asslikker

Young John shoots some liquid in my butt. It's cold and, very quickly, I definitely feel different that I did with the mule kick in the head of the T. I'm spinning but what's left of me wants John in me. He's busy slamming Young John in his dick. He's holding onto the kids shaft and pumps the whole vial in him. The kids was leaning next to the bed, suddenly he flops back disappearing under the sling hanging over the bed. I hear him under me moaning fuck, fuck, fuck.

"You're okay, kiddo," soothes John. As I hear the kid flopping about underneath me I watch as well as I can Old John shooting up. He's found a vein on his forearm and unloads, starting to breath very rapidly when he pulls the needle out of his arm. He's lifted his arm in the air and pulling on his skin to make the drug flow faster into the rest of his body. And what a body! The veins I hadn't notice much before seem to pop all over his torso, his neck, his biceps, his chest, even his face. He's transformed from a handsome older stud to something most menacing and seductive. I can't imagine how much he's given himself but soon he is hyperventilating, steadying himself on one of the sling's chains. "Fuck, yeah, frat boy, ready to get knocked up with daddy seed."

I'm feeling his chest as he straddles between my legs, his huge hose pushing hard into my balls. "Fuck yeah, Sir. I'm ready."

"How ready, boy?"

"I need you in me so bad. Please load my hole."

"Load it with what, boy?"

"With your toxic spooge."

His dick is dripping in anticipation and he buries it in me without ceremony. Just slips it in up to its hilt. He's on fire and tearing into my chute with his girth and length. There's nothing sensitive or kind in his thrusts. His pupils are dilated and he looks at me with demonic desire. It's incredible and painful and pleasurable all at once. I don't know where Johnny is but I hear Old John tell him, "that's right, boy, lick daddy's balls. Suck 'em up, fucker. Give daddy's hole a little bath while you're there. That's it. Deeper, fucker. Let me feel your tongue..." John makes guttural noises deep in his throat. He's possessed and it makes me bounce on his cock as much as I can in the sling.  John reaches between my legs and start beating me off. I'm sweating like a pig and so is he. He's rocking inside me and ever so often cracks my ass hard, and I thank him every time. He pinches my nipples painfully, and it makes my dick drip in his hand. "You ready for daddy's first load, son?"

I'm staring into his eyes, which have darkened and reddened. His pupils have fully taken over. His expression is pure lust. Snot drips from his nostrils. He licks his lips, takes some into mouth and spit a gob at me, which hits my lips. I stare in his eyes licking it up. That cues him to begin a rapid fire assault on my ass. I feel him swelling larger then ever.

Beneath the sling I hear, "Breed him, daddy. Fuck him up!"

He explodes with three enormous thrusts, holds my thighs each time letting me feel the full enormity of his erection. I swear I feel his cock head double in size, lubing my chute deep on each plunge. I cum, too, right in his hand, on his final thrust. I shoot over my head. A second squirts in my face. And with a tight closed fist, he gets a third drool from my cock head, dripping off his fingers. He's polishing my head, not letting my orgasm go. I writhe in pleasure-pain in his callused palm. At the point I can't take any more sensation he says, "Good boy," lifting his fingers up to my mouth. I greedily lick my cum off them and suck on his fingers till they're clean. I still don't see Johnny but seeing John's face I figure his dick being sucked. "That's right, son, clean daddy up." John ducks under the sling and I hear them tenderly making love. "Get College out of the sling, boy, so he can join us."

Johnny pops up and unbinds my legs then wrists. He doesn't show any resentment. If he's feeling like I am I only want to get down and roll around with both of them. I slowly get my balance back while Johnny takes the sling off the eye hooks and joins me and Old John on the bed. There bodies are such a contrast. The kid is almost completely smooth, hairless arms, smooth legs, only a tuft of brown pubes that are as soft as mink, whereas the older man is rock solid, coarse hair up to his shoulders with some falling over his back spreading out over his lats. I'm crawling down to where I can suck on John's cock and he plays with mine. Johnny I can feel is playing with my hole, and before I realize it has buried it inside me, humping gently as the three of us tenderly use six hands, three mouths, an assortment of dicks and holes that become indistinguishable in a mash up of sensations that has never been as pleasurable. Far off I hear Gary outside calling to Dwayne to string up the deer, then a chainsaw buzzes a million miles away. It's the camp as background noise. It's comforting and enveloping me in darkness.

Johnny finishes fucking me. Nothing earth-shattering, but calm like he's finishing a cup of tea. He shutters a bit, pulls out and I feel empty. His tongue is lapping at my butt and as I turn around he's at my mouth feeding me what he's felched out. We kiss for a long time, the cum going back and forth between us, John petting our heads. We break our kiss and start worshiping the older man's body. Both of us are at his nipple kneading and sucking them, our hands exploring his rich pelt of body hair, rewarded at every turn by a kiss, a slap on the ass, a tweak of our tits, and of course his cock getting harder and harder.

We're at his feet, licking the dirt from between his toes, taking several toes at a time in our mouths. I watch Johnny take a slab of grease and slather Old John's foot, then climb on his old man's leg and slide his ass down on the wiggling toes. I want to know the feeling of this, too, so I slather John's other foot and climb over his hairy legs and feel his sharp toenails dig into my hole. It's incredible this rush of feeling once his toes are inside. So different than Johnny's fist. Wide, solid, rough. Completely different in form from a hand. Right after the toes Old John's callused foot falls deep inside me. I'm completely taken in lust and simply hump his foot like a whore. Johnny lost too. He's fallen on his back and his old man's foot is sliding inside the kid's hole. There's no way my ass can take that turn but the sight of it doubles my horniness. I rut like an insatiable bitch on the man's hairy foot. Both Johnny and I are animals gorging on pure pleasure. Old John is enjoying our abandonment, jacking himself off, encouraging us, wiggling his toes inside of us to coax us on.

Johnny leans over and holds my head. His tongue slips in my mouth and I reciprocate the passion. Whatever feeling was express earlier have washed away and now we are both gleefully pleasing ourselves, making out, jacking each other off, humping away on an enormous size thirteen foot.

There some movement behind Johnny's head. I look past him at the open gingham-curtained window. A breeze is flapping it, and I see a stranger staring in. I stop humping Old John's foot. Johnny turns and follows my gaze, and then also stops. John looks at the window, kicks us off his feet and murmurs, mother fucker. He jumps off the bed. There's a commotion outside as we hear Dwayne and Gary tackle the man at the window. There's a boom as bodies are hitting the trailer. John is out of the room, naked, then the screen door slams as he flies outside. Johnny and I scramble around for underwear and then follow him.

The man they've caught is exceptionally tall. I guess he would have to be if he were peering in the trailer window. Dwayne has his arms pinned and Gary is pummeling the guy mercilessly.

"Hang on, Gare," says John. He grabs the guys hair and pulls up his face. "Where you from stranger? What're you doin' here?"

The guys spits a bloody wad on the ground, smiles a sneer back at John. John takes his face in his hand, says, "I don't ask twice. You from round here?" The man gives John a hard stare and spits at John. "You fuckin' piece of shit. String up this mother fucker." John throws a hard gut punch and knocks the wind out of the guy.

Where Dwayne had strung up the buck killed on their hunting trip, guts freshly spilled lie over the ground. Gary cuts the deer carcass loose and throws it over to the side. He and Dwayne pull the guy backwards. He's still reeling from the stomach punch and they easily loop his wrists and splay his arms apart anchored to two trees.

"Tie his legs, too," orders John. The tall man kicks Dwayne in the head. Bad mistake. Dwayne takes the guy in a head lock and administers blow after blow to his head until the guy would have fallen to the ground, but stays upright tied by his arms.

"I think I seen him at the river once," says Johnny. "I don't think he's from around here. He was talking to a couple of guys from the Grunewald camp." Gary and Dwayne have secured the guy's legs, while Johnny checks his pockets. "Ain't no wallet, but look." The kid holds out a plastic baggie filled with a hefty amount of large chunks of crystal. It sparkles like shards of glass.

"That ain't mine," he says.

"Jus' hopped in yer pocket, did  it?" says Gary.

"Skin him," says John. Gary and Dwayne bring out their hunting blades and slice the guy's checkered shirt off him, and then his jeans one leg at a time, till he's standing their stung up in just his underwear and boots. He's a skinny guy, thin arms and legs, flat nose and a receding hairline.

"Who you work for?" John is up in his face. He's real quiet, almost whispering. "You best start talking while you still can talk."

"Fuck you, faggot. I saw what you was doing to those hopped up boys. That little one don't look even legal."

"I am too! Ain't I daddy," Johnny yells.

John smiles the most chilling smile I've ever seen. "Johnny, get the garden clippers." The kid sprints over to a bench that has some scrawny pot plants on them, and grabs some garden clippers. "Can I?" Johnny begs. John nods.

Johnny cuts one side of the man's underwear off, and then the other. The white underwear falls in the puddle of deer blood. I watch the blood seep into the white fabric. The man stands there naked, shriveled up, trying not to quake in his boots. Johnny puts the clippers in the guys face. Snip, snip, he says gesturing to the guy's puny dick.

"Wait, hold on. I can pay, pay lots." Whatever bravado he was trying to maintain is long gone. I think he's willing to take a beating, at least I think he's hoping that's what he'll get from these guys. "I heard you had good shit. I can make you tons of coin. I have connections in New York. I've got cash back in the car. Just let me get it. You can go with me, take it all."

There's a long pause. It's a frightening scene and I don't know where it's headed. Gary and Dwayne are fully dressed in camouflaged hunting gear holding their hunting knives, Old John is stark naked from head to foot, Johnny and I are barefoot in our underwear. There is a small trickle of pee running down the guy's leg into his sock and boot. His white sock turns yellow. I look over at John's feet. The grease has caked them with dirt. I don't know why but in the silence I'm locked onto his feet. I can't look at the guy's face. I can hear him crying and scared, and I think he thinks they're going to kill him.

