother got left behind. He climb the Bel Air Motel’s back staircase looking for Room #12. He actually liked the sleaziness of the Bel Air Motel. It was part of how he got off. He’d turned not just a few tricks—there, we’re admitting it now—in the past few months. It was conveniently close to the Tic-Toc so quite a few nights some rough customer he enjoyed getting high with, who’d bring Jack Daniels back to the motel room, he and whoever would have a little party. He found a lot of these older guys were just lonely or had an old lady back home with some snot-nosed kids, and they just wanted to get laid, man. No strings, okay, but twenty bucks for whatever. Sometimes they’d want to fuck him, which he didn’t like so much, but it did pay good, or they’d want to get fucked, which was his preference. Or sometime they just wanted to get their cock sucked or suck his not insignificant Big Ben. Or sometimes they’d just pay to talk. Thoughts on God, on marriage, on why they gave up on their dreams, rationalizing whatever the fuck was stuck in their craw that night. Ben was no therapist. He’d sit there staring at the guy going through some mid-life whatever, and he’d zone out, drunk, stoned, watch words trip out their beards. Maybe some spit when their ideas got intense. It was crazy they would pay to just blather. Sex made much more sense. Officially he was barred from the Tic-Toc Bar. Got busted there a few years back even with his fake ID. But the owner, Tony, a widower in his late fifties, who’d spent a few good times with him—nudge, nudge—at his nearby house, let him hang out in the alley, would sneak him a beer in exchange for a few puffs off his joint every now and then. The night he met Drax there was a rare summer downpour. Most rainy nights Tony took pity, would let Ben come in through the back where he could stay if he sat at the corner of the bar, out of sight, close to the back exit just in case. If the fuzz came, Ben was to slip out quietly, no harm, no foul. He was sipping his Jack and coke, when Drax slid onto the barstool next to him. “How much?” Drax asked. “How much what,” Ben said looking forward, observing Drax in the bar’s gold veined mirror. “How much you want?” Drax answered. Ben tried to get a bead on this guy. “Depends on what you want,” Ben replied, taking another sip of his drink. He didn’t know if the guy was looking for weed or was playing him for a hustler. Didn’t matter which, he’d copped to both sides of that coin, he just wanted to know which the guy was after. “Let start with you.” Drax offered him a smoke, which Ben accepted. Drax flicked open his lighter and lit both their cigarettes. “Well,” said Ben, looking at Drax directly, exhaling a cloud into the air. Short cropped grey hair, grey beard, dark eyes with deep, dark circles underneath. H-A-T-E tattooed on the digits of one hand. F-U-C-K tattooed on the other. “Depends on what you want to do.” Drax draped himself over the bar, looked into Ben’s face. “I don’t want to do anything. I want to know how much to buy you.” The man took a long drag. “Outright. Permanently,” he said flatly, the words exhaled through smoke. Ben howled. Tony came over behind the bar to make sure Ben kept his promise of maintaining a low profile. The bar wasn’t crowded, the juke box had ended, and the old guy and the young hustler at the end of the bar were the prime attraction. “Permanently? Doesn’t work that way. Sorry friend,” Ben said, finishing his drink. He gave Tony a two finger salute and went out the back door. It was really coming down now. You could smell the heavy salt air blowing in from the ocean. The beach was a few blocks away but with the wind roaring, you could hear waves crashing and imagine the waves were spraying right over you. He turned up the collar of his thin windbreaker, resigned to the fact that he’d be a soaking mess by the time he got home. Suddenly, there was a figure next to him. It was the guy from the bar walking at his pace. “You already know this,” the man said over the wind, “but you have something men want. You know this.” “I know this?” Ben said, without looking at him, his blond hair dripping down his face. “How do I know this?” “I see you do. Don’t be a coy little pansy shit. You know what you have has value and it’s not just what’s swinging between your legs. But what’s between these ears,” the man said, tapping Ben’s temple. The moment he touched Ben, Ben stopped and looked at him. “Dude, how many ways I gotta say this? I’m not for sale—permanent or otherwise.” The man looked amused. He pulled out a business card and wrote on the back. He handed it to Ben, and said, “For when you figure out what that price is, come up and we can begin a negotiation. What you will do, what you won’t, and what you want to become. I'll make it happen.” He pivoted and headed back to the bar. He called back over his shoulder, “I’m here till Monday then I go back to New York, with or without you.” Ben was about to toss the card in the gutter but he felt a flicker of flattery. Something vague, something vulgar, something exciting, something that made him feel maybe there was something he was meant for besides turning tricks out of a back alley. The guy was probably some lonely old fart that wanted to blow him or blow smoke up his ass. But he put the card in his pocket anyway and continued marching forward in the gale and spray. *** The second floor recovery suite had a hospital bed that looked out the tall French windows. Typically reserved for celebrity patients whose black limousines secreted them through the basement garage, brought up here to this charming suite that overlooked a lovely garden, where the celebrity would await surgery—face lift, nose job, breast implant, pec implant, penis enlargement, foreskin restoration, whatever—and afterward, recuperate for as long as they wished in the self-contained suite, complete with kitchenette and valet service, resting downstairs in the lush backyard garden, or lounging on the rooftop that commanded a stunning view of midtown and Central Park, sipping a Mai Tai from the outdoor bar. The roof was a perfect spot to visit with a spouse, or rendezvous with a lover, or to reveal to one’s entourage the surgery’s amazing results. Voila! Un tout nouveau vous. An all new you. The French windows, which opened onto a small balcony, were parted. A pleasant late afternoon breeze ruffled chiffon curtains. Once again he woke to the fountain dribbling softly below. His arms, once again, were anchored with plastic ties to the bed’s aluminum side rails. The large television console was playing a daytime game show. The sound was muted. A heavyset blonde woman on the game show was choosing between a new car and a new kitchen. Consternation filled her face. Consternation filled Manetti’s face. His bound hands didn’t make sense. Then, like a lightning bolt, pain struck his groin and he tried to crunch into a ball. At the same time, a man in a white lab coat, followed closely by a bald intern he definitely remembered, came in and checked the instruments Manetti was hooked up to. The lab coated guy stuck a needle in his arm and injected him. He instantly went numb, the pain evaporated, but he couldn’t move anything except his eyes. The lab coated guy lifted Manetti’s hospital gown and felt up Manetti’s crotch. Manetti saw him under his hospital gown but felt nothing. The pain was gone and was replaced by, not even numbness, nothing. The curtains stirred and he at least expected to feel the breeze but nothing registered. The lab coat guy removed some bloody bandages from beneath his gown. “Barkley,” the man said, addressing the orderly. “Take a look. I’d say this is the best I’ve ever done.” The orderly, Barkley, had droopy eyes and carried himself like a dolt, his fat lips hanging. He took a look under Manetti’s gown and sneered lecherously, “Fuck, doctor. I’d eat that.” “Not for a while, Barkley. Mustn’t rush it,” said the doctor. “Let it heal then you can have all the fun you want.” Manetti eyes quivered in alarm. His heart monitor started beeping wildly, the screen spiked with rapid fire bolts. He tried to speak but whatever the doctor had given him made all his muscles useless. “Bring me the fids,” the doctor said calmly, pointing to a case by the door. While the doctor slipped on latex gloves, Barkley brought over a small case, and opened it. Inside were a series of long cone-shaped brass posts, which ran from a half inch in diameter and three inches in length, up to the largest, a fid two inches in diameter and seven inches in length. The doctor selected the smallest fid, applied KY jelly over it, and brought it under Manetti’s gown. Manetti felt nothing physically, but emotionally he was frantic. The doctor followed up the fid insertion with a heavy gauze pad and adhesive tape. On the television, the fat woman was jumping up and down in her new kitchen. “Let’s let the patient rest,” the doctor said, and twisted a nob on the IV drip. Manetti felt the light fading, his head falling back, and a dawning terror surfacing, which crept with him into the darkness. “For now, change his colostomy bag. And in the morning, Barkley, bring our guest up to the roof for some sun. He looks awfully pale.” *** He pretty much new Room #12 was at the end the second floor by the ice machine. He knocked. Silence. He looked over the railing at the parking lot below. The San Diego freeway buzzed a block away. A black Camero gleaming below caught his attention, one of the only cars in the parking lot. It was Saturday afternoon. A nice California day. By six o’clock the motel would be hopping, by midnight the No Vacancy sign would be lit. He was about to leave when the curtain inside pulled back revealing the guy from the bar who gave him the business card. The door opened and the man blinked at Ben. He thought the man had forgotten who he was. “I met you at Tic-Toc. You gave me this.” Ben flashed the business card. “I know who you are. Are you ready to come in?” he asked. Ben went inside. He flopped casually in the only armed chair in the room. Drax sat at the desk and waited. “So, man, what’s this permanently jazz?” Ben asked. The man looked him up and down. “Far, far down the road, boy.” The man picked up a cigarette smoldering in an ashtray and inhaled. He smiled coldly, exhaling. “First step. Allow me to take some Polaroids.” He took a camera off the desk, and pointed it at Ben. “Test photos. Take off your jacket and shirt.” Ben took out a cigarette pack from his jacket, picked out a joint. “Mind if I…?” he asked. The man said nothing. Ben sat back, lit it and took a long drag while he stared back at the man. He took a second drag, and still the guy sat at the desk holding his camera saying nothing. Ben made a decision, put the joint in the ashtray and took off his jacket, sat back and gave the joint another toke. The man remained silent. “Okay, then,” Ben said, and pulled off his shirt displaying his broad, tan chest. He was just beginning to sport hair at his breast bone, and a few dark hairs spouted around his nipples. Against his well-defined abs, a brown treasure trail began at his navel and disappeared at his belt. “Why don’t you sit on the edge of the bed,” Drax suggested. “Take the joint with you, if you like.” Ben got up and sat on the bed. Drax flashed the camera, and the Polaroid went through its noisy mechanics and spat out a blank photo. While Ben gave the joint a couple more tokes, the image of Ben’s eighteen-year-old perfect surfer self came to life. Drax showed him his picture and he like what he saw. Serious, a bit sketchy, a bit innocent, dirty blond hair in a ponytail, a long sculpted nose, suspicious blue eyes, a thin mouth with thick lips, pinching a joint in his fingers. “What I expected,” Drax said. “Take off your shoes and pants.” Ben kinda liked the idea of being photographed. He kicked off his shoes and took off socks. Drax observed him as he stripped. Ben unbuckled his belt, let his jeans drop to the floor and stepped out of them. “Get up by the headboard, slip your hand in your boxers.” Ben was also getting into being directed. Usually a trick would let him improvise however he wanted as long as it led to a blow job or a fuck. But it seemed this guy knew exactly what he wanted and it wasn’t that. It was more like he was getting into Ben head and sculpting him in a way. He sat at the headboard and felt his hardening cock through his fly. Drax flashed another shot. Ben took one last hit and stubbed the roach out on the bed’s side table ashtray. As was his routine after getting a buzz, he went back over to his pack of cigarettes, his cock tenting in his shorts, took out a smoke and lit it. On the way over to the headboard, Drax told him to drop the boxers and just sit on the side of the bed. Ben did. Thought it odd all the guy wanted was to take naked Polaroids of him smoking. Drax stood away from him by the door and flashed a wide shot. There was a knock. Drax cracked the door. “You ready for us,” a deep voice outside said. Drax opened the door and let in two men, a black guy and a white guy, both in their early thirties. Ben knew instantly they were ex-cons by the black guy’s builds and both their wary eyes. The black guy reeked of penitentiary muscle, was a couple inches taller than Ben, which put him at around six-two, six-three. Rock hard shoulders and arms, with a slim prison food waists. The white guy had mousy brown hair, was sorta pudgy, shorter than the other guy, and had a severely receding hairline. “Whoo-ya,” said the black guy smiling ear to ear, checking out the naked surfer on the bed sporting a nice big woody. His partner said to Drax, “So, c-note for each time we fuck him? Shit, Daddy,” he laughed, “we’d pay you that much for such a pretty tail.” The black guy went to the bedside ashtray and picked out the half-finished joint. “Skootch over, Pony boy,” he said relighting the reefer. “You gonna be my bitch tonight?” Ben said to Drax, “I usually don’t like to get fucked.” “Did I ask what you like?” Drax replied. “This is Zion and Dave. They got out of lockup this morning, so they’ve got a lot of, uh, energy stored up. You’re going to need stamina. You up for it?” Drax asked. Ben shrugged his shoulders probably yes. Drax took out a small kit with several orange capped points in it. “This will help. You’ve slammed before, yes?” Ben shook his head no, uneasy, but not afraid. “Ah, lemme do him, Daddy,” Dave, the white thug, begged. Drax smiled indulgently. He gave the first syringe to the con. “Let’s see that arm, Scooter,” he said, feeling Ben’s forearm. “Make me a fist. So many choices.” He made a lip-smacking sound and pop in the needle, registered and signed Ben off. “See ya on the other side, man.” Ben fell back on the bed wild-eyed. Zion rubbed his smooth chest and pinched a nipple. “You feel good, don’t’cha, Pony boy?” “Oh, shit,” breathed Ben. He brought his knees to his chest in a fetal position. Zion wet his finger and traced Ben’s butthole. Ben jumped up, excited. “Oh, fuck, man. Fuck!” “Ready to get gangbanged? Here, put on this dirty jock while these boy’s get do themselves. No soft cocks in my films,” Drax said. Zion and Dave took up their rigs, while Drax brought out a large camcorder. Ben put on the jock, his erection hanging out the side, and sat breathing heavily on the bed’s edge. There was another knock. Zion, who was taking off his shoes on the second bed next to the door, he reached up and opened it. Three more felons came in, nodding to everyone in the room. Some knew each other, some not. Didn’t matter. This wasn’t a social call. “Hang up your clothes next to the bathroom,” directed Drax. “Get hard. Even if you’re not in the shot,” Drax instructed, “I want you hard. You can suck each other if you want, but don’t cum. No fucking, except to fuck this kid. Anybody got STDs?” A tall big dicked Irish guy, his shirt still on but pants on the floor, raised his hand tentatively. “Clap,” he said. “Okay, just so you all know, in case any of you do any felching. It’s on you, but felching will get you three c's, if that’s incentive, just snowball it to the kid, don’t swallow.” Drax opened a second camcorder case. “Mac,” he said to the guy with gonorrhea, “you’re my second camera when you’re not fucking him. Okay, so everyone’s clear. One c-note for each money shot. No money shot, no money. Let me hear it when you nut. Don’t think anyone hear is shy, right?” The men all laughed. “Kid, why don’t you break the ice and start sucking Zion’s big snake. Get your bubble butt in the air.” Drax turned on the camera as Zion spread his legs at the headboard and Ben started going down on him, his freckled shoulders down, his round ass high. That’s where Drax started, a big close-up of Ben light brown hole. Dry for now. Several men went into the bathroom to slam. Zion pushed Ben down on his growing pole. Dave and Mac crawled on either side of the bed slinking toward Ben. Mac got to Ben’s hole first and spat and began sucking on it, getting it juicy. Dave bent under Ben and started pinching his titties, slipped a hand and wanked Ben’s expansive meat. “He’s hard, Master Drax. You want to see it?” “Suck it and choke on it. That’ll sell this kid. Don’t be dainty. If you puke you puke,” said Drax. Dave went to town trying to take as much of Ben’s dong as he could. Ben did the same for Zion. Mac was at Ben’s hips, sliding his cock between Ben’s white butt cheeks, ready to bone him. Drax got the camera even with Mac’s cock, and recorded as it slowly penetrate Ben’s receptive ass. Ben let out a cry of distress and wantonness as the big Irish meat slipped in. As soon as Mac was completely buried, he pulled out and in rapidly quickening his pace. He climbed onto Ben’s ass and rode him fiercely. He bent over him, with Drax closing in on Ben’s face. You could see Mac whispering, “You want my disease, bitch? Want me to infect you? Knock you up, fucker?” “Yeah,” Ben got out, alternating between Zion’s and now Dave’s hard tools. “Yeah.” Mac yanked Ben off his knees and flipped him around, spread his legs and pushed back inside. He raped his hole while others sauntered around in the background, telling him to give him his load, encouraged his assault. Ben was spinning out of his mind, open and loving being Mac’s fuck bottom. “I’m cumming, bitch. Take my filthy load,” Mac said, pulling out, yanking his wet red meat, spurting over Ben’s balls and ass cheeks a full eight shots of long strands of white spooge. He took his still milking cock and wipe strings of diseased sperm and pushed it into Ben’s ass. He then penetrated him all the way up to his red pubes, and fucked him for a while longer holding his legs in the air. Dave licked up some of the spooge and fed it to Ben. When Mac was finished with him, he rolled off and Dave was instantly inside Ben’s hole. Mac went up to Ben’s head and demanded to be cleaned off. Ben was milking Zion’s cock, keeping him hard, but made room for both the men in his mouth. He stuffed their cocks in his greedy maw and got a nice moan out of them as their cockheads slithered over each other, Ben’s tongue stimulating them both. Zion, at his peak of excitement, pushed Dave off and climbed straight over Ben’s torso. He pulled Ben in the air spreading his legs, standing fully upright on the bed with Ben dangling below. The other men laughed and cheered as Zion twisted the kid in mid-air and plugged him while he was suspended. It was a spectacular act of precision, appreciated by Drax, but even more by a surprised, ecstatic Ben. Zion fell back on the bed penetrating Ben balls deep. Ben had never had anyone that big in him before and never so suddenly. Drax was there to pick up every yowl and shriek that Zion was so good at producing in pretty white boys. Dave was aggravated at having been shoved off but provided Zion with some ball and shaft licking as he fucked Ben. Dave’s tongue traced Ben’s hole as Zion’s priapic tool plowed away. Seemed like Zion and Dave had done this before. Ben was higher than fuck and enjoying every minute of this. He was starting to come off the initial rush, but his sense of reality was out of whack. As he was getting fucked by the biggest, blackest dick ever, and getting his asshole licked at the same time, he looked over and saw himself on television. Drax had the camcorder hooked up to check lighting and framing, but to Ben it was like he was living in two realities, both mind-blowingly fucked up. He felt Zion pummeling his hole, Dave’s tongue flicking his balls, but he also split off a part of himself, living in the image of himself getting fucked by a big, hot black stud, and teased by a horny gremlin determined to devour his balls. He floated between the live version of himself and the one for posterity, comingling in his brain. He was forced through his senses to live in the moment of each thrust Zion crushed him with, yet he also watched himself on TV—he was the main character, this guy getting gang-fucked by a series of anonymous strangers in a tawdry motel room. The men started blending into each other. Crystal made reality blur. Hours flew by. Two white lights followed every move he made or men made his make. A leg on the side of the bed where a second black guy was pumping in him from behind, a camera under his balls, watching his semi-erect dick hanging out his jock strap, bobbing up and down. A dark haired guy with a goatee, handsome in a hardened way, lay spread eagle on the bed. Ben crawled over him and bounced on the man’s long stiff P.A.'d cock, feeling the metal ramming his guts while he watched himself on TV bouncing on that same hard and handsome guy. The guy sneered up at him euphorically. Fuck, he never felt so good! He was pushed forward by Zion who wanted another piece of him. Still penetrated by the guy on the bed, Zion pushed his immense cockhead in Ben's elastic hole and slid his hard shaft up alongside the hard and handsome guy already inside. Ben had never been double dicked before and couldn’t believe how ripped open he felt, nor how good it was. Pain, pleasure, degradation, satisfaction could all exist together. Who knew? Better yet, with his head to the side he got to watch the spectacle outside himself, how others saw it, on the monitor. He thrust back on the men’s cocks, gratifying his ass as well as appreciating how visually hot it looked. He was in a feedback loop, making himself harder the more intense it looked, which increased the intensity of how it felt, which made him fuck himself even harder on their cocks—chicken and egg. And it wasn’t just him. Hard and handsome got more aroused and so did Zion. Both cocks engorged to their peak of arousal, their girths in overdrive, which only stretched Ben’s hole wider. He slammed into his tops as they ‘bated into him. There was sort of internal quake, a psychic agreement, a chord struck, and all three exploded together. No money shot for Drax—Ben’s hole got flooded and he himself, sandwiched by the two men, shot all over hard and handsome’s hairy chest. No, no money shot, but it paid off even better with the ecstatic chorus of howls produced by three men cumming in unison. Their orgasmic faces were priceless on camera, you didn’t need to see it to believe it, the audible growls and roars palpable to the men in the room, and still Drax got to end the shot intimately crouched between the men’s legs—Ben’s hole leaking out a deluge of cum, running out all over the bed; two sets of balls