The silence is too intense. I look up. "Please," I see the guy mouths. A bubble of spit bursts over his bleeding lip. A little bloody drool hangs from his teeth. It jiggles as he shakes. The spittle catches on his chin.

"Who told you we have good shit," says John, breaking the silence. "Shit you walked in n' stole." He doesn't sound like he's looking for answers but is laying out the crime. "And watched me foot fuck these two knuckleheads, probably tugging at your pud as you watched." He almost sounds friendly, joking, forgiving, like he'll let him go this one time.

I don't know where in my fucked up brain it comes from, but I suddenly feel personally aggrieved by this stranger, and don't want him off the hook. I hear myself saying, "And he used a homophobic slur at you, daddy."

"Fuckin' A, son," says John giving me a quick look married to a conspiratorial smile. He gives a very slight nod to Johnny.

Johnny pulls the guy's dick out an inch and slices it off with the clippers. Fuck, I say under my breath. The tall man screams a bloody high-pitched cry. Elongated. Shrill. Inhales, and lets out an even louder bale as he looks down and see blood and piss running down his legs mixing into the deer entrails. He face is a mask of pain. I can't watch it. "He'll bleed out," I manage to say looking anywhere but at him.

"The fuck cares," Gary spits. He goes over to a pile of logs and picks up the chainsaw. Pulls the cord and revs it up a couple of times. He walks behind the guy. The guy whips around to see what Gary's doing and screams out, NO! but Gary is already literally ripping the guy a new asshole. He revs the chainsaw and brings it up between the guy's legs. Flesh and a red spray flies from the guy and coats John with a thin red mist. The guy looks completely surprised and is suspended only for a few seconds in horror as, like the deer before him, his intestines, liver, pancreas, stomach and a sea of blood wash out between his legs. I shut my eyes but the image is still there. And I can't shut out the sound of all of his viscera falling to the ground. It sounds like pounds of jello slapping into the dirt. I take a quick peak at the carnage puddled around him. Deer entrails, his entrails mix together. I think the guy's dead but for a horrifying second he's fully conscious, staring at the ground beneath him, trying to understand what just happened. Part of his colon, a pale pink shred of tissue, is dangling out of his cavity. I see a shudder go through him, then his head falls with all his weight hanging by his arms. His knees buckle beneath him.

Old John has a massive boner. It's bobbing up and down with a long string of pre-cum hanging off the tip. It drips and is absorbed into the dry earth. He looks at me and Johnny. "You two clowns get back inside. And get that fucking underwear off before I rip you both two new assholes!" He doesn't have to tell us twice. Dust flies from under our feet as we jet back inside the trailer.

As we race down the hallway, Johnny's still holding the guy's dickhead between his fingers.

 

Sorry boys. (I'm assuming this is all boys just like my college-level "Porn as Art" writing class who I've been stealing from.) I've been grading the class's final papers and, I have to say, the class has excelled at their assignment. (Taking each segment to its next logical level.) Their best "chapters" will be forthcoming shortly and I'll post them as soon as I proofread them. I'll avoid the "artsy" ones and give you just the nastiest of the bunch. If you're averse to violence I'd advise you stop reading now. This remedial class age average is nineteen, and maybe its video games or Game of Thrones, but their imaginations are astonishingly violent. I was shock but also left hornier then hell. The next installment, "Mike's" entry, was one I hardly got through. This little (gorgeous, 5'6" car mechanic) deviant left me somewhere between Tums sick-to-my-stomach and jacking off in my office, shades drawn. Hope you enjoy as much as I did!

People are free to have opinions.

Early morning light is streaming in. Flecks of dust are in the air and their smoke swirls in complicated spirals tumbling over each other in the still room.

“Old John” is such a misnomer. He’s not old at all. Maybe the beard could make you think he’s older than he is from far away, but if you look at his skin you can see he’s not wrinkled until he frowns or smiles, and only then it's just around his eyes. His blue eyes. Piercing they are. It’s probably the contrast with his black brows with eyes the color of robin eggs. Deep set they are. Shadowy and mesmerizing. As he sits there with his arm around his boy, he studies me with a resolve that either says he’s going to kill me or give me the hardest fuck of my life. He chomps on his cigar freeing his left hand. He runs that hand over his pumped chest for my benefit. Each black hair is drawn back and springs forward once his hand passes. His nipple are large and Young John reaches up and plays with one, softly, until it engorges to an even plumper size. He’s a Tom of Finland drawing made flesh. His sneering smile is definitely of the bad boy variety but I have to believe he's not evil. He asks me how I'm feeling. 

“Great,” I say. Immediately he tells me puppies don’t speak. I bark a happy reply and pant with my tongue hanging out at him.

“Good boy,” he says, patting the couch next to him. “Git up here you mangy mutt.” I bound over on all fours and jump up next to him. “Hoo-wee, you got the worst doggy breath I ever smelled. You like having your wiener play with like that?” I bark a positive reply. “Young John does not like that, do you Young John?”

“Nope. Hate it," he says. "But it lets me do this now.” He takes his father's hand and put his index finger into his piss slit, drilling half-way down his shaft, wiggling it about. “I love when daddy does that. But wait’ll uncle Gary gets out his catheter. See if’n you like that when he’ll fill your bladder so full of everybody's piss till you cain’t take no more.”

“Now, Young John, he’s hasn’t done that to you for weeks. You’re worrying you mutt all to hell.”

Young John puts out his cigarette. He focuses in on Old John. “Daddy, can me and him go to your room and play in the sling? I was showing College how to take my fist and I want to learn him how to take it deep like I do." He leans in to me to tell me confidentially, "Daddy says I’m about ready to get my first prolapse, didn’t ya daddy?”

“You’re getting’ there, boy. Someday, and that might be soon, you’re lil butt’s gonna start hanging out your hole like a little pig’s tail.  And once it does, I’m gonna fuck the stars out of you and eat your ass like it were a delicious pork tenderloin. You’re gonna howl and spit and just cum like a love starved alley cat. Yeah, sure, why don’t you take your mutt and git him ready in the sling. Daddy’s gonna put on a little leather and then see how good you trained him.”

“C’mon, College,” says Young John reattaching my leash. I trot on all fours trying to keep up with him racing down the hall.

Old John’s bedroom is at the end of the trailer and is much larger than Young John’s room. There’s a large king size bed covered in black sheets, and above it hands a sling whose four chained corners reach up to eyelets screwed into the trailer’s ceiling. Old John has followed us in and is at his closet going through it, selectively putting on a leather vest, chaps with a sharply studded cod piece, and snapping on studded wrist bands.

Young John excitedly is boosting my ass up into the sling which is quite high. He helps me put my legs in the leather straps, locking ankle restraints and securing them to each of the chains. He picks up an off-brand shortening and lubes his fist greasing them up to his elbow. “I ain’t gonna chain your arms yet till he get more used to taking a fist. Now remember, you don’t fight me, you hear? You just lie back and relax your hole. Sniff this here bottle when you want,” Young John says, handing me a small popper bottle. “Any time you want me to go in deeper you just take a whiff. Watch this daddy. I’m gonna start me goin' in him with a fist.” And he does. I feel his knuckles lined up at my exposed ass, and he begins pushing while I’m trying to get the greasy cap off the bottle. I take a deep hit and right away he’s popping my ass open with his small fist. I had forgotten what his fist feels like in me, and the poppers are making it a pleasant sensation, one that makes me want him in me deep, one that allows my sphincter to easily accept him. “See, daddy,” he says, pulling his fully clenched fist out slowly and then pressing it in again, “I trained him good, didn’t I?”

Old John comes over next to me, feeling me up. His large hand runs over my pecs, down my belly, and then begin stroking my cock. It’s hard in no time looking up into his handsome face. I reach a hand up and do what I’ve wanted to do since I first laid eyes on him: I run my hand over his black pelt, feeling his protruding nipples, and laying my hand under his pits. I take away the smell of sweat from his moist pits on my hands. It’s stronger then the poppers and makes me want him desperately. He smiles amused. I feel Johnny pushing his small arm forcefully up my hole, deeper and with more force that when we were playing earlier. “Let him do you, College," the man says. "Let him go deep inside.” He's leaning down almost in my face. “The more you let him in you now, the easier it’ll be when I take over. I’m gonna rip the living shit out of your insides, cocksucker. That I guarantee.” He squeezes the tip of my cock and licks the pearl of precum off it. He lets it ride on his tongue and dips down and places it on my lips. He builds up some spit and lets it drool off his tongue. I open my mouth and let it flow into me. “Did you ask College if he has the bug in him?” He looks between my legs at his boy concentrating on my hole. I feel his small arm deep inside me. His hand is starting to veer to the left. So far his small hand and thin arm feel good, getting into places I’ve never felt before. This suddenly turning left, however, is starting to hurt. I take a couple of hits from the bottle and it eases the pain slightly and lets him go in a little deeper.

“He let me bareback him right away so I guessed he's got the bug. Daddy, I think I’m at his turning point. Damn, College, I’m gonna take you past my elbow yet. You ready for that?”

“I'm neg and want to stay—“

Old John put a hand over my mouth. “What I say about talk?” He pulls a gag from his nightstand and quickly straps it over me. I try to say I’m sorry but there’s a mouth bit within the gag that doesn’t allow any words to form. “You don't got the bug, pup?” he asks. “Just nod your head yes or no.” I shake my head no, and now that I think back on Gary's biohazard and scorpion tattoos it’s clear to me the Tina let down my usual cautiousness. I’m dealing with poz guys that take pride in being unsafe. Old John is reading my face, which is full of concern. He places a powerful hand on my chest sensing I might be trying to get up. But besides his pushing me deeper into the sling, there’s Young John’s hand way inside me with his full forearm pumping away. I'm not going anywhere anytime soon. Old John takes my arm and puts it in a leather restrain above my head. He bends down and licks my pit until it’s sopping wet. Then he reaches over and binds my other arm. He’s bent over me as he does and I get a brush of his hairy chest. I raise my head and push my face onto his nipple and start sucking. “You say you're neg but you just might be conflicted. You sure as hell act like you're ready to be knocked up." He holds my chin and talks to me seriously. "If you’re kindly, I might could.” He’s now smiling, flashing his yellowed teeth. I shake my head again no, emphatically. “Nah, don’t you worry none. I won’t if’n you don’t want me to. But why don’t we give you a lil’ fortification and then see how you feel about it. Son,” he says to Young John. He wanders over to stand in back of the boy running his big hairy mitts over Young John’s chest. “You keep up the good Lord's work. Your daddy’s so proud of you. Looks like he’s just about ready to take a man-size fist thanks to you, studded wrists and all. Pull out for a sec, lemme see that hole.” He does, and Old John slips in several of his sausage fingers. He slips in another finger from his other hand and pulls my hole painfully apart. “Hoo-wee, he’s a tight one, ain’t he? You best start usin’ two fists and see if he cain’t take that before I come back. I’ll be two shakes with works for the three of us.”

“Yes, daddy,” Johnny says. He greases up both hands like he’s washing them. He’s still folding one hand over another as he slips one hand in, pulls it out and right away puts in the other. He keeps this up and I feel my hole starting to melt against all resistance. He’s not letting my hole clamp shut for a second, but has both hands so close to my stretched out hole that, without warning, he’s pulled apart my hole and has both hands inside still folding over each other inside me. He’s good. It causing all sorts of distress yet it feels like an incredible massage. I can’t help making sounds of pleasure but still beg him to stop. It's too much.

“You like my daddy, don’t ya?” I can’t communicate anything to him, but only feel how he’s working my hole into an over-the-top erotic frenzy. “Best be not liking him too much. He’s my daddy. You got that?” He pulls both fists out simultaneous. I yell into the gag. I’m sure from the force and width of his extraction he’s torn some of my hole. With a cruel smile he shows me a bit of blood on his right hand. “He ain’t your daddy,” and he punches his right fist deep into my gut. He’s trying to hurt me now so I try clamping shut my hole, but it’s not working. He’s going for deep thrusts, pausing occasionally at his deepest point of penetration, giving me most of his forearm, before he slips a couple of fingers from his free hand, stretching me out, trading arms, eventually slipping in a hand, and again stretching my hole to the extreme. With an arm and a hand deeply buried, he violently pulls out. “I seen the way you look at him.” He slaps my balls, and my dick jumps straight up. “I seen the way he looks at you. Seen the way he looks at your big gooch.” He punches me in the balls. Again I jerk in pain. “He ain’t yours to look at that way.” He throws a hard right punch, smashing my balls, then a left, connecting again in the same spot. He alternates like a boxers, head down, my balls are his punching bag. In pain I’m flinging myself back and forth. I'm starting to feel sick, afraid if I throw up I’m going to choke in my own puke.

Old John walks in and Young John abruptly stops. Old John holds three syringes and eyes Young John disapprovingly. “You boys playing nice?” he asks.

“Yes, daddy. I got two hands in him just like you said. He bled a little, but I bet you’re gonna make him bleed a lot more, won’t ya daddy?”

“More’n likely. How else he gonna learn to take a man’s whole arm. Right boyo? How else did I learn you to take what a man's got to give.” He tapping the edge of each vial getting air bubbles out. “Member how much you liked it when you first took daddy’s arm all the way? How I’d make a muscle and make you squeal?”

“Yeah, an’ how, when you got all the way, I could feel your armpit hair tickling all the way up to my second ring. Will you do me like that after we get our shots?”

“First daddy’s got to attend to your friend.” I see Johnny throw me a real angry look. I would reassure him if I could that I’m not after a permanent position, but I’m not sure myself if I’m not at least partially hook on his daddy. I’ve never really thought about the whole daddy thing—I think of myself more in the brother-on-brother lane. But if I were to want a daddy I doubt I could do better than this dark haired, blue eyes muscle god that’s holding up a needle to my neck. “Hold still, boy. You don’t want me to miss. It’s not as strong as your first one, just a sort of pick-me-up.” He stabs my neck and floods it into me. It goes straight to my brain and he wrong: it’s just as strong; it kicks me in the head and in the nuts. With the gag in my mouth I suddenly feel I can't breathe. I'm panicking and Old John is holding my face in his hand. He's telling me to just ride it out, that I'm okay, he's got me. I melt into his hand. I want him to never let me go. All I want is his dick in me, bug or no. And as the drug takes hold of my mind, I amend that desire: I want his bug; I want it to be his DNA to infect me. “You happy now, boy?” he asks me seeing that the panic has passed and pure lust taking over. I still can’t focus on him, my eyes are so crossed, but I feel safe in his care. “Young John, fetch me that bottle of G and my plunger. I want him to be out of his mind horned up when I fuck him."

Johnny is out of the room in a flash and it’s just me and him. I feel like I'm in a vast cave in this dark room. I can’t tell time anymore. It simply stretches out without meaning. All I know is I want this man’s dick, and instinctively he knows it. He undoes my gag. We both know I want his cock in my mouth and he gives it to me, stroking my head, feeding it down my throat. He looks down the hallway and says quietly to me, “I'll tell you what. I think maybe Young John has passed his expiration date. I’m thinkin’ you might be a better 'Young John' than him. He's always been a little on the scrawny side, but he was always so dang cute. But he's getting older now, and he ain't as cute as he was, and he don't look like he's gonna fill out much more. The 'Young John' afore him was more your build. And you are right good eye candy and, ah, sweet Jesus, a mighty good cock sucker. All the way, boy, take it all the way down. Would you like that? Would you like to be my next 'Young John'?” I hear his words, but I can't piece together what he’s telling me. All I know is I just want to please him, take his cock down to his pubes. I mutter an uh-huh affirmation for him to keep feeding me his hard cock. "You gonna do everything I say, ain't ya? There's nothing you won't do. Ain't that right?" I nod within this dark cave of incomprehension. I hear Young John's footfalls trotting down the hall coming into the bedroom.

“Boy," he tells Young John, "fill that plunger half full and stick that up his ass. No, not so much. I don’t want him passing out, just enough to make him want his hole to be a bloody mess and beggin' me to knock him up with my dirty cum.” He looks me squarely in the eye. "Ain't that right, son?"

 

Lol. Guess if this get into dad/son fisting I should warn #nsfw

With that much crystal meth running through my veins it's hard to keep track of those first few hours. I remember initially going down on a cock as big as a trout attached to a body who rolling belly had FEED ME tattooed on it. I don't want to give bullet-head credit, but the nostril piss created a mucous in reaction to the acidity that coated my throat, in particular the back of my throat that took the brunt of oral abuse, allowing me to swallow Dwayne's carp halfway down my gullet with little trouble. Truth be told I was also into it. I'd never been one for deep throating but my coated throat on top of the threat and (again, truth be told) the excitement of possible castration, got me to service Dwayne like I'd never orally serviced any of the normal-sized boys I'd blown.

Dwayne got the royal treatment: a hands-free blow job that took in every inch of his tool. I was lost for what seemed hours inhaling his cock, feeling how good it was to tickle not just the back of my throat but a sizable amount of it going down my esophagus. I think Dwayne was amazed too. He kept pushing my head down in disbelief so my lips collided continually with his hairy bush. Loose hairs that any other time I would have spent minutes trying to pick off my tongue got swallowed up in each thrust down his giant cock. As high as I was I expect he was too, and no one had given him head like I was giving him head. He came fairly quickly but after he came didn't want me to stop. It was only after I start polishing his knob with my fist that he begged me. Judging by the looks on the other's faces, I had done what others hadn't, that is, gone beyond pleasuring this massive beast to the point where he wanted no more of it.

That didn't mean by any mean I was finished. Only just beginning. In overwhelming waves of T that weren't subsiding, I blacked out for a while during and after working on Dwayne. I was tripping heavily outside of the reality I was in. For a while I thought I was in a grocery store, that I was the meat being sold and parceled out to various customers. These customers, whenever I could focus, kept coming back to Dwayne, Gary, Old John and the kid. For the most part Old John and Young were wrapped up in each other to the exclusion of whatever was going on in the living room, the boy glued to the father's anus. Gary, after Dwayne hit me up the side of my head telling me to stop polishing his knob, took over and ordered me to lie on the floor.

Because of the absolute jumble in my brain, moving from kneeling in front of Dwayne to getting to a prone position on the floor was a major endeavor. Not only could I not understand what a floor was, the position of kneeling was all I could remember ever having done from conception to now. It sounds ridiculous, but I had no idea who "I" was when Gary looked at me, nor could I remember ever having not been in front of Dwayne sucking him off. It's as if I had no life before, only this one, kneeling, having a cock sliding into and out of my gullet. Physical reality, however, took over any lack of brain activity on my part. Gary snatched the reins of abuse once Dwayne had finished. I was continually smacked, my hair pulled, my body punched, until I was on the floor exactly how Gary wanted me positioned. I take it at some point Dwayne was assisting but I never saw him actually slide off the couch and hold down my legs. I do recall, once on the floor, Gary kneeling on my arms, pinning them at my side, hovering his butt over my face. But once his face, specifically his hairy hole went over my mouth and his cheeks covered my eyes, I don't remember much after that, at least not in a linear "this happened next" sense; only a various list of events in random order. The crystal flooded my will, making me pliable to whatever was told to me, moment by moment. If I heard lick, I licked. If I heard eat, I ate. If I was told suck that's what I did. I remember at one point in the darkness a foul taste enter my mouth at the same time a wet ejaculate spurted on my chest, but the memory was quickly replaced with only a residual fetid paste remaining on my lips after I heard an order to swallow. I heard Gary someplace far away saying something long, complicated, yet vaguely family, but all I truly caught was "next time you shit" muffled beneath Gary's soft buns I was worshiping.