twitching, draining, with a pool of white semen soaking the sheets. *** It was the strangest sensation, and not altogether unpleasant, like a tickle but more satisfying. A tickle in his groin that blossomed in his belly and spread to the rest of his body. The opposite of a thought, a sensation that led him to a strange memory of the first time someone had rimmed him. Manetti lost to his teammate Enge in an after school practice wrestling match. This was in his senior year of high school, not a good year for him. He’d known Coach since he made the team his sophomore year, and after punching the mat after he lost the match, Coach made him hang back, wanted to help him deal with his anger. His parents were divorcing and he was supposed to pick a parent to stay with for the rest of the semester. Coach was aware of that. Manetti was furious with Enge for beating him, but more with himself for letting Enge get the upper hand. Life sucked generally and now specifically. Coach sat down on the mat next to him, draped his arm over his shoulder. Manetti sat there in the team’s blue unitard trying not to show emotion. Couch was this very attractive middle aged guy, greying at the temples but knew how to take care of himself, who always favored Manetti, whether in Coach’s math class, or on Coach’s wrestling team. “You know what you did wrong, don’t you?” Coach asked him, trying to get him to stop fuming. “I had my arm too far forward and it had all my weight. I was off-balance,” Manetti replied, masking his melancholy with anger. “Enge took advantage.” “No,” said Coach, “you let him get into your head. I saw your face. You were mad at him and you let emotion take over. You were all defensive. You can never get the upper hand if that’s all you are. That’s what beat you. It wasn’t Enge.” Manetti sat there, downcast, staring at the wrestling mat. “But I get it, Mike. I would be all defensive too. You have to go the lawyers tomorrow, don't you? Make a decision?” Manetti nodded his head. Coach pulled up his chin and brushed some of his wild chestnut hair out of his eyes. The unitard had always been a very vulnerable and unforgiving uniform. Your cock’s outline was always apparent. Because he had such a big one, everyone was always aware of it. But now, especially, feeling miserable and being comforted by a man he’d always admired, who always had taken him under his protective wing, now literally, raised his chin and made him look him in the eye. He couldn’t help but his truest feelings were beginning to show. He felt his crotch stirring. “You’re eighteen. Only a few more month and you’ll be off to NYU, so whatever you decide is temporary. Both your folks love you. That will never change.” Coach was warm, smelled good, but it was becoming obvious that Manetti was getting a hardon. Coach was slightly embarrassed, “Why don’t you hit the showers, champ. Come to my office and we’ll talk afterwards, if you want.” Manetti tried to crouch and slink off, to try and not emphasize how big of a boner he had. That was the first time that ever happened, but he’d never been held so intimately by a man before. He slipped off his uniform and hung it in his locker. In the shower his dick was still at half-mast but he didn’t care, he was alone. He put his head under the warm water and just let it run over him. He heard the locker room door lock, and saw Coach now as naked as he was, a figure as sculpted as Zeus, coming through the shower’s steam sporting a man-sized hardon. He’d masturbated late at night, fantasizing something like this might happen. Coach wore a wedding band, but apparently that didn’t matter. The man bent down on his knees and put Manetti’s stiffening cock in his mouth. It was the most incredible feeling he’d ever had. Water was running over his shoulders and splashing over Coach’s head. He shut off the shower and held Coach’s head while it bobbed up and down over his large appendage. He was going to shoot any second and he wanted to make the moment last longer than five seconds. He dropped to his knees and kissed Coach. He’d never before kissed a man on the mouth. His shaved face grazed Coaches face. He pulled back astonished at the sensation. Something he wanted to do for years, and now felt he had permission. Coach pulled his face back to his. Their kiss was passionate, earnest, sincere. Innocent as much as it was taboo. A onetime only encounter the Coach said after that day. Never to be allowed again, but remembered always. And right in the middle of the shower room, Coach did something unexpected. He brought Manetti down on the warm, wet tiles, laid him on his back, and lifted his muscular hairy legs apart. He spread Manetti open and drove his tongue straight into his butthole. Manetti was stunned he’d do that to his hairy hole, stick his tongue in there and start licking around, swirling it in circles, licking like a dog would, spreading his butt hair outward, always coming back to his center, tickling that sweet spot, a place he’d never imagine someone, especially this man who he’d looked up to for years, would ever want to put his mouth there. How delicious, sublime, dirty and obscene it felt. Something was now feeling as good as that first rim job he’d gotten by his wresting coach ten years ago. He opened his eyes and awoke in the recovery suite, his gown pulled up to his chin and the doctor was licking him between his legs. But it wasn’t a blow job he was getting. His dick was missing. He was shaved and flat down there. His hairy legs were secured to the end of the bed, spread apart, and both arms had plastic ties anchoring him to the guardrails. “What the fuck?!” he yelled. He got a good look and saw where his massive meat used to be was a slit, a cunt, pussy lips still wet from where the doctor’s mouth had been. He shrieked, “What the fuck did you fuckin’ do to me?!” Manetti rocked furiously against the bed, thrusting up his hips knocking the doctor away. He thundered out a banshee’s wail that reverberated far beyond the room, screeches of terror and fury echoing in the garden, flying to the sky. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you!” he roared, his face contorting demonically. “I’ll fuckin’ tear you apart!” He rocked the heavy hospital bed until it came close to toppling. The doctor shouted over his frenzy, “Do you want to be sedated again?” Manetti didn’t let up. He convulsed up and down, saying how he wanted to rip him apart, while trying to break free of his bindings. The ties around his arm showed red marks, bulging skin. The doctor persisted evenly, “Do you want me to knock you out for another four days? Is that what you want?” Manetti suddenly stopped. He looked down at his missing member. In a rasping voice, he said, “I’ll fucking rip your lungs out. What the fuck have done to me?” “If you calm down, I’ll tell you.” Manetti looked at him with fury in his eyes, eyes that bulged, eyes that flamed red. “I’ve given you a simple sex reassignment. Your organ was merely inverted. I just tested you and you responded as so many others have. It is pleasurable you’ll find. You’ll derive as much pleasure as you had before. More actually. You’ll be pleasantly surprised, I predict.” “Let me tell you what I predict, motherfucker.” Manetti began slowly, vehemently, each word committed to the violence he intended to pursue. “I predict, at some point, you’re going to have to let me go. And then. I will. Raze you. To the ground!” Again he erupted with even greater rage. The wheels of the bed rocked about to tip over. The doctor smiled his joyless smile, eyes that were dead of human empathy. “Then we simply must not let you go,” he stated, taking up a hypodermic needle and sticking it into the IV drip’s tube. Manetti fought with all his will to cling to his rage, but the drug injected was sapping him of strength, quickly making him compliant. He was calmly breathing, though with madness lingering in his eyes, but he was trapped inside a mutilated body that couldn’t fight. The doctor observed his quelling state, and once again approached him. He bought with him a camera and, with a clack over his crotch, recorded his handiwork. He set the camera aside, wet his middle finger, then cupped his hand over Manetti’s shaved cunt, slithering his middle finger up inside. There was not a thing Manetti could do about it. The fight had deserted him leaving the shell of his body behind. The doctor bent over and once again buried his mouth over his delicate vulva, fluttering its lips apart with his tongue. Manetti drifted off, his mind twirling down a rabbit hole. He fell onto his back on the white, wet tiles of the locker room ten years before, and Coach was between his legs, ravishing his beautiful, virginal mangina.

1:30 a.m. As they made their way to Crusher’s cabana, the garden was even busier than before. Chris was amazed by the cornucopia of men, their sizes, shapes, their varied form. He also saw that the entire grounds was dancing with yellow and green lightning bugs. They stood out against the dark forest, blinked and buzzed in the night air, appeared and disappeared like phantom particles of light. The men were in various stages of copulating. Pairs were making noisy use of the metal slings. A group of three men they passed—wait, these were the first guests to arrive, the bulky Latin, the distinguished Creole, and the large bear—were all pissing on a very happy host. Tobias was wallowing in a sand bed rubbing himself in their salty piss. It reminded Manetti that he needed to pee. Chris exchanged a smile with Tobias when Manetti smacked his leg. "Leg up on the chair." Chris did as he was told and Manetti, pushed his large flaccid cock up Chris' open hole. "Stay still," Manetti said. Chris felt a warmth flow into his body. His colon, having been expanded all day and night, was accepting quite a lot. Manetti really did have to pee like a race horse, and was inside Chris for a long time. Chris felt his chem piss working immediately, most likely because of the volume and its potent concentration. As he ended, Manetti squirted three final times and pulled out. "Keep it in," Manetti simply said and they continued their journey. Chris lost track of where they were going or why, only how pretty the dancing lights were and how happy Tobias looked gulping down three hot men’s urine. Manetti didn’t bother knocking on the cabana door but went right in, Chris following. Crusher had just done a line of coke and waved his hand over four remaining lines he’d laid out for them. Chris went first and while he wiped his nose told Crusher about all the fireflies in the garden. Crusher was pacing. He was in quite a state of agitation. He’d been doing blow for some time obviously. “Well, first of all, technically, they should be called ‘fire-beetles.” Crusher’s backlog of knowledge had hit a watershed moment. Though he held an M.S. and B.S. in Athletic Training with certifications from the National Strength and Conditioning Association and American College of Sports Medicine, he had a passionate hobby that occupied all his free time: bugs. His walls were framed with them. Mounted on pins, displayed all over his Soho loft. All their metallic colors, sizes that ranged from tiny to frighteningly big. The study of insects, entomology, was an undergraduate requirement, but that interest had stuck with him through the years. You’d think his home would be filled with Muscle & Fitness or Iron Man magazines, but you’d be wrong. Instead there were neat OCD stacks on the coffee table of American Entomologist and Entomologist’s Monthly. “Fireflies, lighting bugs—they’re interchangeable—are part of the Lampryridae family of insects in the beetle order Coleoptera,” he pronounced, pinching his nostrils, waiting for Manetti to do his line so they could get started. But he was on a roll and couldn’t stop if he wanted to: “The green and yellow light they produce—which lacks both infrared and ultraviolet frequencies, wavelength that range from 510 to 670 nanometers, that is, green and yellow—is in their butts, a chemical call luciferin. Yes, Manetti, from the Latin ‘Lucifer’ in case you’re wonder.” “I’m not,” said Manetti, squeezing his nostrils. Crusher went up to Chris and admired his dog collar. “How was Implant Andy?” Crusher asked them. Manetti asked how he knew the young man had implants. “Duh, man. Just look at the twink’s neck. Never lifted a weight in his life.” “Sweet piece of tail though,” Manetti volunteered. ‘Scooter, here, helped me tag him when Brunswick wasn’t looking.” Manetti patted Chris cheek. Chris was happy, had dropped his towel and started pulling unconsciously on his cock. “Anyway, when the luciferin combines with oxygen, calcium and adenosine, it produces their bioluminescence.” “Shut the fuck up, man,” complained Manetti. He’d heard Crusher go off on these coke jags before. “Wow,” Chris said. “I thought they just were just wiggling their butts, like I seen in cartoons.” He found the idea funny, wiggled his own butt in illustration, and giggled. Crusher paced to the bathroom and ran the faucet. He wet his fingers and sniffed some drops into his nose, snorting deep. “Wiggling their butts is exactly what they’re doing. They have two weeks in summer to attract a mate and lay eggs before they croak.” He brought from the bathroom two c-notes and gave them to Manetti. “This Towel Party is just another ritual like theirs, everyone wiggling their butts, only we only got one night. So, get over here, Scooter, and start wiggling your butt. One hundred to fuck him, two for a fist. What about if I want him to eat my shit?" It was hard for Crusher to stand in one place. He went to the window and opened the drapes, then decided against that, and closed them again. "No scat. No animals," Manetti stated, all business. "What about if I want to eat his shit?" "On the house." Crusher placed a rim chair next to the bed. "Okay, kid. Take a seat." Chris sat on the rim chair and stroked his dick, while Crusher squirmed under him and started twirling his tongue around the boy's hole. Manetti again raised his finger at the kid and he stopped playing with himself. "Ah, dude, you're a sloppy mess. That Brunswick's cum around your hole or Manetti's?" Chris’ eyes were spinning, feeling Crusher playing with his hole like he was, so Manetti answered for him it was Brunswick’s. Crusher tongued a variety of flavors, piss, lube, cum, digging his tip between Chris' ass lips. Chris' involuntarily relaxed his hole from the erotic twirling Crusher’s tongue was providing. A flush of Manetti's piss suddenly spurted into Crusher's open mouth. He gulped down as much as he could, the remaining simply flooded the bamboo floor. "Well, pig, I hope you enjoy fresh chem piss," Manetti said. “Free of charge.” "Okay, off," Crusher said, nudging Chris off the rim seat. "On the bed. Let's see how much of Uncle Crusher you can take." "Yes, Sir," Chris replied. Manetti had already positioned himself at the headboard and motioned Chris to lie between his legs. He had a row of poppers lined up next to him. Chris put his towel under his ass and laid back in Manetti's lap lifting up his legs. Manetti grabbed his ankles, exposed his hole, and kept his leg suspended. "Manetti, lemme see your arm." Manetti held one his out. Crusher compared the length of his arm to Manetti's. "How far up the kid's ass have you gone?" he asked. Manetti pointed to the crook of his arm, which corresponded to the start of Crusher's bulging bicep. "Let's see if I can take him to long head. Think I can stretch your pussy that far, boy?" Crusher asked, pointing a good two inches beyond his elbow. "Dunno. I hope so, Sir." He wiggled his butt excitedly. Manetti held out an open popper bottle and he took in several hits. "Oh, baby, look at this sloppy pussy," Crusher said, sending a greased hand into Chris hole up to his knuckles. "Somebody's been a busy little cunt. Look at your hole. So tight." He began trading hands without going in but pressing them harder each time. Chris pushed against his alternating hands, wanting one of them inside him. "Whoa! Look at the hungry cunt, sucked me right in. Good pussy. Gotta be a record." Chris looked up at Manetti, who tweaked his nipples. That made him hornier so he spread his legs wider for Crusher to pull out and push in another hand. So far Crusher was using open hands, not a fist. Chris was receptive, pushing a bit to get over Crushers big knuckles and accepting the girth of his wrists. Crusher was a twister and, once inside Chris' hole, like to give a half twirl stimulating the colon walls, preparing Chris to take some major forceful punches. Crusher's technique didn't hurt as much as cause an overload of stimulation every time he entered and spun his hand, every knuckle gliding roughly around Chris rectum. Manetti made him take another hit so Crusher could advance further into him. Poppers made his want abuse, which, as he got used to it, turned to desire, wanting Crusher to push in deeper no matter if it hurt. Crusher quickly got to a place where Chris’ colon was locking up, forcing him to turn to a slower continuous approach. Crusher himself let Manetti give him a hit of poppers and got into Chris' headspace, eyeing him closely for signals he could penetrate his hole more deeply. It was a silent affair, visible only by seeing tendons move on Crusher's forearms that connected to fingers, testing, twisting, prodding, retreating, advancing, finding an advantage and moving the whole hand at once, like an army conquering, disarming, taking over an inch more of new turf. An inch is mile in a body, a chamber that is conquered is slid into, a hand suddenly making itself at home. A conquered territory gives up any previous rights and accommodates the intruder: twenty-seven bones of the hand cram into a tight new space. The longer it remains the more at home it feels in the conquered chamber, both to the hand and chamber itself. The connection is as astonishing as a conquered people learning the habits of an invading army. A common language is born, a mutual cooperation. The desire for stretching, for working out cramps, for sensual explorations, what happens when I do this? An infinitesimally small movement shoots out tectonic disruptions within the body. Or nothing is disturbed, and the hand feels free to continue its journey. Crusher's hand played inside Chris like a maestro plays every instrument on stage. He'd obvious had a lot of practice, but because of the enormity of his musculature not many could take him in very far. That's why he was fascinated by how much of Chris he was able to take in such a short about of time. After the initial warm up of punching his ass then changing over to easy pistoning, Crusher laid on the bed at a right angle to Chris’ opened butt and proceeded to steadily climb inside him. Inch by inch he was soon up to his elbow, with Chris squirming and surrendering in delight. Even though Crusher wasn't yet as deep as Manetti had been, Crusher was stretching him out width-wise much farther than Manetti had. Crusher occasionally pulled out, and using his second hand, a finger, two fingers, three, eventually four, to supply an additional stretch that Chris not only enjoyed, but after a hit of poppers, participated in actively. With a determined, lasciviously expression on his face, he impaled himself on the proffered forearm and digits. Once stretched he could accommodate the incredible girth of Crusher's herculean forearm and concentrate solely on breathing into and loosening the next chamber, release any obstacle for the hand’s journey to continue. In this way, the pair, or if you considered Manetti as part of the package—tweaking Chris' nipple, holding his legs occasionally, urging him to lose himself with another hit of poppers, generally playing coach on the sidelines—this triumvirate collectively took Chris past Crushers elbow in just under an hour. As soon as Crusher passed his elbow through Chris hole, Crusher let out a whistle. "Thar she goes," he said. Chris who had been huffing and puffing through the last few centimeters, threw his head back in Manetti lap. A milestone achieved. Manetti rewarded the boy by releasing a long drool of spit that ran from his lips to the boy’s open mouth. “Who's a hole whore now?” Manetti asked. “I am, Sir,” Chris replied, with a face that alternated between anguish and joy. Manetti pinched his nips hard, a sort of congratulations. This had, however, a domino effect and made Chris squeeze his ass lips tightly around Crusher's arm. The upper arm, the humerus, before all the muscles and tendons are attached, is slightly thinner than the bones at the elbow. Manetti pinching, and in turn Chris squeezing Crusher’s arm, clamped down on this narrower area before the bicep begins, and the aforementioned long head of the bicep along with a lot more Crusher, two inches to be exact, went into Chris in a very short amount of time. An inch of Crusher's mass was a lot for Chris to take in two seconds, two inches was overwhelming, and everyone instantly felt an on-coming crisis in the making. Even coach Manetti on the sidelines looked worried. Everyone froze to see if this would be an anatomic emergency. In fact—huzzah!