While this was an intense undertaking that should have made an indelible mark on my psyche, abridging my character to include things I thought I'd never do, actions taken which I vaguely have some memory of but clouded by a quasi-dream state so I would barely know if they happened or I imagined, or even—dare I say—wished they would happen, an even stronger sensation, one that remained in my sense memory from then till now, was occurring within the shaft of my cock.

In the darkness of Gary's furry ass, I felt at first a tip of a cold wedge entering me. It was hard and painful as it traveled down my shaft, an unfamiliar sensation as it was unpleasant. Someone was holding my semi-rigid dick in place, while the weight of this object invaded me slowly, tormentingly slow, inch by inch. At some point, maybe halfway down my shaft, four inches now that my cock was fully erect, it occurred to me that it had to be the screwdriver Gary had held while he was on a kitchen stool, previously masturbating himself with. Now he was using it on me. While it travel the length of my cock it finally rested too close to my prostate to feel good. I felt its blade twirl with someone at the top twisting the handle. I howled at the internal gyration it inflicted on my prostate, a exceedingly painful but at the same time arousing sensation that I could barely stand. Barely. My cries of torture were muffled between Gary's cheeks as my head rocked back and forth in denial that this was happening. Then the blade was dragged up and out of my piss slit only to fall back inside with even more violence. There was nothing I could do to stop it. No pleas, or cries abated the abuse. In fact, the more noise I made, the more extreme the invasion became. I felt as my stifled begging surrendered to the abuse, my meat as hard as its ever been, bent up ninety degrees skyward, the screwdriver resting at its furthest depth, it was soon followed by a second intrusion going down my shaft. The two screwdrivers were being manipulated by an expert who know how much a body could take and then pushed to take even more. A third was added between the two already piercing me. I felt the manipulator spread the three of them apart, ripping my urethra to a stretch that was breaking me. I thrashed as the three at once were masturbating me from the inside to the point where, not that it felt good, quite the opposite, but to the point where I felt deep within my balls I was getting close to cumming. The last thing I wanted was the cause of such violence to be the trigger for an orgasm, but when the bullet-headed bastard twisted the flathead blades for a final time and pulled them out all together, I shot like a pubescent's first time. Streams of dick snot erupted long after the tools were withdrawn. My body shook with tremors and after shocks, volcanic eruptions that never seemed to end. In the hours of blackness beneath my captor to this moment of release was an eternity, and in the aftermath of eternity my body collapsed in on itself like a blackhole pulling in everything around it. An emptiness of conscious the void will never fill.

When Gary finally crawls off my face it's light outside. Without a word, he and Dwayne leave the trailer with me laying on the floor in a puddle of my own sweat, drool and copious cum. The screen door slams behind them, and I look up to see, almost as a surprise, a very hot naked father and son team grinning down at me, Young John smoking a cigarette, Old John smoking a cigar. I'm primed. As I lay there catching my breath, I can't wait to get between this illicit duo. I feel that at this point there's nothing I won't do.

I'll be disabused of that notion soon enough.

 

It's the most painful minutes of my life! I coughed up the initial stream before the bullet-headed bastard smacks my head and tells me to take the rest in my mouth and warns me to not loose a drop. "You let any spill on the bed," he threatens, "the rest is going up your nose." I take him at his word, and lock my lips around his long uncut cock and just swallow and swallow and swallow and swallow. While I'm gulping I hear him say: "You know my piss is going straight to you stomach now, pig." I remember Young John's exact words as bullet-head is talking. This must be Young John's daily life, what he hears every day serving these men. "You got my piss in you. Next time you piss that's going to be my piss coming out of your dick. Just remember that." I almost feel sorry for Young John until:

"Can we keep him, daddy?" Young John asks, while bullet-head finishes peeing down my throat. "Can we, huh?"

"Did you show him the lab?" Johnny's father asks concerned, "Or talk to him about it?"

"No, sir," says Young John. "All we did was smoke a little bit. I didn't say we made it."

"Well, he knows now, don't he, Young John?" I see Young John's puzzled face nodding. He's not stupid but I wonder about his father. Did he mean to trip him up? Bullet-heads squeezing out a last few squirts. "So now we either have to put him down out yonder with the other, or you're gonna have to train him good. I mean real, real good, son."

"Wait!" I blurt out. Bullet-head smacks me again. The fat one leaps on my head and puts a rubber ball in my mouth, and then fits a muzzle under my chin and around my cheeks buckling it in the back. I'm trying to get out words, which is now impossible, so I resort to negative pleas. Mmm-mm, I'm getting out through the muzzle. Mmm-mm. Snots from the earlier piss irrigation is running down my face over the muzzle, and I feel tears welling up in my eyes. All I can see is Johnny looking scared, which fills me with terror.

"I'll train him, daddy," he pleads. "I'll train him real, real good. He ain't gonna be no problem. He can have table scraps and live in the wood shed and I'll train him to do all the things you like. Y'all can have a lot of fun with him. He likes tina, and he likes it dirty, and I bet if you slam him he'll do whatever else you can think of, like you do me."

"He sure looks purdy from what I can see, Old John," the fat one says. "If he can take my gooch meat maybe he might be worth keepin'. Least for a time." 

"We'll see," Old John says. "Put your collar on him, boy, and lead him into the living room. We got some relaxing to do, and we'll see if he can help you with your chores. Could be nice t'have another one of you around. That is, if he can be housebroke."

"Thank you, daddy!" he says excitedly, while the men pile out of his room. He holds a finger up to me. "Shush," he whispers. "You wanna stay alive to mornin' you'll do exactly as I say, you hear me." All I can do is nod. "Okay then, you put this leather collar round your neck. Here, lemme fasten it." It's several inches thick and make me hold him neck up high. Once he locks it, he attaches a chain with a leather lead to it. "Now you just be a dog, you got that? A dog is what you are. And you do whatever anyone says. You gonna walk on all fours unless someone pulls you up. And you can cry and whine but you ain't never gonna say no, and you ain't never gonna say nothin'. You let them do whatever they want or you gonna end up dead like the others. You got me?" He's emphatic. Like the others. It's the second time "others" have been eluded to, and it's reverberating in my messed up brain as he leads me out to the join the men.

The candle's still flickering as I crawl on all fours behind Johnny into the living room. "Sit!" he commands holding up a hand. I sit back on my haunches. "See, daddy. He's gonna be real easy to train. He's purdy too, ain't he, daddy? He's got real nice hair, nice new fur growin' on his chest, and nice hangin' balls I KNOW Gary's gonna like to hurt."

"Don't matter if'n he's purdy," says bullet-head. "It matters if'n he's fun and can take what's dished out." Bullet-head is skinny with thin slits for eyes. He got a pointed goatee and tattoos poking out his plaid collar around his neck. If I were a dog I'd be growling at him.

"Well, I think he is purdy," the fat one who wanted me to suck his gooch meat says. I wonder for a second before I push it out of my mind how big that gooch meat is going to be. "He might fit nicely at the foot of my bed when all y'all done havin' fun with him. What'cha call him, Young John?"

"His names College. He got his car all crashed up by ol' Jonesy, I recon, and got lost looking for the main road. I toll him it weren't the way he was goin' even though it was, and he followed me home. I took him the long was so he don't know where he is no more."

"That was right smart of you, Young John," says his daddy. "You sure you wanna call him College after he got so easily fooled? What about Dumbshit?"

"Nah, we already had a Dumbshit, 'member? He was that curly headed feller. Besides, he talks real smart and I bet we can muscle him up. He's a good fucker and fister, and afore you came I was teaching him to take a fist. I betcha you'd get a good rosebud outta him in no time."

There are a lot of alarms tripping during this conversation, but none as loudly as the way Old John is looking at me. He's a large man with very big, solid hands. He's cracking his knuckles looking me over. Hard to believe he's Johnny's father. They don't look anything alike. Where Young John has sandy brown hair, Old John is jet back. He's got a furrowed unibrow arching over deep blue eyes. His beard is thick and black with no grey in it, so I'm guessing he's somewhere in his thirties, which would make him very young for being Johnny's father. He is a daddy type, of that there's no doubt. His neck is thick and shoulder's wide. He's kicking off his boots. They fall near me and the stink that comes out of them could easily make me wretch if I was any nearer. His teeth are yellow but he has all of them, not like bullet-head who's missing all four front teeth. Old John keeps flexing his hands as he's eyeballing me, and I have a feeling I know where he's imagining planting those big, hairy fists. I stare at his fingers, which each have trails of hair running down them. It take me a second to realize he's talking to me: "Looks like you got nice meat on you. What's that, eight inches I recon?" I look at Johnny who nods his head once. I look back at Old John and nod. "You slam him, Young John?"

"No, sir, we just blew some clouds, but look at those arms. He got some nice juicy veins on him, don't he daddy? Bet you could turn him into a slam whore real easy. Maybe makes some money at Shady Acres trailer park."

"Dwayne," Old John says to the fat one, "why don't you introduce our new house pet who would do well to git his first slam."

I'm ready to protest when Young John subtly tugs my chain. I look over at him and, almost invisibly, shakes his head. "Me, too, Dwayne," he says holding out his arm as way of distraction. He stares at me very pointedly.

"Sure, boy. Why don't we all get to know one another," Dwayne says taking off his dingy grey sweater. Underneath are rolls of fat, boobs that droop over his hefty belly, and pits that I can smell over here. He gets up and goes to the kitchen area and from a drawer takes out a handful of used needles with orange caps. He counts out five and brings over a glass of water and starts dolling out power into each of them.

I see bullet-head spot something on the counter and goes over to pick it up. It's Johnny's cage. "Young John, you take off your cage, boy?"

"No, sir. College done that."

"Git up, son," says Old John. "It's been ages since I seen what your wiener looks like. Lemme me see you." The boy stands up. His father is in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt, revealing a pelt of black chest hair and pecs that any body builder would be proud of. "Well, look at you, boy!" He slips off his pants and underwear. I'd say my jaw dropped but of course it' s being held in place by my muzzle. Still, I'm sure my eyes are boinging out of my face as I look at Johnny's daddy's anaconda hanging down. Out of his huge black bush is a semi-erect monster cock. The black hair from his chest continues non-stop to his crotch and continues spilling down the hairiest, most muscled legs I've seen. I feel my dick at the most inopportune time start getting aroused. "My boy done grown up. Look at that, Gary," he says to bullet-head. "Sprouting a little bush of weeds and everything. Course we gonna have to clip that hedge and get that cage back on you. Cain't let you become queer and the like. But I tell you what, I gotta have me some of that before we do. Dwayne, you almost ready?"

Dwayne's sucking up water into the syringes and, with the flats of his hands, whipping them back and forth, dissolving the white powder in the tubes. "Almost."

"Young John, you done left this flathead screwdriver out. What I tell you 'bout always puttin' back tools?" Gary scolds Johnny, like a nagging older brother. "You know what I gotta do to you now so you'll remember?" He's taking off his top, too. I'm not surprised to see how many tattoos he has. Praying hands, two kids faces on both sides of his rib cage, a broken open heart on his chest, all kinds of cliched religious images, a cross, prayer beads, wings on his back; also a scorpion tattoo on his shoulder and a biohazard on his treasure trail of thin brown hair.

"Weren't me. Was College left it there," protests Johnny. The kid's sporting his curved hard on, maybe out of the praise from his father, maybe from, for once, not having a cage on him in front of these men, especially his daddy who's now monstrously erect. He's thick as a beer can, black pubic hair growing an inch up his shaft. He has to be a foot long, maybe more. I'm sitting on the floor trying to hide my erection by angling a raised leg. It seems, however, Old John is more interested in his boy than me at the moment.

"Gimme you arm, College," says Dwayne quietly. My hearts thumping so loud in my chest I'm sure the others can hear it. I get on my knees and stretch out my arm. Dwayne puts it on a greasy yellow pillow. "Looks like College is all excited 'bout doing his first slam." Dwayne points to my cock standing straight up. The others laugh.

"Let's see if he can keep that up after you done him," Old John says, taking three syringes off the coffee table. He tosses one to Gary at the counter who pops off the orange cap with his thumb and plunges it into one of his bruised veins. Old John point to the floor in front of him for Johnny to come and kneel. Johnny comes over as Old John settles in. They seems to have a ritual for his. Johnny holds out his arm. His daddy licks the crook and feels for a vein. Finds one, says "Stick," then, when he's pulled some of the blood into the syringe, asks if Johnny is ready. Yes, daddy, please slam me so that I' might be your obedient slave, he recites. Old John pushes in the plunger and Johnny falls to the ground and immediately begins licking his father's detestable feet. The boy looks lost in rapture on the floor holding up his father's foot, bathing it with his tongue, sucking and cleaning up between each of his toes. His father is searching his own arm, pumping his fist. Satisfied he's found one, he empties the content and falls back on the couch while his son caresses each nook and cranny between his father's toes. "Suck 'em good," he says, and Johnny does, one toe at a time looking up through foggy eyes at his dad. "Good boy. That's nice, boy. Take your time. Make sure you git all the smell off 'em. You ready to clean daddy's ass when you done?" Johnny nods enthusiastically. "Hadn't been cleaned since we went off hunting, and you know what that means?" He looks off in his own fog. "You sure you're ready for it?" he asks falling back deeper on the couch and spreading his hairy legs. I can smell his asshole from here. I don't envy Johnny's task.

"College can help me," he churps, "cain't you College? He likes dirty buttholes," Johnny tells the group. I start counting my regrets wondering which one over the last day is the one I regret the most. Rimming Johnny's ass might be the worst, but there's so much completion.

Gary at the counter is trying to get off his pants. I can see he's clumsily working on his belt and having a lot of trouble. "First College has GOT to learn to put away his tools. Boy, you ever git sounded?" he asks me finally getting his buckle open. His pants fall off his revealing a long, thin dick. He starts playing with it while he searching through one of the cabinets. He brings out some cooking oil and coats the screwdriver's tip and blade. He perches on a counter stool watching Dwayne feeling my forearm. Casually he puts the tip of the screwdriver in his piss slit and lets the handle go. It slowly slides into his hardening shaft. "This'll learn ya to put tools away, I guarantee. Oh, fuck, yes it will!" It's almost down to the handle when he grabs it and start pumping it in and out of his dick.

"Stick," Dwayne says, and I feel a pinch where he's inserted the needle. "You ready for this?"

"How much you give him?" Old John asks, relishing his son's tongue as it makes its way up the back of his furry leg. "Go for the balls first, son," he says softly to his son.

"Three-quarters a gram," Dwayne says while I see my red blood swirling within the vial.

Johnny lifts his head as he looks at me with concern. "Seven five's too much for his first time, Dwayne."

"Too late now," he says. When I look down the vial is empty and I feel a rush of adrenaline like I've never felt before. I can't breath it's so intense. I feel my body locked down, incapable of any movement. There's a swelling in my lungs, which after a few moments of absolute panic, explodes with a cough that knocks me on my side. All my motor functions are useless. I'm glued to the floor feeling a red rush coursing through me. Blood behind my blind eyes. Then, like a tidal wave that picks me up without effort on my part, I bounce to my feet like a puppet, dick exploding cum right into Dwayne's beard. He's laughing and I feel insanely good, happy to be here in this dark den of meth heads. I feel like a demon of sex, hard, dripping cum. Looking over Old John who looks incredibly hot, who's cock I can't wait to get in me; over at Gary and want him to plunge that screwdriver right down my shaft like he's doing to his; at Johnny, wanting to join him on Old John's other leg and meet him in the middle at Old John's shit-smelling anus; but first getting down on Dwayne's gooch, as he's getting his last leg out of his dirty underwear, kicking it off his plump leg, and fluffing up a very fat and veiny cock. He's plunged his needle in his arm and is emptying the contents. "Okay, pig. Time to earn your keep," he says as he presses his finger where the syringe has come out. I kneel in front of him and he unbuckles my muzzle. I hungrily chomp down and start sucking his semi-hard cock until it fulfills it's promise, fully engorged, as the biggest cock I've ever seen in my life! "All the way down." I choke once at the attempt. "You puke or choke again, we're gonna go outside and snip those purdy balls right off. I guarantee." I don't choke again, but take his shaft down all the way down to his foul-smelling bush.

"Don't fight me," Young John says severely. "Relax. Dude, just relax." His second finger feels a lot like his first finger but he's twisting it around in my butt and it's making me tense. "Damn, college, you sure don't want me gittin' in you."

"Nah, it's just it feels weird." He pulls both fingers out.

"Reach in that drawer, right there. Take out that little bottle and take a big smell of it." I reach in the nightstand drawer and take out a small brown bottle. Unscrew the cap and take a sniff. I get a warm rush and I feel Young John push several fingers in my hole. "Take two more hits," he orders. I do and immediately feel a large object start pushing at my ass. It's growing bigger fast, and the poppers, which I'm not a big fan, but it's turning the corner on me wanting to take whatever Young John is pushing into me. In fact, I'm pushing down on whatever that object is that's spreading my hole. It gets to its widest point making me raise my hips until it's in, and then it narrows considerably, however, the large part he started with is now traveling within my hole. "That's it, college, take it all, suck me in."

"Ah, fuck, man! Is that you in me?" I cry, suddenly taking in what just happened. My sphincter is clamping Young John's thin wrist but the rest of his hand is in my hole. Not only in it but traveling swiftly up it. "Stop, wait!" I beg him, holding up my hands. "It's too much."

"I ain't doing nothin'," he says laughing. "You the one pullin' me in. You sure got one hungry hole. Tell me you ain't been fisted before. Look at you drippin' precum. You as hard as a choir boy in a porn shop." And I am as turned on as hell. Fuck, the more I try to stop his hand from going in deeper the deeper it goes. I'm clamping down hard but that only keeps pushes him in, so I force myself to relax. I just lay there, still, trying not to move, feeling how deep he already is in me, but then he starts twisting his wrist before I can absorb what's happening. "Don't push me out," he demands. "You trying to get me out and I won't have it." I feel him pushing in further the more I push my guts against him.

"Shit, man! Don't. Wait. Let me try to take it."

I open my eyes, the first time since I've take a hit of the poppers. Young John is leaning over me wild eyed. His crazed look is frightening. He looks half angry and half like a lunatic. It doesn't help there's so little light in the room. I feel my ass contracting around his hand, but now he's doing something internally. It's such a new sensation all I know is there's movement, not deeper penetration, not him pulling out, just something swelling where I think the end of his hand is. "You like that?" I ask what's he doing? "I'm making a fist and unmaking it. I'm doin' it right on your prostate glan. Feel that? I love when daddy does this. Feel that? I'm holding you like a hammock swing. Feel me holding you like that?"