—the opposite was true. It opened up in Chris the new world of realizing he was far Past the Elbow! Actually, quite a bit more. With Manetti holding Chris head in suspended alarm, stroking his face in case he had to talk the boy out of panicking, Chris relished both the relief of being stretched less than a moment ago, combined with the depth of Crusher now stuffed deep and expanding further inside his colon. There was the added tender concern he saw in Manetti face. In gratitude that Manetti was watching out for him, he turned his head and started licking Manetti dark skinned cock. Happiness reined in Pleasure Island, as Chris imagined himself Pinocchio being led astray by a beautiful fox and a clever cat. Pleasure Island is where he wanted to stay with the two of them. The final seduction came when Crusher flexed his enormous bicep. Ripples of euphoria spread through Chris’ body. A new intimacy was uncovered between Crusher and Chris, hidden from Manetti. Crusher communicated through his bicep stretching Chris in the most intimate of ways. Chris communicated back by clamping down on Crusher's bicep. They both looked at each other in amazement. They exchanged communiques, a Morse code, if that's what you want to call it, telegraphed between them again and again. In communicating this way, a secondary manifestation occurred: the expansion and relaxation of Chris' hole additionally allowed Crusher to fist him deeper. Crusher saw what Chris was gearing up to do. He said one word to him: "Careful." Chris considered this only for a second before deciding to take the risk. He pushed himself away from Manetti, physically pushed against Manetti’s body, and bared down onto Crusher's entire arm. For his part, Crusher relaxed his bicep and triceps, as much as he could, and allowed Chris, who was beyond reasoning with at this point, to swallow his arm all the way to his pit. The final moment came when Chris felt the slight tickle sensation of Crusher’s bushy armpit hair brushing his hairless hole. The two of them laid there completely relaxed, somewhat exhausted, careful not to move. But Crusher was Crusher, and he ever so slightly made a muscle inside Chris. Chris gasped in astonishment. Manetti looked at him confused since there seemed to be no movement on the surface once he had taken in Crusher’s arm, but the tectonic plates inside Chris' body was enough to cause an earthquake. He tried to keep his body from shaking since he knew he was in an extremely vulnerable position. Crusher pumped his arm again. It was obscenely pleasurable, like his bowels were speaking, that the greatest shit of his life was about to occur. And, in truth, it was about to occur. With nowhere to go, Crusher started to evacuate from Chris’ body, and with it Chris’ entrails were dragged along Crusher’s arm with him. And as he had tortured Manetti earlier, Crusher continually crept back in an inch for every two given up. This lasted a long and confusing time. Chris lost track of where Crusher was in his body, couldn't tell if he was coming in or going out. Every time he realized less of Crusher's arm was in him he too had to fight against not fully impaling himself back onto Crusher's entire arm, all the way back up to the armpit. Another quarter hour flew by, then another, but Manetti wasn't looking at the time any more. You couldn't put a price tag on how far the boy had advanced or how hard it made him to see this muscleman buried in this skinny blond boy. When Crusher finally release Chris, Chris saw his arm was covered in butt slime. Bits of yellow, brown and pink spotted his arm. Chris laid there extinguish once Crusher released him, but Manetti immediately admonished him, saying, "Always thank your Top, boy." Chris slowly sat sideways on his legs unsteadily, propped up on his arm. Still he got close enough to Crusher to reach up and give him a deep and appreciative kiss. Crusher reciprocated holding his arm high in the air, covered as it was with the biological graffiti he'd pulled out of Chris’s body. Manetti grabbed the back of his neck, reprimanding him, "Not like that, fist pig." He pushed the kid’s face into the bodybuilder's raised arm. Chris made his way to his knees, placed his hand behind he back, and began licking Crusher's arm. Crusher twisted it one way then the other so Chris could find all the bit and pieces of himself traced along Crusher's indomitable arm. Satisfied, Crusher's sprinkled the remains of white powder on this dresser top and cut it into six lines. Each of them inhaled two, then Manetti and Chris went to find the final tricks of the night. *** 4 a.m. Abashed the devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely—saw, and pined His loss Ben Prior stood with six other men stroking his cock watching the tableaux on the black lacquered table. The other men along the bamboo wall recognized Big Ben, if by nothing else the multiple adornments of his cock, and were probably as aroused by his presence as by the dining room table’s tableaux. Tall, still handsome even with his shaved tattooed head, bushy chestnut beard, and his back’s terrain of welts that had become his signature. The welts from lashes he’d taken over the last few years were now permanent scars. A back as rough as a topographic map of the Alps. His scarification, brandings, and other body modification were a far cry from when he first blew onto the sex industry scene ten years ago: the cocky, brash, beautiful long-haired surfer boy, slim, sleek as a gazelle, gorgeous—the envied hunk next door. Over the years his taste in S&M grew to the exclusivity of whipping, giving and receiving, a niche of an already niche market. It was a shame the industry lost such a golden boy, unless your tastes were aligned. Riding crops, bullwhips, floggers, paddles, canes, cat o’ nine tails—he wielded them all with mastery, and knew with great familiarity both ends of the lash. In dungeons, palaces, monasteries, seedy motel rooms, basically anywhere in the world that partook in ceremonies where these instruments were employed, he was a well-known practitioner. Men paid dearly, and not just in coin, to abuse or be abused by him. How does it go? Some of them want to abuse you, some of them want to be abused by you. Indeed. Saudi princes, South American cartel chiefs, Fascists in exile, Monsignors banished to cloisters of low esteem—there were legions of men who were drawn to the persona Ben had burnished, first in Drax’s films but then by means of independent entrepreneurship. No mere Wall Street titan, Washington insider, or European monarch stood up to Big Ben and his whip. They bowed and scraped for his lash, or, when he felt a need to indulge a masochistic whim and the price was right, purchased his hide for a night, a week, a fortnight, or a month. A middle-aged club owner with slicked-back hair and mob ties presently employed him at his beach house in The Pines. A towel had been left at the club owner’s door the night before. Foregoing attending since he was a mass of bruises, scars from flogging, a broken lip, sporting two black eyes, and had been up for the past four days on meth, he’d given the towel, mask and address to Ben as a gratuity for the excellent work he performed over the last two weeks. Ben had also been up for the past ninety-six hours, but he’d endured far longer sessions and wasn’t the one needing to heal. The tableaux on the table wasn’t unique save the boy wearing a popper gas mask covering his head at the center of it all. He looked awfully young, maybe not even legal. Ben knew Tobias wouldn’t invite a minor, but hell, the kid looked like they could all get arrested for just being in the same room as the kid. Small, extremely skinny, hairless, the boy was being fucked by the wrestling world’s Santiago “The Skull” Gutierrez, a handsome man with rippling muscles, high cheekbones, almond eyes, smooth copper skin, a single tattoo draped across his chest that read I am what I am, and a big, black uncut dick that he was putting to good use. The kid was taking it like a pro, his legs spread wide for The Skull to pummel. The boy was simultaneously satisfying two others: the sculptor Baptiste Germain, whom Ben had partied with several times at the baths, a stately sixty-year-old Creole with long grey dreadlocks; and a big bear that had to weigh over two-fifty, maybe even three, who looked as if his could snap the kid’s arm like a twig. Both men were riding the boy’s forearm practically down to the table. Santiago’s gyrations were getting quicker. It was apparent he was about to nut. His pelvis thrusts became harder, pulling the boy’s hips to him faster. All at once he heaved forward, his neck arched back as he shot into the boy. He held the position for a pure moment of enjoyment, then performed a series of thrusts accompanied by embellished roars of might while he pounded his chest in an over-the-top theatrical ring-worthy performance. He unceremoniously pulled out of the kid, flung residual cum and butt juice at the boy with his dick, and walked out of the limelight. The sculptor and the bear climbed off as well and the kid flipped around on his knees, ass high, taking off his popper mask, awaiting the next comer. Ben felt the assembled men wordlessly acquiesced to him. For a moment he contemplated the small bubble butt, then noticed a mounted katana blade on a side table. He took it out of its sheath, feeling its cold, silver blade and smacked the kid’s ass with it hard. The kid didn’t move or make a sound, even though the blade left a bright red outline across his cheeks. Ben was impressed. Not many men he dealt with would have been able to keep quiet. He raised the blade higher and with a whoosh that cut through the air, the blade landed again on the kid’s ass with a tremendous crack that even Manetti heard far off in his cabana while dicking Andy. Still the kid remained still, his ass defiantly in the air. The red mark left from the previous lash was joined by a crimson bruise that made a red X on his butt. He order the kid to count to ten. The boy obeyed, and with each count he received an additional wallop on his ass. He made no protest, no extraneous whimper, simply took what was coming to him. After the ten lashes Ben sheathed the blade and set it on its mount, and approached the boy ass. He rubbed his hand appreciative over the velvety smooth cheeks, feeling the heat of the crimson bruises. He knew passing his hand over the fresh bruises stung, and yet the boy remained stoic. Only his little brother Chris could rival the silence of this kid during a beating like he had given him. He felt the boy’s asshole and pushed two fingers into it. The boy was extremely open and tempting. Ben pushed in three fingers, then quickly followed up with a fourth. The hole was drawing him in, there was no doubt. He pulled his hand out and made a fist between the kid’s cheeks. He pressed and with very little effort pushed his giant knuckled mitt inside. The kid grunted but otherwise accepted him without fanfare. He was curious about how much this boy could take. He pulled out and punched in with his other fist. He hadn’t applied lube but the kid was slick from a night of men fucking and fisting him, he didn’t need to. He crouched in a boxer’s pose, bracing himself before the sloppy gape, and pounded the hole relentlessly. The boy registered only occasional fucks and moans, farting out extraneous air along with copious fluids. Ben slowed down and exchange rapid punching with alternating deep arm fisting. The kid could not only take it, but purred deep groans of pleasure. He pulled up along his side, and wrapped an arm around the boy’s torso. With his other arm, he pistoned his forearm from shallow to deep, a depth nearly to his elbow. The kid continued burbling obscenities, begging Ben to wreck his hole. This was the youngest pig he’d ever met and it induced a long-dormant excitement. He was surprised to see he was growing his first “Big Ben” boner in over a year. This boy’s ass wasn’t going to waste. The men who hung back in the gloom started yanking faster as Ben turned the boy over and spread his legs. Chris looked up at the bearded bald guy who was about to fuck him. There was a spider web inked onto his skull, both arms were sleeves of dark ink that had fishes like in the coy pond, swimming in blue swirls of water from his wrists to his shoulders. And what shoulders! Crusher was the most muscular man he’d met but, maybe because of his height, this guy looked bigger. Lats rose from his back like insect wings, his neck had muscles that went from ears straight to shoulders, and the only thing more veiny than his mountainous arms were the veins that stood out on his cock. And what a cock. He was awestruck by he beast that was about to enter and destroyed his hole. Rings and rods sprouted in all directions. The man slammed inside of him without warning. A ripple of metal bars spaced evenly under the man’s shaft stuttered sensations he’d never before felt. Any one of them would have cause him to jump, but in rapid succession he became overwhelmed, stopped processing thought and became only aware of the sensations deep within his hole. The last thought he clung to before the onslaught of anal annihilation was where had he seen the shoulder and rib dragon tattoo before? (It was that bit of meat stuck in your tooth that your tongue keeps poking at.) Ben enjoyed watching the twink struggle with all the new feelings he was triggering in his hole. Like a xylophone, the six barbells of the Jacob’s Ladder along his shaft was playing the back of his colon and lower lip of his sphincter. The apadravya going from the top of his head to the bottom of his piss slit was driving the bottom and top of the kid’s hole wild, especially when the upward curve of his cock pushed the top metal bead against the kid’s prostate. He knew jabbing the kid forcefully scraped his prostate mercilessly. He could see the confusion and the titillation it was causing through the boy’s mask. (It was that scratch in the middle of your back that, over your shoulder or under your wing, you can’t get to.) The five dydoe piercing over the top ridge of Ben’s cock making up his king’s crown, raked across the top walls of the boy’s hole, so with each thrust by an already monstrously large cock mauling his hole, there was an extra eighth-inch of metal jewelry that added sensations from tingling to clawing in an already over-stimulated anus. Ben watched the boy’s struggling to make sense of what he was feeling, driving out thought leaving only fleeting gasps of consciousness. (It was that apprehension of greeting someone you know but whose name eludes you because the context is all wrong.) “Oh,” Chris said. Somewhere back inside his lizard brain, the dragon tattoo appeared in that photo with Manetti. On the refrigerator. Barely able to speak, over-wrought with carnal feelings off the charts, his motor functions quite in tatters, the realization was about to make him cum. He fumbled with his mask, fumbled with words, cumming as he spoke even without touching himself. “Ben,” he stated. Men along the bamboo wall shot over both of them. Time slowed down. Rain of semen, drop by drop, hit Chris and Ben. Ben looked down, and not having ejaculated in over a year, not having slept in ninety-six hours, was certain he was hallucinating. He was fucking his baby brother. The thought itself made him spew relentlessly without pause. He couldn’t stop fucking the hole he was in or break out of the feedback loop of how this couldn’t be his little brother, not here, not at a Fire Island orgy. But the squealing inside the feedback loop pieced together why the kid could take the beating he did, the same beatings he took regularly from Chris’ biological father, how thin and small he knew his brother to be, and in that feedback loop how good his hole felt. He couldn’t stop fucking while the screeching of the feedback continued, while the world made no sense. How had he gotten here? How could his hole have gotten so loose that he could punch and piston him so effortlessly? He pumped the remains of his orgasm as he removed his mask. Though Chris recognized immediately that it was Ben, at the same time, struggled with the thought that though he knew with complete certainty who he was, he couldn’t see an iota of his brother in the steroid, scarred body before him. Random pieces of Ben’s face started to come to him: the eyes, the brow, the lips, even the size of his cock. His cock. Slowly Ben pulled out of Chris, each millimeter causing a thrill mixed with madness. When Ben finally was out, the man who had real Lords and drug lords scrape before him, the man who princes and scum bags bowed before, the man who clerics begged, and middle-aged congressmen weep, fled himself in abject terror, hiding his face, stumbling for the garden gate, pining for a line he couldn’t uncross. Ever. Chris felt his hole ooze Ben’s ejaculate. With a finger he tasted it. Then tasted some more. *** Brunch Early morning fog had burned away, but left the island overcast and humid. The compound’s residence were stirring. Brunswick and Andy had caught an early seaplane back to La Guardia, to enjoy a day in the city, and then back to Los Angeles. Crusher was showering. Manetti was trying to rouse Chris with not much luck. There was a knock at the gate, and two men entered the garden with a large tan Great Dane. “Yoo-hoo,” the older of the two men said. He was in his late sixties, wearing an ill-fitting black toupee and a yellow ascot. He scanned around the compound looking for Tobias or Mitchel. “Are you decent?” “Never!” Tobias exclaimed, coming out of the main house to greet them in grey khakis and a red hibiscus Hawaiian shirt. “Boris, you old she-devil, you never age.” Boris, the man in the ascot, waved him away. The two men kissed each other on the cheek. “If you flatter him this early, his ego is never going to fit back on the boat,” said the other man, Roger, holding back the big dog. He was in his early sixties, had thin white hair grown long in back and a prominent receding hairline. Except for the flair of the yellow ascot, a jaunty accessory to celebrate the beginning of their week on the island—most likely, as a couple, their last—both men wore black. Matching black short-sleeved shirts with black cuffed Bermuda shorts. Afraid of the dog, Tobias air-kissed Roger. Mitchel came out in an untied blue terrycloth bathrobe over a lime green bathing suit, looking worn out from the night before. “Ladies, so nice to see you. Hello Wallace.” The dog wagged its tail. “Coffee’s ready. Indoors or out?” Roger brushed the air. “Indoors. Too many bugs out here,” he said leading the way with Wallace ahead of him. Tobias and Mitchel exchanged glances, then forced smiles. While the four men settled in the living room drinking their coffee, Manetti came out naked and threw himself in the pool. The events of the party were cobwebs in his brain. He’d been hard all night on Chris, but in spite of the discipline he imposed and some of the torments he put the kid through, he thought the kid had enjoyed all the attention he’d received. He also thought, if the kid every got up, he’d have a changed boy on his hands. He certainly was worshipped and adored by the men, reported Santiago Gutierrez, especially by the exalted embrace Ben showered on him, whose sudden appearance, rhapsodic climax, and then abrupt departure capped the evening for everyone. When Santiago delivered Chris finally back to Manetti around daybreak, Chris was incoherent and literally speaking in tongues. The four men drinking coffee and chit-chatting in the living room observed Manetti pushing himself off the pools gray slates, and strutting over, with his hefty meat swaying, to a stack of towels. “Surely, you’re familiar with Master Drax Productions?” Tobias asked his guests. They nodded with surely smiles. “Then you must know our adult entertainer friend, Mike Manetti?” he ventured to his guests, as Manetti, mostly dry, slid open the screen door and entered shaking his wet mane. Wallace the dog barked. Manetti eyed him with suspicion. Tobias couldn’t be more pleased to intimate his friendship with such a studly presence in his home. “Oh, don’t worry,” Roger said, admiring the broad mat of curly black hair. “He’s tougher than he looks.” “Just like Manetti,” quipped Mitchel. The men laughed as Manetti raise one of his dark eyebrows. “There’s coffee?” he asked, reminding himself to smile at the house guests. “Help yourself, in the kitchen,” Tobias said. He began filling the morticians in on what Manetti had told him Mister Drax was proposing regarding a boat purchase. He embellished the pirate and sailor story, adding some lurid details from his imagination. Mitchel nudged him halfway through a very detailed gangbang scene, to get back to the proposal. Just then they heard a splash in the pool, and saw Chris blond head bobbing up and down in the water. Boris was in an outright trance gazing after the boy. Roger looked at him nervously. Mitchel got up nonchalantly, excused himself, saying all the coffee mugs he’d forgotten to tell Mike were still in the dishwasher. He entered the kitchen with Manetti looking in several cabinets. Mitchel opened the steaming dishwasher and took out a mug and handed it to Manetti. While Manetti was pouring, he said, “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Manetti looked at him blankly. “This story of Chris’ last night. Some crooks. A dirty cop. This was a story on the local news yesterday. Some family was killed in Queens along with two escaped convicts. Is this part of that?” “No,” Manetti insisted. “The kid was high and trying to impress Brunswick with a far-fetched story.” “Tobias would believe that,” Mitchel said, handing Manetti a carton of milk out of the refrigerator. Manetti pour some in his coffee and gave it back. “Tobias would, I don’t. You don’t teach law for twenty years and don’t immediately see links in stories, far-fetched or otherwise. And I know you. I’ve known your family since you were a little kid. I was the first man you came out to. Don’t you know how much I’ve hated seeing you associate with someone like Drax? And this story the boys jabbers on about, I’m afraid for you, Michael.” “Don’t be. Everything’s on the up and up. Drax sent me out with cash, being he’s more comfortable without a paper trail, the IRS and everything.” “See, sweetie, this is where the hair on my arm stands up.” Theirs was a very complicated history. Tobias, to Manetti, was a client, a client he liked, but Mitchel was someone that went way back, someone he respected and trusted. Someone, time and again, whose advice he refused to heed, and whose eyes he always found it hard to meet. But that morning in the kitchen, he forced himself to, putting on his most captivating smile. “Don’t worry, Uncle Mitch. I got this all worked out. Believe me.” He put a hand on Mitchel’s shoulder and pulled him in. Hugged him and kissed his cheek. Manetti returned with his coffee and took up residence in an Eames lounge chair next to a display case of Japanese objects d’art, his towel wrapped around his washboard waist. Roger gave him a hungry look, which Manetti returned with a crocodile smile. Mitchel followed back from the kitchen and sat next to Tobias on their black leather couch. “So,” Mitchel said brightly. “Master Drax Productions is looking for a property for a sea-faring adventure and we thought of you.” “Sweetie, we’re passed that,” Tobias scolded. “We’re talking price now. Two hundred thousand, our guests have offered.” Manetti sipped his coffee, then while watching Roger, ran his tongue over his full bottom lip. “I can give you one fifty today, cash, if you give me title and bill of sale and the keys.” Boris scoffed. “Cash? You carry that much with you?” Just then Chris opened the screen door with his towel wrapped around him. The water had woken him up, but he still seemed dazed and looked at the two men dressed in black in a fog but also with a bit of suspicion. “The production company prefers cash transactions. I won’t go into detail but records, paper trails, sometimes get in the way.” Chris came and sat on the ottoman in front of Manetti. “Boy, where do you belong and why are you hiding in that towel?” Chris rose from his seat, folded his towel and sat on it cross-legged naked. Boris’ eyes almost fell out of his head. He had to shift so that his stirring cock wouldn’t tent in his shorts. “It sound shady, this no paper trail,” he said uncomfortably. “Well,” Manetti said. “Take Chris driver’s license. Sure it says he’s eighteen. It would have to if he were to be in an adult film, wouldn’t it?” Chris turned around and looked at Manetti confused. Manetti raised his brows, and Chris turned back around taking his cue. Boris and Roger examine the skinny, hairless boy. They could only imagine how old he really was. “One eighty,” offered Boris, staring as the boy as Chris touched himself for his benefit. “Sixty,” Manetti countered, leaning forward as his towel parted, displaying his round hairy balls cushioning his famously monstrous thick cock. “And we’ll throw in a free fuck for both of you—both me and the kid. Deal?” “Deal!” cried Boris and Roger simultaneously. The screen door opened and Master Drax entered, followed by his servant Jamal who clasped a large case. “Deal?” he asked scanning the faces in the room. He smiled at the boy who, while he played with himself, sat on the floor with a full erection. “Hello, Christian. What a pleasure to see you.” He inspected Manetti’s stoic face. “What sort of deal would that be?” He then shut the heavy sliding glass door, and locked it. “Hello, doggy.”

7. Night of the Green Fairy It was early evening. Above the compound, the last light of day blushed scarlet between the treetop leaves. Deep male laughter and the clinking of dinner plates came from the main house. The cabana’s picture window shades were open, and from the courtyard tiki flames illuminated the room in flickering shadows. He sat up groggy on the edge of the bed trying to focus. For a second he panicked searching for his bag on the floor. It sat on the nightstand where he’d left it. The nightstand’s drawer was open. Although the room was dark, inside he saw the lube they used and poppers, but also a large assortment of dildos, some black, some flesh-color, white nylon rope, dog collars, cuffs and other stuff, things he had no idea what they were for. He closed the drawer and picked up his bag and shuffled to the bathroom mirror, flicking on the light to check his neck. It was fine, unbruised, still red though from Polanski the night before. He set the bag on the toilet. Manetti was good, going to extremes but knowing where to draw the line. His stomach growled as he stepped in the shower to wash off the crud of sex. He realized he hadn’t eaten anything since the Popeye’s chicken the night before. While he was drying off, a succulent fragrance wafted in the air. He looked in his bag and felt his clothes were still damp. Dang, why didn’t he remembered to hang them out? He was such a moron. He draped them on the shower rod. That left only the baggy red track suit to wear. He climbed into it, cinched his pants, but before going in search of food—and Manetti—he went out with his bag, crawled under the middle of the cabana and stuffed the green bag between two joists. He climbed back onto the pool deck, brushed dirt off his knees, and went to the main house. Tobias Glass stood at the head of a black lacquered dining table surrounded by his friends, Manetti among them. He was holding court in his favorite green silk kimono, pushing back the decorative katana sword holder on the side table to make room for the finished dinnerware. On a blue Flemish plate with windmills and Dutch girls dancing in clogs, lines of coke were being passed around. Tobias was a tall, thin man with wild, curly gray hair, whose eyes never rested, continually observing his guests, making sure everyone was enjoying themselves. He made his way around the table, making a comment, picking up a dish, running his long fingers through Chuck Brunswick’s wavy locks. Tobias was the first to notice Chris coming into the main house through the sliding door. Cheers erupted around the table as the boy slid the screen closed. “Sleeping beauty!” Manetti called out to him. “Everybody. This is the Chris Prior, Big Ben’s little brother, I was telling you about.” Knowing glances flashed around the table. “We finished, Chief, but I saved your plate.” He was embarrassed by sudden attention and a little uneasy about what Manetti had told the table. He smiled shyly at Tobias who had his hand parked on Chuck Brunswick’s shoulder. Brunswick wiggled his bushy eyebrows at Chris, one of his trademarked gestures that seemed to make its way into every episode. Chris’ heart skipped a beat. “Sit. Eat,” said Tobias, collecting the lasts of the dinnerware. The chair next to Manetti was empty. As soon as Chris was settled in Manetti served up several slices of pork tenderloin and asparagus with hollandaise sauce. Across from Chris sat Brunswick’s traveling companion, a very aristocratic, very pretty young boy only a year or two older than Chris. Tobias was making the rounds of introductions, saying he was sure Chris new Chuck Brunswick. Chris nodded assuredly, trying to stop himself from staring. “And his secretary, Andrew Hollister. Secretary? Seriously, that’s not what you’re calling him, dear,” he pleaded to Brunswick. “Personal assistant,” Brunswick said, smiling wryly. “Very personal,” said a short, muscular man at the end of the table. In his early thirties, balding, he sported a mustard-colored horseshoe mustache, and was passing his empty dinner plate up to Tobias. “Andy,” Andrew Hollister added to his introduction, not looking at Chris but tipping a rolled-up twenty dollar bill down to the plate of coke. For all his refined facial features, high cheekbones, dark hair that contrasted with his deep set blue eyes, he filled out his tank top, pecs and arms, with impressively cut muscles. On second glance, though, Chris couldn’t help notice his neck seemed a little thin compared to the rest of his bulk. “And at this end of the table, this little person barely able to get his wee arms up to the table,” Tobias continued, then said to the man in a mock aside, “I do wish you’d let me get you a booster seat, dear. You might recognize, if you can see him, Mister David Crusher, he of Crusher Gyms.” Tobias was ridiculing the short, but clearly not dwarfish man at the end. The man’s broad, generous smile oozed confidence, some might say conceit. Chris could tell he relished Tobias’ attention. He saluted Chris with a glass of water. Despite his stature Chris saw he was a serious body builder, hiding bulging arms and massive shoulders underneath his white hooded pullover. What hair he still had he buzzed short. It only accentuated his jovial face, topped off with a button nose, and a serious cleft in his chin. “He’s not going to recognize me, you daft old queen,” he said, clasping Tobias’ hand with mock pity. “But I know you forget thing so easily at your age. You really don’t remember Manetti telling us a few minutes ago this is the kid’s first time in New York?” Tobias smacked his hands away and took his empty dish to the side table. “Yo, Hip Hop,” Crusher teased Chris. His voice was surprisingly rich and deep, with a friendly jockishness that suggested he schmoozed easily with his clients and wealthy investors alike. “You know Manetti’s a low life. A clean cut kid like you shouldn’t be hanging around with the likes of him. You’ll get fleas.” “I’m hardy old,” Tobias injected, dabbing a napkin to his lips, then taking the dishes into the kitchen. “Listen, Fireplug,” Manetti responded to Crusher, “Stop trying to steal my date. The kid’s doing just fine. Trust me.” Chris gave Manetti a startled look to see if he was being as protective as he sounded. He also couldn’t believe Manetti called him his date. “Some wine, Chris?” offered the man sitting on the other side of him. He held up a bottle of Chablis. “Thank you. Just water, please,” he answered. The man poured him a glass. His black rimmed glasses had thick lenses that magnified his hazel eyes. He was fiftyish, had a long horse face that was kindly, almost handsome, and he, too, appeared to be built under his Columbia University sweat shirt. Pairing everyone off, Chris assumed he was with Crusher. “I’m so sorry,” cried Tobias hurrying in from the kitchen, and sitting at the head of the table. “Forgive me Chris. Last and definitely least is Mother, Mitchel Goodman,” Tobias said, waving a long green sleeve at the man next to Chris, “my wife of twenty-two long, excruciating years.” “Tobias, if you keep this up, we’ll have to seal you back in your coffin before any of the party guest arrive.” “Promises, promises. Now Michael, my pet,” he said, placing a hand over Manetti’s. “I know you said you and Chris want to keep a low profile, and you may if you must. But you do know you arrived on Towel Night.” Between gobbling down forkfuls of pork and asparagus, Chris asked what Towel Night was. He’d finished his plate and Manetti was piling on a few more tenderloin slices. Everyone glanced around the table suppressing grins. Crusher sniffed loudly and passed the tray of coke to Mitchel. Mitchel tapped Chris’ shoulder and offered more asparagus. Chris nodded enthusiastically. As he was serving, Mitchel explained, “Tobias and I host a bacchanal for selected guests, no more than twelve or fourteen mind you, men that throughout the summer have caught his and my eye.” He set down the asparagus and quickly bent down and snorted two lines, then perked back up and continued a little more brightly. “The Towel Party is a Fire Island institution! It’s not suitable for wallflowers or twinks, but since you’re our house guest you’ll be treated like a dignitary.” Tobias broke in, “Or at least a novelty.” The men all laughed except Manetti, who eyed Chris. Tobias went on to explain further, “A white towel and eye mask along with an invitation were left on each of the invitees’ doorsteps late last night.” He added to the table as an aside, “This year, gentlemen, you won’t believe the variety. A potpourri of perversity!” To Chris he said, “The invitation is for ten o’clock, and the celebrant is expected to wear the towel, mask and nothing more.” “One question, Mr. Glass,” interrupted Andy, finishing his Chablis. “Aren’t most houses home to several men, for the most part? How do they know whom the invitation is for?” “That’s the fun part. Self-selection,” Tobias answered. “It’s a house’s decision who they designate. And they almost always select the most philistine participant, making for the most delicious, unpredictable party. Even if it turns out to not be the one Mother and I had an eye on, the collective house knows best, don’t they dear?” Mitchel agreed wholeheartedly. “The result is always better than we could have anticipated or hoped for—and always in surprising ways.” “Chris?” Mitchel said, passing the coke tray to him. “No thank you, sir,” he said, passing the tray to Manetti, finishing his last bites of food. Manetti said, “What. You’re suddenly a prude about drugs?” “I’m still eating,” Chris complained. “And I don’t want to.” “Oh, Mother,” crooned Tobias. “An old married couple already, just like us.” “Do it,” was all Manetti had to say. Chris growled and snatched back the tray glaring at Manetti. After coming back up and wiping his nose, Chris said, “Mr. Glass. What is a bacchanal?” “Oh, dear,” said Tobias. *** The small dinner party had moved outside. Down in an unlit fire pit, Brunswick sliced the air with the sheathed katana blade, showing Chris and Crusher some swordfight moves from a recent episode. Chris watched enthralled. Crusher was duly impressed. Andy not so much. Manetti had maneuvered Tobias to get him alone by the pool, and was quizzing him about boats for sale. “Drax authorized me to purchase a yacht for him, that’s what brought us here.” “I can’t quite picture Drax on the open sea,” said Tobias, lighting another cigarette as he put out his first. Mitchel walked by, frowning at Tobias as he passed, holding coffee mugs for Brunswick and Crusher. “Don’t give me that look, Mother. It’s only my second.” “He has some idea about a new video,” Manetti went on. “Something like Chris the cabin boy, or something like that.” “Mmm. Sailors, pirates, swarthy men who haven’t bathed in months, capture an innocent boy and teach him the ways of the sea. Ah, the timeless story.” Tobias raised his hand as if reading a marque. “Shanghaied and Seduced. I’d buy that. Hell, I'd produce it if Drax would let me on the set.” He took a long drag off his cigarette. “Well, as a matter of fact, we have some acquaintances that own a mortuary in Montclair. Very macabre characters, with unseemly tastes. If half the rumors are true I certainly wouldn’t leave Chris alone in their company. They’re calling it quits after twenty years. Such a pity. Boris caught Roger milking the milkman.” From the fire pit Mitchel corrected, “He was a beer distributor.” “Shush. A milkman makes for a much better story. Anyway, they’ll be docking here in the morning. They always take the week before the Fourth off. If you’re serious I can have them for brunch, but only if you’re serious. They are undertakers, after all. Not really the life of the party.” He exploded with laughter. Manetti snorted. “I have a feeling that aside from all the mishegas of selling the business, the house, oy, I can’t image, they’ll most likely want to get rid of their yacht.” Mitchel came up behind Tobias and rested his hands on his shoulders. “Who will get Wallace, do you suppose?” “Oh, dear. I hadn’t thought about their Great Dane. Poor Wallace. I suppose they’ll have to split him in half.” The two men chuckled. Manetti pressed, “How much do you think a boat like theirs would run.” Mitchel squeeze in next to Tobias on his lounge chair, “They bought it ten years ago, didn’t they?” Tobias nodded. “That yacht at today’s prices? Maybe one hundred fifty, sixty. I wouldn’t go any higher. Have you seen how worn and cracked the outdoor seating is?” Mitchel said sliding his hand over Tobias kimono sleeve. “Almost as cracked and worn out as they are.” Mitchel croaked, while Tobias gave him a playful slap on the wrist. Chris had overheard part of the conversation about yachts and, since Brunswick had finished his demonstration and was putting the sword away, he drifted over with his hand behind his back. He was feeling mischievous from the coke and also a bit daring from all the male attention he was getting. He dropped his clothes next to Manetti and then did a cannon ball next to him. The spray soaked Manetti's entire back, water dripped over his forehead. “That’s it, you little prick,” he said, stripping off his jeans and vest. He dove naked into the water chasing Chris who was squealing with delight. The dinner party gathered round the pool laughing as Manetti caught up with Chris, picked him up by the neck and legs, rose the naked boy kicking high in the air, and threw him into the deep end of the pool. Crusher stripped off his top and shorts revealing a large, semi-erect woody. He dove in and swam up next to the submerged Chris. Chris popped up wiping his eyes. He said to the boy, “I told you he was low rent scum, didn’t I?” He ran his hand up Chris’ torso. “You come stay with Uncle Crusher when you get back in the city. I’ve got a guest room and I’d like to see what I can do with this body,” he said, as underwater he groped the boy’s hairless crotch. Manetti quickly swam up and got between Crusher and boy. “Afraid he’s got other plans, Uncle Crusher.” Manetti wrapped an arm around Chris’ torso and swam away with his charge. “What, you got a monopoly on the whole family, Manetti?” Crusher bellowed. “Gentlemen, niceness. I’m sure there’s enough Chris for everyone, isn’t there Michael?” Tobias ventured. “Not for free, there isn’t,” Manetti said, urging Chris out of the pool. “What a crab, Manetti,” Chris said, grabbing a white towel and going back over to the fire pit. Manetti followed him, wiping himself off and settling into one of the chairs next to Chris. Brunswick came over and sat opposite Chris. He pulled off his shirt flexing his chest, clearly for Chris’ benefit. The boy toweled his hair, astonished seeing in real life what he’d fantasized about so often in his bedroom back home. “Yeah, Manetti, what a crab,” Crusher said, joining them with his own towel tucked around his waist. Manetti finished drying, popped his butt up and wrapped the towel around himself. Instead of following the others, Chris flung his towel around his shoulders and sat provocatively with his legs spread wide for Brunswick benefit. Tobias and Mitchel had gone in the house and were bringing back several glasses filled with a fluorescent green liquid. Tobias took a look at Chris who was starting to get an erection. “Oh dear,” he said, handing the boy a glass. “And before any of the guests arrive.” “What is this, Mr. Glass,” Chris asked, as Tobias and Mitchel finished handing out the spirits. “It’s called le fée verte, a Towel Party tradition,” Tobias replied. “The green fairy,” Andy translated for Brunswick trying to distract him from Chris’ noticeable and none too shabby hairless boner. “Absinthe?” guessed Brunswick. “Certainement,” responded Mitchel. “We always have a shot before the festivities begin.” Crusher sniffed his glass. “They say, absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.” He looked up at Chris. The boy didn't really get the joke but liked Crusher and snickered anyway. Andy held his glass to the light of a tiki torch. “But it’s illegal, isn’t it?” Brunswick clucked his tongue turning to Andy. “And how many lines of coke have you done tonight, young man?” He ran his hand up Andy’s smooth leg, into his shorts and gave a squeeze. Andy beamed an embarrassed but radiant smile, a smile that showed just how smitten he was with the actor. “It's illegal? I’m in,” Chris said. He downed his glass all the while looking at Manetti. “Oh, yuck. Man! Nasty.” “Dear, boy,” Tobias rushed over to Chris. “It’s meant to be sipped.” He ruffled his blond mop. “Ew, I could just eat you up! Now, if you’re good," he said conspiratorially, "I’ll show you a little trick, but you’ll have to come to the table to see it. And you have to wrap your towel. You’re distracting everyone. Look. Poor Mister Crusher can’t keep from poking through his towel.” Several of the men took small sips. Manetti downed his absinthe in one defiant gulp, and followed Chris and Tobias to the patio table. Crusher followed and, true to what Tobias said, was having a time of it trying to keep his towel tied around himself with his very impressive hardon tenting out. When Manetti and Chris sat down on either side of Tobias, he refilled their drinks. Brunswick and Andy grew curious and gathered round the table. Over the two refilled glasses Tobias produced two slotted spoons and set them atop the rims. From the table’s sugar bowl Tobias picked out two sugar cubes, dipped them in his own absinthe and set them on the spoons. Mitchel dimmed the porch lights, then brought over a book of matches and lit the cubes. They all watched as a ghostly green flames wavered above the glasses. Tobias informed the group, “This is the old bohemian method of drinking absinthe.” He twisted the spoons and let the flaming cubes fall into the glass. The entire contents lit up, casting a bright green light over the men's faces. Chris was fascinated with the green fire. Manetti tried to look indifferent but felt slightly hypnotized by the light. Tobias extended his kimono-draped hand over the flame. “Et voila! The flaming green fairy.” “Appropriate,” quipped Crusher. That got even Manetti laughing. “Baudelaire loved it this way,” Mitchel said. Andy added, “I read so did Oscar Wilde.” “It brings out all sorts of dark impulses—‘harbinger of our darkest angels,’ wrote Poe.” Tobias stated. “You’ll soon see why Van Gogh painted in the manner he did. Now no cutting off Chris’ ear,” he wagged a finger at Manetti, who had no idea what the man was talking about. Chris held up the clouded green liquid and blew his out his flame. He waited till it was cool enough to drink and tasted a sip. “It’s like licorice,” he said. The rest of the men wanted to try their absinthe this way. Manetti shot back his again in a single gulp. As Tobias poured out another round, Mitchel warned everyone that cooking the absinthe made it a lot stronger and brought out the legendary hallucinatory qualities. “Yes, Mother,” Tobias sighed, igniting everyone’s drink. “Mr. Brunswick?” Chris said, feeling his chest. The combination of the coke and the initial effects of the absinthe had brought him round to seek advice from his hero. “Call me Chuck, Chris,” he said, blowing out the flame in his glass and taking a sip. “Mr. Chuck? I mean Chuck,” Chris snickered. He started tweaking his nipples without realizing it. Manetti pushed his hand down. “Um, what was I going to say? Oh yeah.” He took another sip before Manetti took his glass away. “You remember that episode where these crooks confronted a crooked cop, killed him and stole all his money?” “That set up, Chris,” he responded, rubbing a hand through his fleecy chest. He too was starting to feel the green fairy. “That seemed to happen in a lot of episodes.” “Yeah,” Chris said, looking at his idol’s chest, the pecs so round, his shoulders so hard. “Um, if there was a third guy that didn’t know any better, but the crooks got him to fetch them the illegal money, ‘cause the money was from drugs that the dirty cop had been skimming from, and this third innocent guy kills the two crooks, and steels their money, would Stacks Lightning still to track him down?” Manetti caught a quick exchange between Mitchel and Tobias. “He’d say the money should be turned over to the police, I would guess.” “But if he didn’t? If say, he bought…?” Chris looked at the mustache and wondered what it would feel like if Chuck was sucking his cock