"Ah, shit, yeah. That's incredible. Oh, fuck!" I inhale spasmodically, closing my eyes. The sensation's too intense. He's squeezing me then flipping his wrist so knuckles are flying across my prostate. He's merciless even though I'm begging him to stop. He hits my bladder when he rocks a little farther in. I can't help it and piss uncontrollably.

"Shit, yeah, that's what I'm talking. Just let it go. Make a pig of yourself. Let it go." It's not like I have a choice. I'm pissing wildly over my chest. He's dipping down occasionally, taking a gulp, then spitting it over me trying to hit my face. When I start petering out he bangs his fist in again searching for my piss "on" switch and I start pissing again. He holds his fist in that spot and I feel I'm never going to stop. I also feel I'm starting to get close to cumming. I tell him I think I'm about to nut and he pulls back.

"Oh, no. Not yet. We only got started." He's pulling back even more, and suddenly I'm regretting loosing him. His fist is at the entrance to my hole. I look up again at him and he's got this devilish look in his eyes. His small fist leaves my hole, but only for a second. I gasp as he leaves, and as he immediately pushes back in, I gasp harder. I swear I see his eyes turn red as he's now fixated on exactly that spot: taking his knuckles pushing in and out of my fully stretched hole. "Take another hit, quick!" he says. I do, and feel my resistance melting away. "You like it, don't you." I nod feeling him rock right at the point of my widest stretched. "Nah, tell me you like me doing this."

"I like you doing this," I respond.

"...doing this, Sir. Say it!"

"I like you doing this to me, Sir! Open me up, Sir!" With that he starts increasing the depth he's going into me. I'd be lying if I said I didn't want him doing this. I honestly don't know if it's him that I want punching my hole, or if I simply want my hole punched by anyone at this point. I feel my eyes roll back in my head and just wallow in enjoyment in how good it feels, how it hurts and feels intensely good at the same time, how I've never felt this sensation before, how I don't want it to stop. And he doesn't, but keeps increasing his depth and the force of his punch. He's trading hands, back and forth, right at the entrance to my hole. His frenzy becomes my frenzy. I'm sure I'm babbling something, how good it feels, how great he is, do it harder, how much I want him, more, deeper, harder, until I feel I'm about to explode, and then he pulls his fist out hard all the way. "Push," he says. I push my hole, and immediately he plunges his fist right back in when I've pushed it open as far as I can. Somehow we're in sync. He pulls out forcefully, yells Push, I open up, spreading my asshole wide, and he's back in with his fist. We're repeating this pattern even though I've lost track of how the pattern goes, but it's in my muscle memory without me having to think anymore, written by him or in coordination with him. But I give him credit for teaching me this dance. I would go all night, and maybe I have gone on for hours with him in this dance, but then abruptly I hear the screen door slam against the trailer, and hear men talking.

One yells above the others, "I'm hornier than six dick dawg in a kennel full 'o bitches! Young John, git your punk ass in here."

"You c'mere," Young John replies, still fist punching me only a little slower now. Before I have time to even try and make an effort to hide, or cover myself, or whatever it is I think I can do in the seconds after I heard the screen door bang, three men crowd into Young John's small bedroom. I sense them around me more than I can see them. There's nothing like introductions, just three men vying to get closer for a better look. There's nothing I can do but freeze, legs in the air, as Young John takes his fist out of me. There's nothing anyone says until the one who's bald head shines in the dark breaks the silence.

"He drink piss, Young John, cuz I have GOT to unload right now."

"Yes, Sir," responds Young John. "College, take a hit. It'll go down easier."

I must be insanely high, because after taking a hit of poppers, I open my mouth for a guy I can't even see. He unzips his fly while I roll over on my side to take his dick. But instead of slipping his dick into my mouth, he holds the back of my head with one hand, and takes his dick and presses his piss slit up against my nose with the other. He then lets go his spray up my nostril while I choke on the stinging stream flowing through my sinuses and down my throat. I can even feel his piss sting behind my eye.

 

I don't want to lie to him but I feel I can't say that, no, I won't be coming back, and this was all a lark, an anecdote I'll tell a couple of times before I forget the details, but will have a bit of a recollection that there was this cute kid I fucked in the back woods of the Glastenbury Mountains. I just look at him. Cute, with a smooth, narrow chest, furry legs, sweet angelic face that can change in an instant. Before I can answer he's scrambling off the bed, going out the door. "Yeah, that's what I thought," he says going down the hall.

I follow him to the living room feeling like a douche bag. He plops on the couch and grabs a small glass pipe. He fills it with some white shards that's sitting in plastic zip bag on the coffee table. With a torch lighter he puts a flame to the bottom of the bowl, waits for some smoke to rise and then inhales the swirling smoke. I sit next to him and put a hand on his bare knee. He passes the pipe over to me.

I hold it for a second before I ask him what it is? "What do you think, college?" He's bitter and sarcastic. I know that's on me.

"Tina?" I hazard a guess.

"Give the man a diploma."

"I don't really do Tina, Johnny."

"Then give it back," he says scornfully. He reaches out his fingers like a little boy who wants a toy back.

I feel like I've dissed him and I don't mean to. There's still a little smoke swirling in the pipe and I inhale it. I hold it for just a second before I puff it out. He's looking at me out of the corner of his eye. He comments, "Fuck sake, college, smoke it if you're going to smoke it. Here." He lights the torch and holds it under the bowl. I see the bowl cloud up and I take a hit. "Now hold it. That's it. Keep holding it." I'm about to choke so I blow out the contents. "Well, that was a waste. Shotgun it to me. Do you know what that is?"

I feel defensive and not liking the note of condescension I'm hearing. "Yes, I've shotgunned before. Pot."

"Gimme, I'll show you." He lights it, holds in the smoke, then exhales it to me. I'm sucking it in and he surprises me by sticking his tongue in my mouth. I'm taken aback for about a second before I see he's conflicted, acting out petulantly, not knowing his endgame. He holds my head with his palm. He's mad, but horny.  I guess I am too. My analytical brain turns off, and the kiss suddenly turns passionate. It's incongruous because part of my brain is thinking he's being a little shit, but suddenly I'm really into this little shit, more than I thought. Part of me likes him being a little shit. I have to let out the cloud but right after we're back in a lip lock. I feel his lap and he's got a nice hard on. He's not big but it's harder than most other cocks I've gripped. It's solid, like I could literally pick him up by it. I can't help but smile at him, and for an honest second he smiles back. He puts out his hand and let's me know I got a big hard on too. If this is from the tina I think I want more. He puts down the pipe on the coffee table and we make out, jacking each other for a while. The trailer's dark with moonlight' spilling in through the screen door. It's casting the living room with a pale blue light. I like that we're half-lit, it makes my sense of touch more sensitive, both feeling him up, and his hand running up and down my ribs and over my pecs. I tweak his small nipples and start chewing on his smooth neck. He's responding in kind, pinching my tits, his hand running down, grabbing my balls and squeezing them hard. Then he runs some fingers between my legs but before he gets to my asshole I shut him down.

I tell him I don't really like my ass played with. It comes out a little more breathless than I had meant it to. I don't like being coy, but I get rattled if someone's playing with my ass when I want to play with his.

"Okay," he responds. He doesn't seem upset, just sits up and lights a candle on the table. "Want another hit?" he asks, knowing he's ensnared me. His smile looks calculated and not really friendly.

"Yeah. That was intense."

He scoffs. "Just wait," he says filling up the bowl again and handing it to me. "You shotgun me."

I do and we go another round, shotgunning each other, taking turns being the instigator, blowing into the other's lungs. I feel super horned up in a matter of minutes, and bend to suck his dick. He lets me but I feel his hand running down my back looking for my hole again. This time I'm thinking it isn't such a bad idea. I'm not hard core against getting my hole played with and I'm beginning to think I want him to touch my asshole. He's leaking precum and it's getting me even more aroused. He lifts one leg up and throws it over the back of the couch. "Eat my shit hole." I do and with my tongue feel how open his hole is. So young and so softly gaping. His asslips are extremely loose. I can stretch them about easily with two fingers, and do. He's straining, pushing open his hole even more for me, and it's spreading wide, showing a beautiful young pink rose in the candlelight. It looks so hot and I start playing within it, flicking what I know is his colon lining with my tongue, hearing him let out guttural moans. He's pushing out harder giving me more to eat, and it's turning me on enormously. I encourage him, "Open it, boy. Show me your cunt."

"You like that, college? You want me to open your hole like that?" I'm nodding, wanting him to find my hole. "Nah, you tell me out loud how much you want it."

"I want it. I want you to open my hole." I spread my legs to let him find me. He does.

"Let's go back to my room and I'll show you how daddy works on me." We both get up and I follow him down the hall, and for the second time tonight we flop on his bed. I jump on his cock and start sucking his slender dick. He's whispering how good it feels. We're in the dark and suddenly my mouth is flooded with piss. I back off him and he's now pissing all over me, aiming his hard dick over my body. The idea of what he's doing detaches itself from how good it feels. It's warm, the most intimate thing anyone's ever done to me. "You like that, don't you?" I agree by putting my mouth back on his dick while he's still pissing. It's running, spilling out over my teeth. It's like bending over a drinking fountain. "Swallow it, pig. Show me you like drinking my piss." I take a small swallow at first. It's salty and hot. I like the idea of drinking down this boy's piss and start taking larger and larger gulps. "Wrap your mouth around my cock, pig, and keep drinking it." I'd never done anything like this before but feel very susceptible to his suggestion, and let him drain himself in my mouth. I let it run freely down my gullet. I gulp loudly. "You know my piss is going straight to you stomach now, pig. You got my pee in you. Next time you piss that's going to be my piss coming out of your dick. Remember that." I start wanking myself, know he's right, enjoying his vulgarity. This little backwoods boy is turning me into a piss hound. He's finishes pissing and pushes me on my back. "Hold you legs, pisspig." He hovers his small body over mine and spit on my ass. He bends down and wets my hole with his tongue. He then puts his dick right on top of my hole and pushes his head into my sphincter until his dick pops in.