with the mustache brushing his skin, "bought a yacht..." or if they got into sixty-nining and the mustache was tickling his balls. “Dirty money has a habit of getting people dirty, son.” “That’s what I say, too. Makes you dirty,” Chris looked over at Manetti. “Real dirty.” There was a knock at the compound’s archway. The door opened, and an extremely buff Latino man with long caramel hair strolled in accompanied by a regal Black man with long flowing dreadlocks and a burly brown-bearded bear of a man. They all wore towels, their white masks and varying degrees of smiles. Tobias got up to greet his first guests putting on his own mask, while Manetti picked Chris up under his arm, saying he wanted to talk to him. He dragged the protesting Chris to their cabana, tossed him on the crusty bedsheets, and locked the door. “That’s it for you tonight. You’re grounded.” “No,” whined Chris, finding it difficult to get off the bed. “I want to play with those guys. I want to play with Chuck.” “You got too big of a mouth.” Chris was about to holler, but Manetti covered his mouth and pinned him to the bed. He raised a finger to warn Chris to behave, but Chris was struggled drunkenly and noisily. Manetti, too, was starting to feel the effects of the absinthe and knew he had to act quickly. He opened the nightstand’s drawer. He rifled through the paraphernalia. Out came a muzzle that went over Chris face. He cinched it tight. Chris tried to speak but his voice was severely muted. Manetti then took out some rope, tied the boy’s hands together and looped it into a discreet eye hook behind the headboard. Chris rolled around trying to get up but Manetti used his weight to secure the boy, first tying one leg, then the other, till the boy was spread eagle on the bed. He battled against the ropes, but the brat wasn’t going anywhere. Once he was assured Chris couldn’t escape, he observed his helplessness. Maybe it was the green fairy but he was starting to get arouse. His cock stirred beneath the folds of the towel. He looked the boy over, his eyes squinting with brooding thoughts. He sided up next to him and started stroking the defenseless boy’s cock, wanting him excited as he was. “So I’m a crab, am I?” Chris stopped contesting, and lay still. There was a new tone in Manetti’s voice, not quite playful anymore, a note of corrupt intent. “You know you've been trouble all night. You've been disobedient.” The tone his father took when he was about to get a beating. Manetti starting scanning the room. “Do you think I haven't noticed the gym bag’s not here. Where is it? What did you do with it?” he asked menacingly, not playing around. Not playing with his dick, just gripping it hard. Genuine fear lit up in Chris’ eyes. Manetti reached into the bondage drawer and brought out a thick studded dog collar. “I think it’s time we play a new game. A game where you learn your place, the same way Drax schooled me.” He locked the collar around Chris’ neck. He shuffled through the drawer’s contents, found something that brought up an evil smile. He pulled out a roll of copper wire and an electro stimulation kit. "I can stretch this game out for a very long time and it never leaves a trace. Or you can tell me where it is. The bag." Hearing no response, slowly he wrapped each one of Chris’ testicles tightly so they each stood out away from his body. He then attached alligator clips to the end of each wire and connected it to the kit. “Where it is?” He lubed his fingers and rubbed the tip of Chris erect shaft. With his other hand he turned on the machine. Chris instantly felt as if rubber bands were snapping his balls. The ceaseless electric shocks made his body dance on the bed. Manetti turned the dial down, and repeated the question. Chris refused to answer as much from his inborn stubbornness as resistance to Manetti coercion. Manetti turn the dial up again. He continued to rub the kid’s nob, beginning to confuse Chris’ sense between pleasure and pain. “The money, kid. Where. Is. It?” He turned the dial higher and stroked his fist tighter around Chris’ erection. Chris pleaded under his muzzle for Manetti to stop. Feeling the power he had over this boy, Manetti started playing with himself. He asked Chris, “It almost feels good, doesn’t it?” He jacked them both. “Almost.” He upped the voltage again and Chris shuddered, real tears forming in his eyes. “Under the house,” he confessed through his muzzle, praying Manetti would stop. “Which house? This house?” Chris nodded. “Too many people outside.” Manetti looked wild contemplating his next move. He stared at Chris like a stranger, his dark brows scowling. His looked changed from anger to hurt. “Why’d you hide it from me?" He dialed the kit back up not for fun but to make him feel pain like he felt. "I could have just swiped it you know.” The voltage going through his balls brought out a screamed but party music played and a large chorus of men milling around muffled his cry. Chris yelled for help. That made Manetti’s mask switch back to anger. He dial the machine up even higher. Chris repeatedly begged for him to stop, but his pleas were easily drowned out by the din and disco music. Manetti closed his eyes. He’d never saw this side of Manetti. Didn’t want to. “Stop!” came out as a muffled plea. Manetti turned off the kit. On re-opening his eyes were clouded, it looked like he didn’t recognize Chris, only that he had a tied up naked body before him. From the drawer he withdrew a leather hood that covered Chris' head down to his cheeks leaving only two hole for his eyes to peer through. He laid a case on the bed and unzipped it. The case revealed twelve shiny metal instruments, long rods whose widths ran from thin to very thick, secured onto a bed of red velvet. Manetti removed one of the thinner ones. He was still stroking the thin body of the boy, but stopped momentarily to grease the rod. “You need to mind completely. Do whatever ever I say when I say it.” He pushed Chris’ pole straight up. With his pinky finger, he pushed lubricant into the boy’s piss slit, then held the instrument against the opening. He let it slide in about an inch, sending shockwaves over Chris as he realized what was about to happen. Manetti took a firm grip of his cock and stroking it, encouraged the weight of the rod to penetrate the boy’s urethra. It slowly made its way down. At first Chris bucked against the invasion, but that made the rod fall even faster so he stopped, tried to accept it, and felt it ooze steadily and unrelentingly downward. He flung his head back and forth at the odd and unnatural sensation. Never thought anything could enter him so intimately, so overwhelming his sense of what could and what couldn’t be done to his body. With every inch he wanted to it out of him, but with every inch it seduced him by its callous indifference. There was a slight S-shape bend in it, and about four inches in, it fell quickly in line with the contours of his channel, slid swiftly in all the way. Manetti then once again started stroking him. The thrill of steel violating his body like this, having Manetti control all his senses, was enough to bring him to an orgasm in spite of the perversity or perhaps because of it. Manetti read how the faceless body bucked in his hand. He released the cock and let it bob on its own, as the kid twitched but didn’t cum. He pulled the tip of the rod almost all the way out then let it slide back in again on its own accord. After minutes of these internal dick fucks, Chris grew to desire this new feeling of his penis being tortured, loved that Manetti was his torturer. When Manetti allowed him to jerk his cock into his hand, Chris realized this man could do anything to him he wanted. “Are you a good boy?” Manetti pulled out one of the thicker instruments and held it up to Chris to contemplate. Chris shook his head both with fear and excitement. “No, you won’t be good?” Chris nodded that he would. “Oh, you’re saying you want this?” Chris shook his head no. “Doesn’t really matter what you want, boy.” The man pulled the tip of the sound out, lubed the new thicker rod, pushed more lube in his slit and held the sound against Chris’ thin opening. “I’ll eventually fuck your cock with my pinkie. Think you’ll like that?” Manetti pushed the thicker sound into his piss slit. Chris cried No! under his muzzle, but the heavy rod dropped steadily and painfully down his shaft, stretching it wider than his urethra was meant to stretch. The boy rasped inside his muzzle, his body shaking at the odd and torturous discomfort. Manetti had started stroking him again, again confusing his receptors, unable to determine whether he wanted this feeling or wanted it to stop. Manetti wouldn’t stop either way so he laid there while the rod inched his way down, aided by Manetti’s pumping fist. The rod halted about three inches into his shaft. Manetti eased his grip and with his fingers started rubbing the spot in his shaft just below where the sound had stopped. The finger stimulated Chris’ urethra, involuntary inviting the painful invader to continue its journey. It fell in deeper. Manetti kept at him, lightly scratching further down his shaft, provoking the painful acceptance of the monstrously thick instrument. Tiring of how long it was taking, Manetti pushed the remaining inch of the sound into Chris, who let out a muffled holler of pain. He then took sadistic delight in pulling the large rod out and back in, spending an extraordinary amount of time watching the boy’s body go from excruciating agony to mild excitement and, eventually, complete rapture. The boy gradually began fucking the air, gyrating his hips. “Good little pain pig. That’s it, be daddy’s pain addict. You like this, don’t you, fucker.” Chris' brain was too addled to respond. All he knew to do was fuck the air harder to keep the instrument poking his prostate. He’d convulse uncontrollably, then return to fucking the fucker inside his shaft. He was ready to blow but Manetti felt darker impulses emerge. He pulled off the boy's mask and intimately appraised Chris face. How easy it was, Manetti thought, to pervert the boy. How the kid’s instincts, being Ben’s brother, were on the slutty side anyway. He decided he wanted to be the one to push him over the edge, make him a dirtier pig than even he was. He left the sound where it was and searched the drawer withdrawing several plastic tubes, a metal ball clam and hex key, and a hand pump, and placed all of it on the bed. “You think you’re some fucking clean cut kid. But I know there’s a dirty street whore in you, a homeless pussy boy who'd do anything for a meal, anything for his next fix.” He licked the kid’s nipple and placed one of the smaller tubes over it and pumped it till it sucked in a good inch of the kid’s tit. He did the same for the other one. It didn’t hurt but Chris saw how plump his nipples were in the vacuum. Soon he’d have utters like Manetti and Master Drax. Manetti unwrapped the copper wire and pulled Chris’ balls painfully down, locking the thick ball weight around his stretched testicles. With the hex key, he locked it in place. “Who owns you now, boy?” “You do, Sir,” Chris called out from under the muzzle, hoping Manetti would let him go. “Hardly mine yet, boy,” Manetti replied. “Soon though. Sometime tonight you're going to prove to me you're a whore. Only then will you'll be mine.” He picked out a very large butt plug with a metal strip running down it. He generously applied lube and twisted it into Chris ass, who grunted as it was going in. As it stretched his ass open to the object’s full width, Chris’ protesting cries came to a crescendo. His ass lips slipped over its wide smooth edge and, as it quickly narrowed, his sphincter pulled it into himself. Chris breathed heavily trying to adjust to the huge object now inside his rectum. Its base kept his anus opened with a constant three inch stretch. Manetti took the wire that came out of the butt plug’s base and connected it into the electro kit. He then took an alligator clip and attached it to the tip of the thick sound going into the boy's shaft. He adjusted some setting and flicked it on. “This cycles up for a very long time before it comes back down. You’re going to love it. Or maybe not. I didn’t at first, but Drax used it to finally persuade me to not only use my hole, but to be it.” Chris felt the first tiny spark slowly run down his penis, then snap sharply through his prostate and land on the metal edge of the butt plug traveling from inner tip slowly ascending out to his sphincter. Once the journey ended, it began again. Tip, to root, snap through his prostate, and run out his hole. It didn't really hurt, more or less tickled. “Do you know the story of the frog who was put in a bowl of warm water and was slowly boiled to death?” Manetti asked the muzzled Chris. “That’s the setting on the machine. It's called the boiled frog. The voltage increases so slowly you won’t realize when it eradicates what's up here,” he said, tapping Chris’ temple. “After, all you’ll see yourself as, is as a hole.” The spark was manageable. Not painful. Its regularity was almost soothing. Almost. Manetti got up and after washing up in the bathroom came back in and searched his jeans, pulling out a small baggy of white powder. “Holy Christ, do you even know how hot you look right now, baby? I don’t know why," he said with glossy eyes, "but I'm lovin' the idea of whoring you out all night. I want you to take so many loads you’re going to be shitting cum into next week.” He returned to the bathroom and soon came back with two orange-capped rigs. Tapping the vial to the light, Manetti said, his voice dispassionate and clinical, “This’ll get you through the next hour. You want to flirt with Crusher and Brunswick? I’ll let you play with them all you want. I want everyone to play with you, but first they gotta pay. Don’t move your arm.” Manetti felt for a protruding vein, stuck him, saw the flash of red, and slammed him good. Chris coughed beneath the muzzle. Manetti ran a hand across his hot flesh, his skinny ribs, the smooth concave belly. He lightly stroked the boy’s flicking dick. The kid responded with the expected quiver everywhere he touched. He removed the muzzle. “You want dick, don’t you, boy?” Chris licked his lips as if starving. “Yeah, Sir,” he said in a steady and determined voice, eyes like large black pearls. “Lots of dick. And fist, Sir. Lots of fists.” Chris bobbed his head eagerly, mouthed a silent thank you. Every now and then his hips twitched as the voltage leapt through his prostate. “Don’t thank me yet,” Manetti responded, uncapping his rig. He stuck himself, rode the rush, and steadied himself with a hand on the door. He turned off the lights, opened the drapes, and left Chris to spin, while he went out to fuck someone or get fucked, he didn’t give a fuck which, and then come back to fetch Chris for his first trick of many. The door clicked shut. In the dark, Chris laid spread eagle on the bed, rushing wildly, shuddering lightly. Pain sat with him so he wasn’t alone. It was becoming familiar, pain was, not a friend exactly—maybe more of an escort. He glanced through the window, each round of electricity growing a little more pronounced, drilling a bit deeper into his permanent hard wiring. He looked up. Outside, in the wavering light of the pool, a sea of a thousand naked men swam toward him. ***

Reminded me of Manetti

5. Trophies “You fuckin’ idiot!” He heard a voice from far away. He coughed, threw his hands up to his throat. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You trying to kill him before he even does the job?” He heard the same far away voice, incredulous, like it was shouted in a long, echoing tunnel. Chris rasped in several breath before he trusted he was breathing again. He sat up in bed naked, still high as fuck, but was alone in the master bedroom. The men had left him, and sounded like they were downstairs arguing. “So I got carried away,” he heard Polanski trying to defend himself. “You get carried away. Look at the way you offed the Bailey family. One by one, Brody. One by one. You ain’t no Saint Sanity when you get worked up. How many pieces’ that Tony kid in now? How many fingers did you cut off, how many ears, and whatever, before you just went and slit their throats? That wasn’t just for the old man’s benefit and you know it. You liked it! You was enjoying yourself.” Chris was trying unsuccessfully to process the evening. How much time had passed since he blacked out? Johnny Carson was on TV doing his opening monologue. It couldn’t have been that long. Still flying, not a lot of things made sense. Then, like someone had flipped a light switch, the pieces of the night fit. The last he’d heard on the television news, the sewer pipe, the two cons, they were right here. Chris crawled off the bed. On hands and knees he crept to the staircase to observe the men. They were in their boxers again. “Listen, you dumb shit. That was to get the dirty cop to squeal where he stashed it. It worked, didn’t it?” Bailey, Don, Brody, whatever his name was, he was no cop. He smacked Polanski in his forehead. “Think, dumb shit. Be smart.” Then he said in a low voice, “If you want to snuff the kid, wait till he brings out the stash, then you can have all the sick motherfuckin’ fun you want. But you almost fucked up what was pretty complicated set up to begin with. Drax would have had both us skinned alive, and I do mean skinned! We seen him do it to that poor fuck Jackson.” Polanski shivered. “So what now?” he said, starting to pace nervously around the room. “So now you go up, and hope the kid recovers. Then you beg him to forgive you, hope he ain’t dead or damaged, and will still do the job for us. You kiss his ass, suck his cock, and do whatever it takes.” “We gonna be straight with him?” “We gotta, but he don’t need to know everything. I’ll do the talking. He’ll trust me more than you, but you gotta make it up to him. Be his pal. You been a mean fuck ever since we busted in on him. Play nice.” They both looked up the staircase. Chris ducked back quickly in the dark hallway. He scurried back to the bedroom, got on the bed, and played possum on his side as the men came back into the room. Polanski got on the bed and shook his shoulder. “Hey, kid,” he said, “kid, you still with us?” Chris faked like he was stirring, throwing his hands to his neck like someone was choking him and sat up in panic. “Nah, nah, you’re okay,” Polanski said nervously. “Things just got a little out of hand, but you’re okay now. Man, I sure am high. How ‘bout you?” “Yeah,” Chris said hoarsely. “You were choking me.” He shoved Polanski away with both hands. “Yeah, nah, I was just playin’, but like Brody knows, I sometimes get carried away. I play too rough.” “Brody?” Chris asked confused. “Ah, geez,” Brody, as Polanski now called him, sighed and put his head in his hand. He sat down on the other side of the bed and put his hand on Chris’ back. “Yeah, we gotta come clean with you kid. We ain’t no cops.” “What?” Chris said in disbelief. “If you’re not the cops, who are you?” Brody laid out it out for Chris. “Nicky and I are ex-cons. We were just released from upstate after doing our time. And the first thing we do is we come pay a visit to the guy who set us up, the crooked cop who lives here. He’d been skimming money off the top for years from the man we work for. A Mister Jones.” “Mr. Jones?” “Well, that ain’t his real name, but better you don’t know.” Brody went on with his story with Chris pretending to hang on every word. “So the dirty cop’s family is away, okay? So we bust in on him. We had to get pretty rough with him, but he finally admitted that he did a bad thing and that he had the money squirreled away in the house, in the duct work. So Mr. Jones instructs us to use Bailey’s uniform and police stuff to get you to come out to Flushing to help us get the stash. Seems like he had his little kid go deep in the ducts and hide the goods where big guys like us can’t get to it, so the only way to get it is for a little guy like you to get it for us. You’re like part of our gang now.” “Did you kill Manetti,” asked Chris, honestly fearing the answer. “Nah,” Brody said. “He hadda done it himself. You seen the place was chained from the inside. Mr. Jones used that as an excuse for us to show up.” “Yeah, and I’m real sorry. I was playing too hard. But it’s ‘cause I like you. I think you’re really sexy and hot for a little skinny guy, and I got a thing for breath control. It’s just a thing I got.” “Yeah,” said Brody, “and it looked like you maybe got a thing for it too now by how much you came all over me.” “Yeah, I don’t think I like it,” Chris said, rubbing his neck. “Nah, nah,” said Polanski. “Not a lot of guys do, and if you, I mean you, me and Brody ever was to, you know, go at it again, and I hope we do, ‘cause the dirty cop ain’t coming back anytime soon,” he said darkly, “so maybe, once we get the stash, maybe we can mess around again, if you want, but only if you want.” “And no choking,” Brody added, running his hand up and down Chris’ back. “Just fun stuff. I like you too. You’ve got a hot little hole like I rarely seen, and a real sexy little bubble butt, which if we didn’t have a job to do, I could right now, cause I’m still horny, right now fuck you again.” It was true. Both men were getting a rise in their shorts. “Yeah,” said Polanski, getting back to business. “But we gotta finish the job, right Brody?” “Nah, you’re right Nicky. So, kiddo, what you say? You part of our gang, help us pull out the money? Then we get back here,” Brody padded the bed, “and we go at it for round two?” “You’d let me be part of your gang?” Chris asked. Both men nodded. “Would I get some of the money?” Polanski raised a brow and looked at Brody. Brody gave him a look back and said to Chris, “Sure, sure. Being in the gang means you get a cut. But we have to give most of it back to Mr. Jones. You understand that, right?” “I guess. I never been in a gang before. And then we can get back here and have more sex? Cause right up till the choking, I really liked it. I never been double fucked before. I guess this’ll be night of firsts.” There was so much untruth dripping all around, as they all looked at each other they all knew they were full of shit, but had to buy it to keep up the ruse.“So let’s do this,” said Chris. They went downstairs and out to the garage. The men’s tools were laid out on the floor near a vent next to the washing machine. The grate was off. Brody gave Chris a small flashlight and a map of the ductwork maze where the cop had his son hide the money. Chris got down on his hands and knees and crawled inside. Even for him it was a tight fit. The two men leered as his ass scuttled away from them. Brody said, shining his flashlight on Chris’ butt admiringly, “Let’s get this done quickly ‘cause I gotta have some of that pretty pussy again.” “Yeah, boy,” Polanski called through the duct, “Taking both our kielbasas means you’re ready for another game I like even better than choking called fisting.” Brody hit Polanski on his forehead again, but Chris had already rounded his first corner and his head was busy sorting through his options. All that stuff his brother had told him came back. Plan B. Look for a way out. They were going to kill him, he was certain of that, so how was he going to make an escape. Here he was, naked crawling through ductwork. If he manage to get out he’d be running down the street naked yelling for help. Well, that was the least of his problems. From the moment both of the men had their hands on him, he felt they were never going to let him out of their site even for one second. Except now. It had to be now or never. Looking at the map there was one tunnel that led to the HVAC system’s main unit in the basement. If he got down to there, he might be able to crawl out one of the basement windows. He scurried the direction he was sure was the route to the basement. It didn’t take him long but once he got down to the basement level he found the only vent into the room was sealed with a grate. He stomped his foot at it. It didn’t budge. He tried again and again, making an awful racket. Brody shouted into the vent what was the matter? He kick against the grate with all his might and it popped off. Nothing, he shouted back. He saw a rat and had to scare it away. He slipped out of the vent and landed on the cold cement. The floor was kind of sticky and slippery. In the dim room he saw the basement windows glowing from the outside streetlights. He went over to one of the windows and unlatched it. It was a lot narrower than he thought, only about six inches high. He was small but not that narrow. Plan B. He walked over to the staircase and again felt the floor was slick and sticky. Once he climbed to the top of the stairs he tried to open the basement door but it was bolted. There wasn’t a latch he could open. A key had to be used to open the door on either side. There must be a key down here somewhere. He felt around for the light switch and flipped it on. The basement was a horror show! Four bodies in various stages of dismemberment were tied to metal folding chairs all facing each other. They were all naked. A blond woman with several knife wounds on various parts of her body was nearest to the stairs. The crooked cop, the one Chris now recognized from the Disney photo, was as big as Brody, was tied up next to her. His neck was sliced ear to ear. Most of the floor’s blood looked to be his, although each family member contributed to the gore. The oldest boy was the one Polanski had talked about. Three of his fingers on his left hand and all the fingers on his right were clipped by garden sheers lying bloodied on the ground. His neck was also sliced. But what was done to the little kid that freaked him out the most, caused him to give up on this particular plan B, of getting out through the basement. As Chris got back into the vent he tried to un-see what he’d seen. The kid he was so envious of? No one deserved a fate like that. In the dark, he follow the map again. He tried to keep his mind on the task at hand, but he kept seeing the kid’s agonized face. Both ears had been clipped, his blond hair matted in red blood. In his mouth, his ears peeked out. As Chris got close to his goal, where there was an X on the map, one glimpse, one flash he tried to push away, but couldn’t: the imprinted image of kid’s bloody crotch. His eyes refused to focus on the particulars of where the blood had come from. He didn’t need to. He knew. Then there, in front of him, was the black briefcase. What kind of psychopaths was he dealing with? What reason could they have to produce such a nightmare? He flipped the clasps and opened it in the narrow vent. Stacks of hundreds neatly lined the case. He was no math wiz, but a quick count of rows times columns times ten stacks deep. The crooks had two million reasons. There was a banging on the metal, and Brody shouted what was taking so long. While he gazed at the money, he shouted he’d gotten to a dead end and got lost. He closed the clasps and turned around in the vent. He added that the map wasn’t accurate but he’d found the briefcase. He was freaked but he knew he couldn’t show it. As he started retracing his steps, he saw there were streaks of blood he’d trailed in from the basement. He had to wipe it off. He re-opening the briefcase and took out a couple of hundreds and cleaned his feet. He had a couple of spots on his knees and hands too, so he took out another couple of bills and wiped himself off with those. It didn’t take long to get back to Brody and Polanski. He pushed the briefcase out and Polanski grab it. Polanski couldn’t help himself and cracked the briefcase. All three of them stared at the contents. Brody was the first to speak. “Holy mother of Christ.” He put his hand on Chris’ butt and started rubbing it. “I think this calls for a celebration fuck. Who’s up for a nightcap?” They flashed glances at one another, and Brody took his finger and felt up Chris’ hole. “Ah, boy. We’re going to have to give you a special reward.” Brody and Polanski shared an evil grin. While they were climbing the stairs back to the bedroom, Brody asked, “So the map was really off?” “Big time,” Chris answered. “The stuff wasn’t where the X was and the layout wasn’t right. That’s what took me so long.” Brody set the briefcase next to the door. “So,” said Brody, “whiskeys on the house.” Chris asked if he could have one. “Sure,” Polanski said. “You earned it, didn’t he Brody?” Brody gave a nod. Chris trotted into the bathroom and brought back a glass. Brody had taken off his boxers and was playing absently with his enormous member. Polanski was around. “Where’s Nick?” he asked starting to pour drinks. “Dunno,” Brody responded, staring at the TV. Johnny Carson was joking around with Joan Rivers. “Hey,” he said lumbering off the bed, “We need a better show. How ‘bout you entertain us while you entertain us?” “Huh?” asked Chris as he poured the final glass. “I want to see how Manetti played with you while we play with you. I got the tape downstairs.” He went to fetch it. He had only a few seconds. Manetti’s drug box was on the cart. He opened it and took out the bottle of G and spit the contents between two of the drinks. He replaced the vial in the box, just when Polanski reappeared. “Crisco!” the man announced. “Promise I’m gonna curl your toes.” Chris gave Polanski his shark smile. “I feel ‘em curling already.” He handed Polanski his whiskey. Brody came in holding the VHS tape and popped it in the VCR and pushed play. Chris handed him his drink, as the familiar grunts of Manetti fucking him played in the background. Brody held up his glass. “We, who are about to die, salute you.” They both looked at Chris and each of them downed their glasses in one gulp. The two men squished their faces. Chris followed suit and stuck out his tongue making a gah sound, which made the men laugh. Polanski grabbed the almost empty bottle. “How about a chaser for a job well done, and to the newest member of our gang.” He divided the remains between them. “Bottoms up!” They raised their glasses again and kicked them back. “Okay, bottom. Up!” he ordered Chris. “On your back, head here,” Polanski barked. “Knees up.” Not used to hard alcohol, the whiskey got to Chris’ head pretty quickly. Combined with the earlier crystal, he was starting to feel spaced and horny. He got on the bed, listening to Manetti fuck him on TV. He forced his mind not to think about Manetti, but focused instead on Polanski. Even though he didn’t like the guy he was a sexy fucker. Brody knelt next to him and pushed his head toward his erection. Polanski greased two fingers and slipped them into Chris’ asshole. It felt good to have Polanski in his chute. Not liking him somehow made him harder. He bore down on Polanski’s fingers and took them right down to the knuckles. Polanski said to Brody, “This kid’s a natural. Look at this.” He greased up four fingers and slipped them with no resistance into Chris. Brody gave out an excited moan. “How ‘bout being a real pig, kid. Eat daddy’s hole.” He raised himself from feeding Chris his dick and lifted one leg over Chris’ head and sat his hairy butt on his face. “Dig in there, pig boy. Clean daddy’s dingleberries.” He complied eagerly, using his hands to spread Brody’s cheeks further apart, using his tongue to untangle each strand of clotted hair. The closer he came to Brody’s asshole, the more hardened fecal matter he found. Polanski added his thumb and Chris felt his whole hand pressing at his entrance. Again, he bore down and his asslips swallowed all of Polanski’s hand. “Woo-ee,” shouted Polanski. He wasn’t patient or caring like Manetti, he didn’t wait for Chris to adjust to his hand, just began pulling his hand out and pushing it back in again. Chris yowled under Brody’s ass each time Polanski yanked out his hand. He raised his hand to tell Polanski to take it easy, but Brody grabbed them both. Brody’s ass was firmly on his face, and the big man started rutting impatiently for Chris to get his tongue deeper his hole. When Chris traced his tongue around his asslips, the man gave out a huge farted. The skin vibrated lewdly on his mouth and Brody grabbed his head so Chris couldn’t get away. The smell was foul but he was stuck smelling it. Polanski was picking up the pace, pulling one of Chris’ legs over his muscular shoulders to get Chris to spread of his legs wider. The violent punching was winning. The helplessness of being pinned up such a big hair butt and his legs force apart while his hole was being wrecked, caused Chris to surrender completely. Polanski took the surrender to increase his attack, pulling out fiercely. He stopped for a second to admire the red pedals of the rosebud he was creating. “That’s it boy, push!” shouted Polanski, tapping on the rectum that was coming out of its hole. “I want some of that,” Brody said woozily, getting off Chris’ face. He scuttled down to Polanski and each man took one of Chris’ legs and pulled him apart. “Look, this little fuck still has a boner.” He looked at Chris who was wiping bits of Brody’s shit off his face. “You gonna let us do whatever we want to you, ain’t ya, boy?” Chris nodded. Brody greased his big paw and stuck four fingers into Chris. His hand was too big to get, but Brody stubbornly kept pushing his paw against Chris’ resisting hole. “Give it up, boy.” “I can’t,” Chris said. “It’s too big.” That only made Brody more determined. He leaned into the boy, and forced his fist in. Chris gave out a cry of extreme pain. His torso shot up trying to expel Brody’s huge mitt, but Brody twisted and prodded his hole enjoying the spasms he was causing Chris to endure. The hand popped out of the boy as he fell back on the bed. “You pussy,” said Brody, with weary eyes. “Let’s try that again. Daddy likes depth. C’mon, open your cunt for daddy.” His hand shot into Chris again, and though it was agonizing, Chris felt his rectum was prepared this time to accommodate the invasion. Brody was even rougher than Polanski, more aggressively tunneling deep into his hole. Polanski watch amused, though his breath was increasingly labored and shallow. Brody laid flat on his side to reach into Chris’ hole, Polanski fell from his knees to one butt cheek. He looked at Chris’ hard on and reached out and smacked the kid’s balls. The kid jumped but Brody’s fist in his ass held his in place. Polanski slapped his balls again, then took a fist and punched him in the nuts. Chris’ ass muscles reacted by baring down hard on Brody’s wrist and that egged Brody on to go in deeper. Chris’ intestines could accept any more of the girth of Brody’s hand, yet Brody’s face showed that a little thing like Chris’ anatomy wasn’t going to stop him. “The goal is the heart of the boy, and you’re going to give it to me,” stated Brody as he pushed in another inch. Polanski didn’t let up punching Chris in the balls. Chris’ head was back on the bed struggling to resist these two psychopaths, his hands flying in the air. There was a bounce on the bed. He looked over to see Polanski laying on his side. Brody looked at Polanski laying there, said, “Lightweight.” He pushed himself up on his side and pulled one of Chris’ legs over his fleshy shoulder. He stop for a second and examined the bottom of Chris’ foot. His face displayed his puzzlement. “Boy,” he said having a hard time put words together, “why have you got a red foot?” His mystified expression suddenly sparked with a dull anger. He pulled up Chris’ other foot. “You been someplace you shouldn’t.” There was such an ominous tone, Chris knew the man figured out where he’d been. “I’m gonna fuckin’...rip your heart...out of your…” The big man went down. Chris laid there for a moment. Brody’s hand was still far up his colon. He felt his fingers slightly twitching. His balls ached painfully, he was sure Polanski had damaged him. He started trying to pull his chute off of Brody’s hand, but at first only managed to pull Brody along with him as he slid across the bed. Without realizing it he found himself on the bed’s edge, his hand gave out under him, and he fell backward landing on his back. The quick, forceful drop pulled Brody’s whole hand out of him in one go, and also pulled out of Chris a gut-wrenching shriek. He now had that empty feeling once again, but this time he was very happy about it. The bedroom phone rang on the nightstand behind his head. The digital clock showed it was just after two o’clock. He knew who it was. He picked up the receiver without saying anything, just listening. “Do you have it?” Master Drax said on the other end of the line. “Yes,” Chris answered. There followed a long pause so long, Chris thought the connection was lost. Then Master Drax continued. “Are they dead?” He leaned over Polanski who hadn’t move since he fell over. He got in close to see if he was breathing. He was, but just barely. His lips were blue and his skin very white. Brody was breathing hard, but Chris had noticed he was always breathing hard. “No, but they don’t look good.” “Bring me what you found in the ventilation system. Leave the briefcase. It will attract undue attention to you. Put the contents in your bag and bring it to me.” Brody started to stir. Chris stepped back in alarm. The large man raised up on one hand, then vomited all over the bed. He looked around the room disoriented, saw Chris, tried to focus, but his eyes closed and he collapsed into his mess. “Leave them. Move quickly, child.” There was a click, and then dial tone. Chris went in the bathroom and splashed water on his face, then all the mess off his ass. What was he going to wear? His clothe in the washer were wet probably. He ran into the large walk-in closet. Half the clothes were the wife’s, and the other half were the dead officer’s, all way too big for him. A bright red jogging suit with white stripes hung next to the door. It was also way too big, but there was a belt rack on the back of the door. He could cinched up the waist with one of them. He grabbed the jogging suit, which uncovered the officer’s holster and police revolver. He wished he’d found that before. Now it seemed after the fact. He put the briefcase and his gym bag on the bed and began transferring the money. He looked over at Polanski. He’d quit breathing. All the money fit with a little room left over. He ran downstairs to the garage and got his damp clothes out of the washer. Sprinting back upstairs he stopped off in Eddie’s bedroom, found his sneakers, and sat on the kid’s bed tying his shoes. He went back into the bedroom to fetch the bag, when Brody rolled over the side of the bed with great effort, but even more determination. He stood teetering, blocking the door. “You little fuck,” he said, looming menacingly, taking one step at a time toward Chris. Chris back up with each step he took, but there wasn’t anywhere he could run. He was cornered. He jumped up on the bed, but the big man grabbed his foot and Chris tumbled off onto the floor, banging his head on the closet door. The man stumbled toward him. Chris scrambled up and backed into the closet, closing the door behind him. He grabbed the holster and moved to the back of the closet, far away the door. The door flew open and Brody charged at him with a monstrous roar intent on tearing him limb from limb. Chris pulled the Glock out of its holster, clicked off the safety, and emptied six bullets in the man’s stomach. Brody was knocked backwards with each strike, but still stood his ground, taller and now madder than ever. “I’m fucking gonna reach inside you and tear out your lungs.” He charge again at Chris, grabbed Chris by the neck and lifted him to the ceiling. Chris unloaded nine more rounds, first hitting his shoulder, his arm, his chest, and, finally feeling his throat about to snap, shot him between the eyes. He kept pulling the trigger long after the gun was empty. Brody fell backward dropping Chris to the floor. His body made a loud thump. As he sprawled, arms wide, on the emerald green shag carpeting, red streams of blood slowly spread in all directions. Chris slowly stood up, still in shock. It wasn’t till the heavy revolver slipped out of his hand that his flight instinct took over. He jumped over the dead man, snatched up his gym bag, and sped out of the house never looking back. A black Camaro sat at the curb. Its engine gunned once as Chris approached it with mounting dread. At curbside he bent down to view the driver and his fate. Inside a large shark-tooth grin spread from ear to ear. “Nice work, Chief,” Manetti said holding the wheel, gunning the engine again. “Love the outfit. Red's definitely suits you. Get in.” Chris did. The car squealed down the street, wheels smoking, laying eight feet of rubber minutes before the cops arrived triggered by several reports of gun fire.