I'd been fuck only once before tonight, about a month ago by Zack. It was our first night together and we spent the entire night flipping back and forth. But now, with this nasty kid, he's taking a much more dominant approach. It doesn't feel like he wants to flip when we were done, that we're on a much different trajectory. I feel his extremely hard dick going in deep and doing it fast, much quicker than I'm able to take comfortably. I ask him to go slow, but he doesn't care if I'm liking it. This wasn't about us making love, but about him getting his rocks off. His dick's all the way in and he's humping me like an animal. I'll tell you the truth, I like it. I like that he doesn't give a shit if I'm enjoying it. He isn't even looking at me. He's staring straight ahead into space, just humping away inside my hole. His pace is slow until it isn't. He's going in for maximum stimulation of his dick however which way it strikes him at the moment. There's no looking to see how I'm doing. I have the sense this is how men fuck him. He slaps my ass hard, then switches up to rapidly drilling my hole. He slaps my ass again and slows to a hard, steady rutting, where he gets as deep inside me as his small body allows, pulls out almost all the way, then plunge back in again, hard. He's trying to hurt my fuckhole as others must hurt his. He's not big enough to really hurt, but the force makes me grunt, which brings a sneer to his face. He tucks my head under his arm wanting me to lick the sparse hair in his pit. I do with abandon. It's a small bush but I get off on his smell and the smoothness of his skin around the hair. He holds me in a headlock as he continues to fuck me until he locks into a steady rhythm for what seems like hours but is probably only a quarter of one. His grunting grows deeper and I feel his cockhead grow to a bulbous mushroom inside me, and then I feel him spill his seed with several deep thrusts. Without touching myself, only feeling his skinny six-pack abs slide over my wet cock, I feel his head swell as he's cumming, and with his last humps, I shoot between our chests. The slick juice lubricates our torsos and I slide a hand between us and caress the skin gliding over me. Inside I feel my prostate being ridden over and over as I erupt after he's cum. He's still pumping away, looking at me now, knowing that with each thrust, he's making me cum a little more. He's enjoying it in a torturous way, feeling in control of my orgasm, until he loses interest.

He withdraws immediately, which I take to mean he's done and would like if I left. Well, it's not like I have an alternative place to go, so I roll to my side. I feel him draw me back to him. We spoon in the dark for a while before I feel, again, what he was after and it's not cuddling. Between my crack, where his dick lays spent, not in me, just pressed up against my hole, I feel a flow of warmth. He's pissing over me again. "Hold on, let me get some of this inside you. It'd be better if you just let me slam you, dude, but a little chem piss should help." He's fiddling with his dick taking a thumb to press it in my hole. It's difficult since he's soft but I relax my hole. "C'mon, open up. Let me get my gooch in you. Promise you'll like it." I feel his limp dick head pop inside. I clamped down on it, which cut off his stream for a moment. Then, sitting there quiet for a while, I feel him start leaking inside me. Some piss is going in, which is another first, but some of it is also trickling down my butt.

"Your bed," I try to warn him. "It's sopping."

"I'm used to it. You'll get use to it too." We lie there while he drains into me. "Tell me if you have to whiz and then do it over me, or you can do it inside me too if you want. We don't like have nothin' go to waste." By we, I'm getting this is what they do in their camp.

I'm plenty high and the warm sensuality and feeling of normalizing this weird crap with him is going against every taboo I have, but also makes me ratchet up how much I like being with this little perv. I don't know if anyone else could have done what he's done, especially since it doesn't seem like it's a big deal, but I have to say that someone so much younger than me is pushing me like I'd never been pushed. I lay there feeling his piss filling me up and the trail that trickles down is growing cold. But his warm body holds me there with his small arms wrapped over my shoulders. With every passing second his piss is encouraging me to want to break whatever taboos are left. I'm coming to realize there might be a lot that I haven't even thought of. But I think he has. And not just thought of, but experienced.

"Now let's see," he says, lifting my top leg slightly to get his small fingers rubbing against my bunghole. "About getting you open. You're tight as hell, man. I recon Daddy and the boys would hurt you mighty bad if they were to try to git in you, but my hands are little. Ain't gonna be no trouble gittin' you to take a fist from me. I'll take you pretty deep too, I imagine. You ready?"

Knowing my ass is filled with his piss, feeling even hornier than I was two minutes ago, I recon I am. I pull up my leg thinking I might as well try something I'd never thought I'd do. In the distance, I think I hear the sputter of a far off engine as he slips his first finger in my cum-slick hole.

***

Haha! Peyton thinks so. Don't you?

If I could tell you exactly what moonshine tastes like I would: something like drinking turpentine mixed with the worst cough syrup you’ve ever had. They might be its two ingredients. I’m trying to turn down a refill but Young John’s not having it. The second one, he says, you stop tasting it. That might be, or it might be I’m blasted out of my mind by the first. As it is, I can’t help staring at him. It’s not that he’s just cute, but I don’t know if there’s a slyness or innocence that makes me keep darting glances his way in the light of the campfire. The rabbit he skinned and cooked was good. He liked grossing me out when he skinned and disemboweled it, but when it came to eating it off sticks, you could tell he knew what he was doing. And, yeah, it tasted like chicken.

After he won refilling our canning jars with more moonshine, he says, "Man, am I ever horny." Then, just as suddenly: “You a homo, college?” He asks this as matter of factly as if he’d just asked if I’d had enough to eat. He’s not looking at me but up at the stars, which number in the billions up here.

“Yepper,” I answer. “You?”

“Nothin’ I could do about it if I was,” he volunteers. He’s quiet for a real long time, before he adds two words that completely throws me: “I’m caged.”

I’d been slumping against a log, but I sat up at that. “What do you mean, ‘caged’?”

“Caged. Like I can’t get to my dick if I wanted to. Got a lock on it.”

“Wait, what?” The rabbit bone I was twirling I throw it in the fire and draw closer to him to see his eyes. His gaze come down from looking skyward, and rest on my face. He’s evaluating me, for what I don’t know. To see if I’m judging him? To see if he should go on more, if I can be trusted?

“We just decided it was better that way,” he says. Is he looking to see if I approve? Agree? The simply fact is I don’t understand.

“Who decided that? What would be 'better'?”

“Daddy. The posse. Me. We thought it was better. That way they don’t turn me queer. Want to see?”

“Wait,” I say, putting a hand on his bare shoulder. I feel how warm he is, feel his small, strong muscles of his shoulder. Feel the effects of the second jar of moonshine. “What exactly has your daddy and his friends done to you?”

He unbuttons his pants and shows me a homemade chastity cage scooped under his balls and covering his dick. A little bush of pubes poke above it. I’ve seen cages online but thought they were just a novelty, a joke. This one looks serious, heavy, permanent; although it has a screw underneath and not a lock, it doesn’t look like a joke. “Daddy says if I started enjoying my dick when they did things to my butt, I could turn homo and then they couldn’t have fun no more.”

“That’s crazy talk, guy.”

I’m sorry to say this, but I can’t help it. My own dick starts getting hard. I know, I know, you’d be all righteous and help the kid, but I’m telling you, coming across this kids with his pent up, twisted beliefs, or those guys that are keeping him this way, plus the second jar of moonshine, plus the bit of pubes above the cage, it’s twisting my head, making me think I want to take advantage of him in all his chastised horniness.

Okay, maybe I just needed to say that, because now I’m feeling indignant, protective again. “You got a screwdriver?” I demand.

“Yeah, but you can’t take it off,” he says.

“The shit I can’t. Get it.”

We go inside a trailer and he rifles through a kitchen drawer holding the gas lantern above his head. He’s holding his pants up with one hand and the lantern with the other. He finds a screwdriver and gives it to me. I tell him to drop his drawers. He reluctantly does, and I get to work unscrewing the bolt under his balls. Once that’s undone it’s like a puzzle that easily comes apart. He’s got a mighty erection from me fooling around with his balls and dick. I’m not surprised since he also couldn't touch himself for however the hell long it’s been. It’s a beautiful young cock, arching with a nice bend to it, thin and extremely hard. His knob’s swollen blue in the light. I can’t help it. I wrap my lips around it. Young John inhales hissing and then is almost crying out loud in arousal. I slurp up more of it. I mount on top of it and get most of it down my throat. “I’m going to cum,” he starts repeating. “You’re going to make me cum.” I stop sucking him. “Come back to my room,” he says. I leave the pieces of the cage on the countertop and follow Young John through the shadowy hallway to his room.

This room has the feel of a nursery. An old, ragged teddy bear sits on the dresser. One if its button eyes is missing. There’s a metal airplane with plastic propellers on a night table, next to it a couple of coloring books. “Wait. How old are you, John?”

He looks at me frightened. “Don’t call me that! You can never call me John. Daddy gets real mad. Almost took Dwayne out one time. Johnny’s okay, but Young John’s better.”

“Okay, Johnny,” I say, flipping through one of the coloring books, seeing his ‘coloring’ consists of running random-color crayons over outlines of cats and dog, trains and cows, three-story buildings and a cop blowing a whistle, holding up a gloved hand with a sign that says ‘Stop!’ Interestingly, the building has red crayon flames coming from the windows, the clouds are all black, and the sun shines blue. “Have you graduated from school yet?”