4. 249 Station Street, Flushing, Queens Every breath you take Every move you make Every bond you break, every step you take I’ll be watching you After the massive amount of chem piss Manetti shot into him, there wasn't much more of the night he remembered. He didn't think there was any more filming. Although he was excited thinking he was a star in his first porn video, the actual act of getting fisted and spunked by Manetti was the thing he relished as he woke up. Somehow he'd gotten back to Manetti's apartment. He awoke naked but collarless, a little spaced out about the rest of the evening's events. He rested for a long time on Manetti's futon. A sheet was covering him, but it looked like he had kicked off a blanket. It was already hot in the apartment and it seemed only to be early morning. The VCR clock said seven-oh-three. He felt his butt and found it very wet and greasy. His head felt like shit and he was pretty disoriented, but got up and went to the bathroom. Sitting there, he tried to gather his thoughts. He's pretty sure he got put on a fuckbench and had been ridden by Master Drax and Jamal. His memory was fuzzy. Manetti had opened him up sufficiently for Master Drax to ram his mammoth cock into him, but funny enough he couldn't really remember it. He remembered that Jamal went at him for a long time. He was rough at first but he'd put up little resistance and they soon fell into a hypnotic rhythm that lasted for hours, literally, till the first light of day came into the air shaft. He seemed to remember Jamal pissed in him too. They were like dogs marking their territory, he thought. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, but after that things got sketchy. He thought his memory of Master Drax would come back to him, but right now, sitting on the toilet, he couldn't recall anything after Jamal’s pissing. It hurt, that's as much as he could remember of Master Drax. That, and he distinctly remembered Manetti wasn't there. He released a huge volume of piss from his ass, then followed that up with a slew of shit, grease and blood. When he wiped he was alarmed by the multi-colored streaks: red, brown, yellow, pink. But he knew what he'd been in for, so why actually be surprised? His hole felt it was at least twice the size it had been. Actually it felt amazing. He squeeze a couple of times and realized he couldn't completely squeeze it shut. Overall, the lingering thoughts he had from last night was that it was an adventure he was glad he had, especially what he and Manetti shared, but goddamn did he feel like crap now. He staggered out of the bedroom, saw the back of Manetti's head in the kitchen tub, and crawled back in bed. "Hey, Mike," he managed to eke out, talking into his pillow. "Are you coming to bed?" But he was back asleep before he heard any answer. *** The front door erupted with a tremendous pounding. Chris opened one eye and determined, by airshaft light, it was late afternoon. He looked at the VCR: four-ten. The banging began again. "Mike?" he said. "You there?" The third thumping this time was the loudest, longest, and most determined. He pushed himself up and trotted to the front door. He cracked it opened as far as the chain lock would allow to discover two police officers standing there. "Your neighbor called in a complaint about water leaking from your apartment," the older of the two officer said. He was a big, red-headed guy with a flushed face and greying temples. The other officer in back of him had buzz cut and cold green eyes. “He thought the water looked bloody," the officer added. He peered over Chris head and looked alarmed. “What the hell is that?" He pointed his night stick at something behind Chris’ head. Chris turned around and was dumbstruck. Manetti was naked in the bathtub, wrist slashed, lying in a pool of bloody water. "You need to let us in, young man. Unlatch the door," the officer instructed. The buzz cut officer got on his walkie-talkie and called the incident in. They waited as Chris slipped off the security chain. When he opened the door the younger officer said wryly, "You might want to put on some clothes." It took Chris only a second to realize he was standing in front of them naked. His wasn't thinking, obviously. How could he think? He was just now only fully waking up to the horror of the scene. He looked at Manetti, colorless, his eyelids closed. He focused past him and he saw his clothes hanging on the window grate, now dry. He walked woozily over to the window through a puddle of blood-drenched water. No underwear on the grate, he couldn't remember where that was, so he just slipped on his jeans and his t-shirt. He turned around. The two officers had come into the kitchen and the younger one, the buzz cut guy, put two fingers to Manetti’s neck. He shook his head at the other officer. The red-headed officer introduced himself as Officer Bailey. Chris heard words but they were muffled. Mostly he heard he heard his own blood pulsing through his head. He tried to anchor himself by looking intently at what was in front of him. A police officer in his late forties who looked like a little league coach or Scout Master. Open face, a little flabby maybe, but still solid for his age. There was a bit of tomato sauce on his chin. He wondered what the tomato sauce was from. Officer Bailey nodded at the other officer, said his name was Officer Polanski, then he quizzed him, "Mind telling us your name, son, and who this is and what happened?" His question was nothing more than dampened words under a blanket. Officer Bailey saw the blank look on Chris’ face so he slowly repeated the question: "Your name, son, his name, what happened?" It took Chris a second to shake the cobwebs out of his head before he could pull any kind of answer together. "I don't know. My name’s Chris Prior.” He looked back horrified at Manetti. “I just came in from Los Angeles. Last night. This is Mike, Mike Manetti." He stopped in his tracks after saying Manetti's name. He couldn't continue. Didn’t allow himself to think beyond the officer’s question. "You saying you just now seeing this?" Polanski, the second officer, asked skeptically standing by Manetti’s body. Chris put his hands on his forehead trying to process the scene, then said, a half-step behind each word he spoke, "Yeah, I woke up when you knocked.” It was almost as if he was testing the ground with each word to see if they still held up to reality: "I just flew in from LAX last night. I came here to find my brother. This is his boyfriend, roommate. Was his…" He trailed off. Bailey went in the other room to search the apartment putting on latex gloves. Chris heard him responding to his walkie-talkie. Officer Polanski looked around the room. "You here alone 'cept for him?" Chris nodded. "He leave a note?" "I don't know. You know as much as I know. Is there?" They both scanned the room from where they stood. Chris' eyes kept coming back to Manetti. He had no idea what to do, had no clue why this was happening. The wall phone suddenly began ringing loudly making him jump. Chris looked at it as if it was an alien object. He picked it up. “Hello?” he said in a daze. Master Drax spoke to him in a quiet voice, "Are the police with you?" "Yes," Chris said, staring at the ground. "Do whatever they say. Cooperate with them fully. Now say, 'I haven't seen him today.'" Chris repeated, "I haven't seen him today." He gave a sideways glance out the window and saw an outline of a dark figure on the other side of the air shaft. "Don't say anything to anyone. Just keep saying you don’t know anything.” Chris got out tentatively, “O-kay.” “I'll be in touch again." There was a click, then a loud dial tone. Polanski said, "Who was that?" "I think his boss. Wanted to know why he wasn't in." "Why'd you say you hadn't seen him?" Polanski pressed. There was something dark yet familiar about this officer. Chris didn't have many run-ins with cops in Long Beach but Ben had. The area of Long Beach he grew up in was called Dogpatch. It was close to the refineries and the sprawling Los Angeles harbor. It was also an area where convicts were released. The Burger King close to his house was off limits to him growing up. It was a place crawling with ex-cons and their wives and girlfriends, to cops and fights and arrests. Polanski reminded him of the kind of cop that used to harass Ben. Ben had been busted for being underage at a local gay bar when he was sixteen. He was on the cops' radar ever since. Bailey came back in to the kitchen holding Manetti's box of drugs. He had it open, displaying the contents to Chris. He asked if Chris knew anything about it. He said he didn't. He'd just met the guy last night. He just let him crash here but that was all. Polanski scrutinized him. "What are you, kid, fourteen, fifteen…thirteen?" Bailey gave him a back-off look. "What?" he whined to Bailey, "The kid don't have hair down there. So what am I supposed to think? Maybe we need to take him in for a statement then hand him over to Protective Services?" "I'm eighteen," Chris said, trying not to sound indignant, though he was a little embarrassed they saw he was hairless when they caught him naked. "Eighteen, huh," Officer Bailey said, with a raised eyebrow. "And three month, Sir," Chris added, riffling through his wallet to find his driver’s license. He knew officers like the 'Sir' thing, at least that’s what his brother had told him. When Ben was still at home, his brother was always telling him stuff like that. Like always look for an exit, or always have a plan B, which meant nothing to an eight-year-old. Or like always have two answer for any question you’re asked, if you shoot a gun keep firing till it’s empty, don’t ever mix G with alcohol, stay in your room when mom and Carl are high—useless or obvious stuff like that. Hell, for ten years he didn’t even know what G was until last night. "Here's my driver's license. And I don't know anything about this guy’s drugs habits. Maybe he was a dealer. I don’t know." He was emphatic. "I came in late and we went to sleep, and...." "And that’s why," Polanski interjected, "you're just getting up now, at four o’clock. That don't make no sense." "Jet lag," said Chris defensively. Then quickly added, “I guess it’s jet lag. Sir.” "So you come here looking for your brother and you meet this guy..." "We wrote a couple of letters and he said I could stay with them, with him. He told me he was his roommate, boyfriend, whatever." "And he let you stay the night." Polanski had that real prosecutor's attitude he'd seen Ben subjected to in court. "And the next day you wake up, late in the afternoon, answer the door naked as the day you was born, and this guy’s lying in the bathtub with slashed wrist, and you don't know nothin' about nothin'? Come on. You gotta do better than that." Chris looked crestfallen. Things were happening too fast. Last night was a crazy sex party, some of which he couldn’t even remember, and right on the heels of that craziness, this. Officer Bailey saw Chris' consternation. He sympathetically asked how long his brother had been missing. Chris didn't know exactly. Mike, he thought, said something like two weeks. Polanski chimed in, wanted to know if a missing person’s report was filed. Chris didn't know that either. Maybe he should have, he didn't know why he hadn't. He was in California. He looked down dejected, determined not to cry. Officer Bailey watched him carefully. There was something street wise but also pitiful about the kid. "So this guy's boss calls just now," Polanski continued prosecuting his case, "and you tell him you didn't see him today, even though he's sitting in a bathtub dripping blood two feet away. You covering up for something, aren’t ya kid?" "Nick, enough with the third degree. Can't you see the kid's about to lose it? Son,” Officer Bailey squatted down and squeezed Chris’ thin shoulders. “How much money you bring with you?" Chris took out his wallet again, counted out three singles. "When was the last time you ate something. I couldn't help seeing you're skinny as a rail." "Last night Mike made me some soup. Before that I had a cheese sandwich and crackers on the plane. I don't have a plan B. I know that's stupid. I'm a big, stupid moron, but honest, officer, I don't know about any of this.” Chris pointed at Manetti. “It's the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen. And I really didn’t even know the guy." Chris felt a crippling heartbreak hiding his true feelings about Manetti, how he so callously pushed aside how he really felt about him so quickly. Like he was talking trash like this, with him in the bathtub, right there. He prayed Manetti couldn’t hear him. What a fake and a jerk he was, how right his dad was about how worthless he was. Tears welled up and ran down his face, but he refused to acknowledge them and simply let them roll off his cheeks. He wanted Ben. He needed him now more than ever. He also wanted to go and throw his arms around Mike, wake him up, shake him, hit him, but instead he felt frozen in place, a sniveling little coward. "Listen," Officer Bailey said, sitting Chris at the kitchen table. Chris stared at the back of Manetti's head. "No, look at me, son." He turned the chair away from the tub. "You're not in trouble, but you are a witness. And there’s at least this stash of drugs in this apartment. Detectives will be here soon and take over the case. They'll do a full sweep, turn everything upside down. The coroner’s also coming and will take out the body. So you can't stay here, see? Do you have anywhere you can go? A relative? Maybe one of your brother's other friends?" Chris looked out the air shaft debating whether to talk about Master Drax. He noticed Polanski wasn't in the room. He decided that bringing up Master Drax or the place across the air shaft would be a bad avenue to go down with someone like Polanski. "Hey, Don, come take a look," Polanski called from the other room. Chris heard his own voice on tape rambling energetically, "And I want to get fucked in the gas station toilet. I want that fat turd, Duke, the owner, to fuck me from behind while I'm licking the urinal. You think I stink, man? You should smell that toilet some time. It's righteous foul." Chris came into the bedroom to see Polanski looking through the camera's viewfinder. Polanski rewound the tape a bit and hit play, and Manetti's and Chris' raunchy sex played out of the tinny speaker, no visuals needed. Polanski shut it off. "Doesn't look like you went to sleep right after you got here, pal," Polanski said. "Care to revise your story?" *** Chris totally bailed on Manetti. Said he tricked him to take drugs he didn't want. It wasn't entirely untrue, and he pressed how he was tied up and not at all into it until the drugs kicked in, and then he kind of went crazy. Bailey and Polanski could see that if they looked at the whole tape, which would be really humiliating, but at least it would show he wasn't a willing participant. Polanski wasn't buying it, but with Bailey, there at least was a strand of sympathy. "That why you don't have any hair? He did that to you in the sling when you were tied up?" Chris nodded. "Shitty pervert. So Nick," he said to Polanski, "look what the kid went through. He's out here by himself, don't know where the hell his brother is, run's into this dealer who tricks him, gets him high, ties him up, does God knows what else to him besides shaving him, and wakes up to find the guy who tied him up dead. The perv probably knocks himself off in some last act of conscience for what he done, and you're ready to lock the kid up for trusting this low-life scum. Anyway, look, it’ll be the detectives’ problem in a couple of in a half hour. All’s I'm saying is the kid's been through enough without us piling on him." Polanski frowned. "Yeah,” he looked the kid up and down, “well, maybe there's something to his story." He seemed a little ashamed. "But where does that leave the kid?" Bailey thought for a long moment before he said, "Well, I'm helping you out while you and Molly work things out.” Polanski looked embarrassed. “You're camping out in Tony’s room while my spoiled kid’s off in Europe. He could stay with us for at least a day or two since Kitty and Eddie are at the shore with her ma. He can have Eddie's room. Boy,” he said to Chris, who looked back at him with a spark of hope, “hate to say it, but you look like could use a bath and a couple of hot meals. I don't see how that puts us out any, Nick." Chris looked at the two men expecting Polanski to reject the idea flat out. He looked the type who’d be a real douche bag. "What about the tape?” Polanski asked. “It's pretty incriminating.” "What tape? I didn't see no tape," Bailey said innocently. He looked at Chris, who finally cracked a smile, "Did you see any tape, son?" Polanski pursed his lips, then gave in, shrugging his shoulders. He definitely let Bailey do the thinking. That suited Chris just fine. Bailey seemed like the first nice guy he met in New York since he got here. "We're square then. So, Chris," Officer Bailey said bringing out his wallet, "Here's ten bucks. Go to get some pizza down on Saint Marks or whatever.” He added conspiratorially, “But I'm telling you, Saint Mark’s pizza is the best pizza in New York. Then you catch the seven train out to Flushing. Here's my address." Bailey wrote out the address on his notepad and handed it to Chris. "I’m right across from where the train lets you off. Me and Nick, that is, Officer Polanski, we get off duty in an hour. We should be wrapped up here and back at my house by seven. Think you can get to us around then?" Chris nodded, he definitely could. He thanked Bailey, gratefully pumped his fleshy hand. He even shook Polanski's hand. He found his shoes and began putting them on. He still felt like a fuckhead betraying Manetti, but what was he supposed to do? He certainly didn't have a plan once Manetti offed himself. As he was tying his shoelaces, he wondered why Manetti did it, wondered if something happened after he blacked out. The drugs really fucked him good. As he picked up his gym bag, he flashed on the fact that even the small amount Manetti first slammed him with, he couldn't recollect when Manetti putting a dog collar on him. That was fucked up shit. He swore that was last time he’d ever slam. He saw keys on a hook next to the door, pocketed them, and then left the officers to do whatever they do in these types of incidences. He look back one last time at Manetti who, lying there in the tub, looked almost peaceful. *** Saint Mark's pizza was probably the best pizza he'd ever eaten. He ate two slices and drank a soda, then ordered a third slice. He downed it all while sitting on a stool looking out the window at all the people go by. In one corner of the pizzeria, a TV blared a local news station running a clip of President Reagan giving a speech at the U.N., followed by a traffic report about all the gridlock the president was causing, then ran a local news item about a manhunt in progress upstate. It was just noise that he easily ignored, and instead watched the spectacle out the window. What a bunch of freaks! Punk rockers were all over the place with their spikey Mohawks and safety pins in their noses. Tourist would come up and take pictures of them, then they’d chase the tourist and demand money. Most of the time the tourist paid except one guy in a cowboy hat refused and a fight broke out. A cop came over and broke things up. On the subway, the New York circus continued. An old man in an ascot held onto a subway strap in one hand and clutched a blind Chihuahua in the other; several ladies were touching up their heavy makeup in compacts; grannies in scarves with full shopping carts jabbered away in a foreign language; a group of drunk sailors in white sailor suits piled in and got off when he did at Forty Second Street. He transferred to the train to Flushing. There was graffiti all over everything, the connecting tunnels, the trains, even every single support beam had initials or a little drawing on it. The sailors reminded him of the graffiti in the abandoned building, then he thought of Manetti and started feeling low. After two stops on the Flushing train, a group of homeboys boarded the subway car with their boombox playing earsplitting rap music and started break dancing. They were really good. Spinning on their heads, using the poles in the middle of the cars to swing around, doing complete flips in the moving car. Before they got off they passed around a cap and he put a dollar in it. The boy who passed around the cap said thanks, bro, and held out his hand for a high-five. He high-fived him and that made him feel good. A couple of stations later four older black men got on and started harmonizing a familiar Motown song. Their harmonies and phrasing were perfect. The man he gave a dollar to blessed him and put his hand on his shoulder. Boy, New Yorkers, at least the brothers he saw, were really talented and super nice. As the train went on, fewer people got on. He followed the stops on the sign over the windows, counting down to the last stop. There was only maybe a dozen people when the train finally pulled in. One older Spanish lady was talking to herself vacantly looking out the window. She didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Chris guessed she was probably homeless, clutching her paper bag of valuable. He slipped two of his last dollars into her hand. She stopped talking for a second, looked up at him and said, Dios te bendiga, then went back to talking to herself. Or maybe she was praying. The platform clock pointed to a little after nine. He knew he dawdled coming here, and the train ride was much longer than he expected, but he was still surprised how late it was. The quiet street was dark, but finding the house was easy, especially because there was a hand-carved sign on the corner of the garage that said “The Bailey’s.” The big two-story house with little basement windows he guessed was a typical house for the neighbor, but he wasn't used to staying in anything so nice. To Chris it seemed like he was walking up to a mansion. He rang the bell and Officer Bailey answered. It was strange to see him in yellow boxer shorts and no shirt, but of course it was a warm night and he wouldn't always be walking around in his uniform. “Really nice house, Officer Bailey,” said Chris, as the older man ushered him in. Chris tried to keep his eyes up, but there was definitely a big packages swinging in those boxers. Bailey was a big bear of a man, not really muscly, but very solid. He had a large pillowy chest covered in reddish-brown fur, a tattoo of a lion on his shoulder, a cobweb sketched on his elbow, and a barbwire band around his left bicep. Chris tried to steer his mind away from how sexy his thought this daddy-type cop was. They entered the living room where a Yankees-Red Sox game was playing on a huge TV. He thanked the officer again for letting him stay, but Bailey interrupted him saying to call him Don, and pointed at Polanski sprawled on the sectional sofa in his boxer shorts too, saying “and that cocksucker is Nick.” "Yo," Polanski said curtly, and went back to watching the game. Polanski shirtless was a real piece of work. Both of his arms were covered in full sleeves, and there was very little that wasn’t inked on his chest and legs. His neck too was covered. What bothered Chris was that almost all of the ink, beside a few motorcycle-riding skeletons and smoking devils, was about white power and swastikas. He had to acknowledge, though, Polanski’s body was hot. He was built like a boxer, not huge, not particularly tall, but also not an ounce of body fat on him. His head was dark from short-cropped black hair. He lounged with one arm cradled behind his head showing off a sprawling pit of black hair. He smoked a cigar and scratched his shorts a lot revealing, Chris thought purposefully though he never looked at Chris, his big pecker. Several empty beer cans litter the coffee table. Both the men look well on their way to getting pretty sloshed. Don and Chris stood behind the sectional and followed the game for a couple of minutes. A warm night breeze came in from sliding glass door and the vertical blinds slapped together noisily under the din of the game. Don asked him if he wanted a beer, and Chris cheerfully accepted. Don said there was Popeye’s Chicken on the counter and plenty of beer in the fridge, that he should just help himself, that they were very informal here which was pretty obvious as he pointed to himself and Nick. Chris put down his bag and strolled into the kitchen. He’d never seen a kitchen as nice as this. Expensive looking pink marble was everywhere, rich redwood cabinets lined all the walls, and recessed lighting lit the room dramatically like it was a movie set. There were fluorescent lights but they weren’t turned on, just the spot lights over the marble counter and little lights under the cabinets. Big copper refrigerator and stove matched each other, as did the copper dishwasher. Even the sink was copper. It didn’t seem to fit Don, but maybe his wife was in charge of decorating. He piled his plate with chicken and a big heap of warm fries. He came back with his plate and beer, happily sitting crossed-legged at the coffee table, watching the game with the two men. Through a couple of innings, his opinion of Polanski didn’t improved, because as the game went on Polanski kept swearing racial names at the black players. Chris was too familiar with these kinds of asshole that grew up around him and did his best to only pay attention to the game, the food, and how nice Don was. At the end of the fifth, Don picked up Chris' finished plate. When he bent down he noticed Chris’ stink, and suggested he should probably wash up before bed. Bailey said his room—Eddie's room—was in the middle of the hall. Nick was in Tony's room at the far end, and the master bedroom was at the top of the stairs. The guest bathroom was right across from his room. Chris chugged that last of his beer, got up and thanked Don again for letting him stay, and also for the ten bucks. He said he had a couple bucks left but Bailey waved him off. He thanked him also for the beer and also for the chicken. Don interrupted, said enough with the thanks. Thanks enough, he kidded him, would be not to have a stinky bum in the house. Chris was a little embarrassed, but scurried excitedly upstairs with his gym bag to find Eddie’s room. His jaw literally dropped open when he entered the room. He looked around, thinking, what a life Eddie must lead! Soccer, swim, and baseball trophies were everywhere; posters of race cars and football players lined the wall; and a big Madonna poster was taped to his closet. The kid even had his own cassette stereo system with huge speakers and tons of neatly filed tapes. He didn't think cops made so much money. Eddie was so lucky! This rich kid even had his own color TV, a VCR, and Atari console, with Super Pac Man and Donkey Kong boxes stacked on the TV. He hoped he'd have some time to play them. On Eddie’s dresser, a framed Little League picture showed him holding a bat over his shoulder. He looked a little shorter than Chris and a whole lot younger, twelve maybe. He had blond hair like he did, and striking blue eyes, but what stood out the most to Chris was that he had a smile so confident and winning it literally beamed out of the frame. There were other pictures of him along the walls: him on the pitcher’s mound, mid-kick in the air making a soccer goal, him and his older brother with their ski masks up at a ski lodge, him and his family at the castle at Disney world. This guy had it all. The only thing that was weird was that the man in the Disney photo sort of looked like Don, but not really, but the photo was taken from far away so the family was really small. Mainly the picture was of the castle. Chris set his faded green gym bag on the dresser next to the photo. Looking around the spotless room, with its royal blue shag carpeting, and purple high gloss walls, and white wooden shudders, he felt his gym bag was probably the dirtiest, dingiest thing in here, well, except for maybe himself. Chris crossed the hall, dropped his jeans and t-shirt on the bathroom floor. The shower was all glass and polished metal. He got the temperature to where it was nice and hot, then relished the multiple jets washing over him. It was probably the best shower he was ever in. Jets sprayed him not only from the top, but also at his sides. He was sure he stank and was grateful Don made a joke out of it. He took up the soap and really scrubbed himself down. There was some shampoo in the stall and he used that too. When he rinsed his hair he saw the soapy water turn yellow, and that made him think of Manetti. He put his back to the jets and just hung there for a while as the water flowed over him. There was a knock on the door. He called out, “Yes?” He climbed out the shower feeling not only had he washed his last month of California off his skin, but also the last twenty-four hours as well. Don rapped again and came in. He looked Chris over while Chris grabbed a bath towel off a hook. Don closed the door behind him, and said he was going to start a load of wash before the game ended. The crystal glass he held showed he had switched over to drinking whiskey, and as the man swayed, Chris smirked to himself thinking the cop would never be able to pass a sobriety test. Chris ran the towel over his legs, feeling a little self-conscious being stared at naked, but the man already had seen him that way, and besides he was a dad and policeman, so he just continued wiping himself off with his towel. The cop said he couldn't help notice Chris' clothes could use a wash, hoped he didn't mind, but he'd already thrown the clothes from his gym bag in the washer and thought he'd just pick up these and toss them in too. "What'll I wear," Chris protested as he towel dried his hair. He saw Don looking at his pits and crotch. "Boy that perv shaved you within an inch of your life,” he said. He ran a hand over Chris’ shaved pit. “Truth is, without the wife and kids here, me and Nicky walk around naked most of the time.” He winked, and wobbled unsteady out the door with the last of Chris’ clothes. Chris quickly scoured Eddie's room and realized, even though he was small, he wasn't going to fit in some twelve-year-old’s clothes. He didn’t relish the idea of being naked. Maybe around Don he would, but Polanski was a turn off. He didn’t have many options though. He slinked down the hallway to see if there was something to wear in Nick/Tony's room but it was locked. He creeped to the staircase and saw the lights were off, and the sliding glass door was shut. Don’s bedroom door was ajar with blue TV light seeping through the crack. “Hey, kiddo,” Don called out, “we’re finishing the game in here.” Chris went in and found Don and Nick lying completely naked on the king size bed. They both sat up against the headboard, each with a glass of whiskey in their hands. Don certainly had a massive package. His reddish-brown fur extended to a dark brown swath of pubic hair, with a large semi-erect boner pointing straight out. "Bottom of the ninth, New York’s up by two," Don summarized, as if it were perfectly natural two grown men to always watch a Yankee game naked together on a king size bed. "C’mere, tiger, sit by your ol’ man.” “Yeah. C’mon, sport,” said Polanski, padding the space between them. His Polish sausage hung over two large smooth balls. The cock had a distinctive bend to it, like a large banana. His body was smooth but his crotch was covered, hip bone to pronounced hip bone, by the most substantial amount of the long, black public hair he’d ever seen. “Uncle Nick’s not going to bite.” He paused a beat. “Unless you want him to. Rarrr.” The two men laughed, then as a full count was announced, their attention drifted back to the game. “Swear to God, if that spade lets him walk I’m throwing my fuckin' drink at the fucker.” The umpire called a final ball, and the batter tossed his bat, trotting to first. Polanski, true to his word, flung the glass at the TV. The shattered glass broke violently with whiskey running down the screen. It made Chris flinch, but Don didn’t seem to care. The man again gestured to Chris to come sit next to him. Chris climbed over Polanski’s tattooed legs, and Polanski put a hand on his smooth young ass and gave him a sharp slap. “Woo-ee, who’s not stinky boy anymore? Swear to God boy, you were as smelly as a sewer pipe, and we’re pretty familiar with sewer pipes, ain’t we Donny?” “There he is,” said Don, as Chris settled next to him. The man draped his arm over his bony shoulders. “Fresh as new born baby. Boy, you do clean up nicely, doesn’t he Nicky?” He ran his hand through Chris’ wet hair. “Sure does. Fresh as a daisy.” Nick leaned to get close to his skin and inhaled deeply. “Fresh as a sweet Sunday morning.” "Give your old man a hug like you do when your ma's not home." Chris looked briefly from man to man, deciding whether to play along. He decided. "That's it, kiddo," Don said wrapping his thick arms around the boy. "You're too skinny, except in some new places." He reached down and grabbed Chris' cock. Chris jumped a little, was weirded out but still kind of getting excited. The man was a big furry bear, and his fleshy chest had surprisingly hard muscle underneath. He felt Polanski creep up behind him. His hand went between Chris' butt cheeks and started pressing against his hole. Polanski said, "Eddie sure feels like he's growing up, don't he Daddy Don? Feels like he might even turn out to be a man someday." Polanski stopped as his finger slipped easily into Chris’ anus. "Ah, man, you gotta feel this pussy, Don. That don't feel like virgin pussy, does it to you Officer Bailey?" They both put a finger in Chris' hole. "That most definitely does not feel like virgin pussy." Both men laughed. Chris was actually getting hard, but then there was the sharp crack of a ball being hit. Both men looked over at the game, completely abandoned Chris' sphincter, and leaned forward in bed, crying, No-no-no-no. The batter sent the ball to center-right and it went over the wall. Three men came charging around the bases and the game was over. Don exasperated, got up and went to a fancy bar cart next to the TV and refilled his drink. "You're cleaning that up in the morning," he said to Polanski pointing at the broken glass on the carpet. "Nother one?" Polanski asked if there was another glass. Don went in the master bath and came back with one. He poured Polanski his drink, and said to Chris, "I'd give you one, Edward, but I have a bone to pick with you, young man.” He looked at Chris with mock seriousness. Chris couldn't tell if Don was just drunk or if he was into some serious role play. He guessed role play but wasn't one hundred percent sure. "Eddie, Eddie. Eddie Spaghetti," he said in mock consternation. "I want you to tell me and Uncle Nick about this". He picked up Chris' gym bag that had been sitting on the carpet next to the bar cart. He reached inside and brought out Manetti box of drugs and set it delicately on the cart next to the whiskey and vodka bottles. "Edward Hunter Bailey, I want the truth now. Where did you get these?" he asked, flipping the lid and pulling out three loaded needles. Chris was taken aback. He'd taken that from Manetti's? Was he serious? What kind of cop was he? And was he supposed to be Eddie responding to this, or himself, Chris? He ad-libbed innocence, "Wh-what is that, dad?" "You tell me, son. It's in your bag." "I've never seen them before. What is it?" "Good question, Eddie. Let's see. Officer, please restrain my son." With that, Polanski grabbed Chris' arms and pinned him face down, ass up, in the bed. "Now, boy, don't struggle or Uncle Nick is going to seriously send you into a world of pain." Chris felt his right arm being forced agonizingly up his back. He stopped moving and let Bailey pull out his free arm. The man flipped over his forearm, and he felt the needle go. In less than a minute he felt his body become flush again with heat. Polanski let him go and he rolled to his side, letting the drug roll over him. Fuck, it wasn't fair, was his last fully conscious thought, but then he was horny all over again, and he knew he was totally going to give into these men. As the drug took him over, he wanted them to. More and more he wanted daddy bear and the nazi to corrupt him. While the crystal coursed through his body, igniting his groin, he ran his hands over his cock and inserted fingers in ass. There was a wash of background noise, but he was solely focused on his hole and how empty if felt. He heard Don ask Polanski if he want it in the arm or neck? "Neck," said Polanski, "it's been a long time." Chris was feeling really energized. He popped got up and paced a little holding his arm in the air, then sat against the headboard to watch Don shoot Polanski up. A new, bent fascination had been born in him. Rather than shying away from needles, he became riveted by them. He’d never seen or even imagined someone shooting up in their neck. He couldn't even conceive of how that must feel, but he wanted to see Polanski do it. Polanski laid on his side at the edge of bed and Bailey knelt beside him. Between two zigzag SS's on Polanski’s neck, Bailey found a thick vein, stuck him, registered some blood, then slowly sent the liquid directly into Polanski's brain. When Don pulled out, Polanski pressed his neck with his finger and rolled onto his back. The man said nothing but his eyes popped open and rolled back in his head, his bent cock drool a shitload of pre-cum. Only the whites showed in his eyes and his lids fluttered. He was spasming slightly. Chris ran his hand through the man’s field of black pubes. It was like silk, yards and yards of fine silk. Polanski breathing was rapid and he responding to Chris’ touch with deep moans. He guided Chris’ head to his cock and Chris started working on it, adjusting his angle so he could deep throat the man’s massively curved cock. While Chris sucked the incapacitated man, Don prepped himself with a tourniquet around his thick bicep, found a suitable vein on the front of his forearm, rocked the needle till blood flooded the chamber, then slammed. He fell back on Chris’ hip and, through heaving breath, pulled Chris off of Polanski and crushed him beneath his weight. Chris was pinned but the heavy body actually felt erotic. Pinned, he squirmed obscenely, all skin, no hair, against all hair and rolling flesh. With enormous effort, Bailey rolled to his side bringing Chris along with him. They faced each other running their hands along chests and cocks, a study in opposites, Bailey pressing his fur against the boy, Chris rubbing his smooth skin across the man. Polanski rolled himself to the side was again sticking a finger, then two into Chris' hole. Chris pushed back against his hand and wiggled his ass till he had three fingers in him. "Baby boy, go down on daddy," Bailey said pushing Chris' head down to his crotch. Bailey was a big bear in every way. His fleshy dick was half hard and as Chris went down to suck it, Polanski had his mouth all over Chris' hole, getting it wet and ready to be fucked. The scent of wet cock sent Chris into a frenzy. It was difficult to differentiate what he wanted more, to give head to Bailey or get fucked by Polanski. Bailey decided for him. He rolled on his back and said he wanted baby bear to ride daddy bear's Big Bad Cock. Chris straddled the large man and fed his cock into his wet hole. Polanski was quick to follow the hole he desperately wanted. After Bailey had penetrated Chris, with Chris making obscene noises of pleasure, Polanski set his cock against Bailey's and with every stroke Bailey took, he got his cock in to double dick Chris. Chris' noises of pleasure turned to distressing pain, but again, somehow he enjoyed the distress. He quickly learned to stay stationary as the two men simultaneous pushed in and pulled out. By staying still they could go deeper, and did. At one point with too much motion, Polanski fell out. He immediately pushed himself back in and punished Chris by smacking ass. Chris cried out but pushed his ass deeper onto the men’s cocks. It felt precarious, that they had to work so hard to sustain the position, but it was a position that pleased everyone. Bailey and Polanski were sexually aroused rubbing their cocks against one another, and Chris relished the feeling of being torn apart by the girth of two men at the same time inside him. Their passion built on one another, as the drugs wiped their minds, they became feral animals clawing at each other, rutting in pleasure, nails going into backs, pelts of brown and black fur pressed into a smooth, hairless hole. Bailey and Chris made out while they fucked, and Polanski slapped Chris’ ass with increasing violence. Polanski rambled in Chris’ ear how he was going to take is night stick and rape his with it, ram it up the kid’s ass, how he’d take his gun and make Chris give it head. He started fingering Chris’ the tip of Chris hard dick, trying to get a finger down his piss slit. He said he was going to arrange to have Chris sent to prison to be gang raped. “Would you like that, would you like that, boy?” he breathed into Chris’ ear. Chris readily agreed. Whatever Polanski wanted he’d submit to him. The flow from Polanski’s imagination was unceasing. Somewhere during his description of being his prison bitch, it triggered something in Bailey and he nutted. Polanski was on another level entirely, rutting and heaving, not anywhere on this planet, just a mass of sensations and vile thought, desperately wanting to tear Chris apart. After Bailey emptied the last of his spooge, he started going flaccid and with Polanski pile driving into Chris, his dick soon fell out. Chris also settled down and let Polanski fuck him with ever increasing intensity. He laid on Bailey's chest while the big man stroked his hair. It was an intense combination. Bailey running soothing fingers over his head while Polanski tore angrily into his ass. Polanski had kept up smacking the shit out of the kid's ass, and as the beating became harder, the cracks louder, the more Bailey cooed and shushed Chris' stifled grunts and cries. Still, through it all Chris remained hard. Welts were forming on his ass as Bailey pulled his face down into his neck. Chris felt the bristles on Bailey's neck, and heard Bailey telling him he was alright, that it would soon be over. Chris let himself go limp falling onto Bailey, and in the background the white noise of the post-game wrap up morphed into the local Eyewitness News. The manhunt continued, said the anchor, for two convicts who had escaped from upstate New York four days ago. Bailey kept stroking the boy's hair. The men had escaped through the facility's sewage treatment center dressed as workers. Polanski slipped his arm around Chris' neck. Bailey’s mind drifted off, he repeated his cooing words to Chris. The two men were believed to have crossed into Canada. Canadian officials had cordoned off an area near the border where the two men were believed to be. Polanski wrapped his arm tighter against Chris’ throat, cutting off his airway. Chris started struggling on top Bailey and bucking against Polanski's body. Polanski mindlessly fucked the kid's hole edging closer to cumming the harder Chris struggled. It was a nasty cycle: the more Chris struggled, the harder Polanski increased his hold around his neck. Chris' hole was clenching like crazy trying to spit out Polanski, but instead is was making Polanski cock engorge larger every time it was squeezed. Chris flew into a frenzy to try to get him off and to break his hold. He rasped audibly, and in one long final lunge, Polanski was set free. He spewed ropes of cum deep into the quaking boy. He pulled Chris' head as far back as it would go. The boy's tongue lolled out, his eyes bulged, and he involuntarily released an enormous orgasm spilling buckets of cum onto Bailey pubes. His eyes rolled back in his head, his eyelids fluttered, then all movement ceased. Everything went black, his body went limp, and Chris no longer struggled. Weather with Frank Fields, announced the TV anchor, was up next.

Todd couldn't believe his eyes as he watched the video. Dan held him playing with his rock hard cock. Dan knew he had Todd just where he wanted him and Todd knew it too. He was nothing more than Dan's toy. He would find out much more about games at a club this very evening. Dan told Todd to sleep now. But first a warm milk would help. The milk smelled of vitamin bottle and tasted of vanilla. It was a high calorie drink, warmed and lovingly adminstered. Meanwhile, Dan called three of his closest friends to announce that he had a new boy. They came over to examine Todd. Each brought a gift with him. Joe brought a cock cage. Tommy brought a ball gag. Ed, Ed brought a nipplering and the piercing tools. Dan had slipped a strong sleeping drug into Todd's drink. He would not wake for the piercing, only be surprised when he woke. Dan, meanwhile, rolled the boy over to shave the blond hair from his sweet swollen hole. The three guests all enjoyed the view. When the sweet hole was bare, they rubbed aloe in. All the while, Todd slept looking angelic. The four friends went thru Todd's clothes. They found nothing usable for their evening out. Ed and Joe left to find just the right attire for the evening. They went to a thrift shop where they bought well-worn jeans and very washed out tshirts. They discussed underwear and decided that Todd would go commando. The jeans were old and soft and would not chafe Todd too badly.