“Daddy says I don’t need it. He says I’m legally eighteen and that means I don’t have to if I don’t want to. Never went, never gonna.” He’s pulling me to his bed. “Do that thing you was doin’ before to my weenie.” He pushes the coloring book out of my hand and we fall on the bed. He’s unbuckling my pants and wants to get them off me as fast as he can. I kick off my shoes and our pants and shirts fly. He doesn’t like to kiss but he sure likes to suck. We’re in a sixty-nine position before too long, and I spread his legs and bend him so I can get to his butthole. I stick my tongue in him and he lets out a yell, “College! What are you doing?! Fuck, man!” I raise my head surprised. “College, you are nasty fuck turd, aren’t ya? Do that again.” I go down on him and can kind of see what he means. I’m drunk enough not to care that much, but he isn’t all that clean, but I’ve already been there once and don’t see the harm of continuing to eat his little nasty ass out. I feel his rock hard cock rubbing against my pecs. He’s humping like crazy and I don’t want him to cum yet, not at least till I get my dick in him. I spit in his ass and push the saliva into his crack. “Yeah, fuck my hole, college. Wreck it,” he cries, then pauses for a moment. He hesitates before he whispers, pulling at the sheets, “you can put your hand inside me if you want.”

“What, fist you?” I stop and look at him. “Do the guys here do that to you, Johnny?”

He puts his face in his pillow and nods. He’s talking into the pillow when he says that he likes it. Part of me doesn’t believe that he can take a fist, so I push two fingers in his butt. They slide in easily. I wet a three fingers and all three slide in without effort. He lifts his head and says there’s Vaseline in his drawer. I look and bring it out, pop off the lid, and grease my hand. “Oooh, yeah,” he says as my hand disappears up his slim ass. I got to admit it’s the first time I’ve ever done this, and it’s incredible. I feel like I’m wearing a warm, slimy glove, that he’s an extension of my hand. I get why some would call it making someone your hand puppet. I like that he is mine. “Go in more, man. I know how to take it deep,” he says. He’s wiggling on my wrist, pushing himself down on me. My hand slides in beyond my wrist. He flips on his back writhing, squirming, climbing down the bedsheets to get closer to me, to get more of my arm in him. He’s insatiable. I’ve got a major hardon going and really want to stick my dick in him and fuck the shit out of the kid. I start pulling out and he cries out, “Wait, wait!”

“Dude, I want to get my dick in you so bad. I’m going to bust a nut all over your sheets if I can’t fuck you this second.”

“You can stick your cock in, too. The guys do it all the time.”

With my left hand I grease my pole and add it to his crack. He’s right, he can take both. Easily. It’s incredible feeling my dick slide into my greased hand inside the kid’s ass. It’s not only mind-blowing, but the feeling! My dick and fist make for cramped quarters but that only makes the viscosity immensely pleasurable. I start humping his ass and my hand inside him with abandon. He’s enjoying it from the grunting and affirmative noises he’s making. I’m telling him how good he feels, and he reflecting back the same sentiments. He’s loving it, he tells me. How big I am, how much he wants me. I’m in a low, guttural mode now, pushing as much of my fist and cock into his slim hips as I can. I'm pretty big with large hands; it’s a wonder he can take so much and continue to want more. If it’s pleasuring him as much as it is me, I happy to give him more of my arm and cock. I’m up to my pubes pumping in him, well past my wrist, ripping his hole open with as much ferocity as I want. He seems to be able to take everything I give him and still begs for more. So I pile it on, starting to bring out some violence in me I don’t recognize. I leave my fist right at his opening, stretching it to the max and using it as my dick’s point of entry. He realizes what I’m doing and is totally into it. “Open my pussy, sir!” he pleads. “Destroy me. Make me a train wreck. Fuck open my cunt, man!” He’s wailing at the top of his lungs and I’m hammering him as hard as he wants me to. It’s incredible and I shoot a load into him that makes me quake several times. I feel him do the same. He erupts over his chest till it runs off his rib cage. The amount of cum that pumps out of his cock is astonishing, and makes me think it's been a least months since he's shot a load. He jacks and jacks, and cum thick and pure white spill off his body. He's shaking in waves. I think he's done, then he shakes and shoots some more. It makes me spasm watching him. My fist disappearing deep within him. His sphincter clamps hard on my wrist and my cock follows deep inside him. He shutters as I collapse on top of him. I feel his channel squeeze my hand several times. I flex my hand out a bit and he squeezes it tight. It’s us communicating to each other, discovering a rare depth of feeling.

We lay for a white until my cock soften and slides out under the pressure. Then I slowly withdraw my hand from his ass. As my knuckles slide out he gives a gasp and I feel a long trail of slime flow out his ass and puddle on the sheets.

“Do you have something I can clean this up with?” I ask. He looks at me puzzled.

“Why? Just leave it,” he says casually. “Hand me my smokes. They’re in my pocket.” I reach in his pants and find them along with a plastic lighter. He lights up right away and leans on the trailer wall.

I look him over and want to capture that sly, contented look he has. “Can I take your picture?” I ask him as he’s puffing away. The smoke obscures him, which is I think what he’s after. I’m drunk enough to have had enjoyed myself like I’ve never done before. Guys I’ve had sex with were fun, but this kid took me to places I never contemplated. But I’m also not drunk enough to face the implications of what’s been done to this kid. Both his lack of inhibition tied up with, I’m sure, his utter isolation.

“You brought a camera?" He sounds a little alarmed. "What, outside in your backpack?”

I pick up my pants, and bring out my iPhone. "No, this has a camera in it. But it’s almost out of juice. I take it there’s no electricity up here.” He shakes his mop. I turn on the camera app and show him his image.

“Whoa! That’s me? How fuckin' hot am I?”

“Can I?” I sit next to him, put an arm around his shoulder, pull him next to me close. That makes him smile. We leaning our head against the trailer wall and I take a selfie of us. He rubs his eyes from the flash. We take a couple more. Serious. Me kissing his brow. Him licking my face. One of both of us pinching each other lips. In the photos you can see we’re both shirtless, but don’t show more than that.

“Where do they go?” he says of the images. I show him the collection, swiping through the one’s I just took. He’s delighted with the phone. I get the feeling he’s never seen one. He holds it tightly, looking up at me with his gap-toothed grin, putting his finger on the screen and flicking quickly to examine other photos. My old dog, Trixie, back in Salem. My sister. My family at dinner. I look bored. “What’s your name, college?” He’s not looking at me but at my life.

“Peyton. Peyton Grey.”

He laughs. “You sound like a paint color.” He straightens up in bed and puts on an aristocratic voice with a finger in the air. “Yes, yes, I think I shall paint my entire trailer Peyton Grey. It will be the most beautiful trailer in all of camp.” I pinch his tit and he falls back against the trailer giggling. He flicks across more of my collection. School campus. My soccer team. Dorm-mates. There’s one he comes across that makes him stop. It’s of me and Zach. We’re also shirtless, in bed, smiling. “Who’s that?” he asks.

“I guy I know at school.” The end of the charge powers down the phone. As much as I’m rubbing his shoulder, holding him close, the room feels much darker and colder, more shadows lean over us, like a black crayon coloring outside our tidy lines. “His name’s Zach,” I say to break the silence, trying to smooth over suddenly rough edges.

He gives me back the phone. Quietly he smokes the rest of his cigarette.

Finally, he asks the obvious, stubbing out his cigarette, “Once you leave, you gonna come back here, ever?” He looks up at me with his brown forest eyes. There’s a hard touch of green in them I also see. Even in this light.

***

 

You ever have an itch while you're sleeping that you try to ignore because if you scratch it you're not going to be asleep anymore, and all you want is desperately to stay asleep? Well, the itch on my neck made me lose that battle, and as I raised an arm, perfectly happy to remain sleeping on my side, my fingers reached up to appease the itch. My fingers instead hit a iron collar. Now I know why I wanted to remain asleep.

What day was this? Day six, or was it already a full week I'd been here? The drugs make it hard to keep track. I could hear rustling in the camp, the occupants stirring in their trailers. The worn planks that made up this shed throw slivers of early morning light through the cracks. I sensed Young John, several years younger than me, next to the door. His foot crunches are a lot lighter than Old John's who you could hear barreling at you a mile away. You could see a long stream of piss puddling by the door, see steam rising from it. A fist bangs on the planks. "Git up, fuckhole," he says sleepily. He's not without compassion, but every day I see less and less of it. "Daddy wants more wood split for the furnace.” He yawns then pounds again. “Git up, college. He wants it pronto."

I'm reluctant to climb down from the make-shift bunk above the stacked wood. Once my feet hit the dirt floor I'm back in this hell hole of a reality. I stall by examining my right arm. I'd been branded by Old John by the furnace, more out of clumsiness than intent—we were all high. After several days it's still blistered badly, yellowish scab bubbles on burnt purple skin. It's ugly, but what isn't at Camp Methlab. It's better than yesterday but that's not saying much. It still hurts like a motherfucker but I can move my arm without it stinging all to hell. I'm down off the stacked wood, and slipping on thin canvas shoes, the only shoes they left me. It's cold only wearing Young John's cast down Fruit of the Loom t-shirt and underwear. What at one time was white is now dirty and threadbare, hardly covering my ass but giving me a fig leaf of modesty among the clothed men in camp. It’s also tight since Young John is smaller than me. The crotch is permanently pee-stained and the butt had ingrained skid marks that, thankfully, have lost their smell. I think Young John is a bit embarrassed seeing me in them, especially because he's wearing my clothes.

When I come out of the shed, Young John has on my new red polo shirt over his mud-crusted camouflage pants. (Don’t wear red, pops in my brain.) I'm not really a big guy, but Young John's arms look like twigs coming out of my sleeves. He’s got all the collar buttons buttoned to the top and looks pretty geeky. I would have recommended a size smaller if he'd have asked me. Young John's just finishing his piss when he swings his impressive snake over my canvas shoes and pisses on them. "Sorry, college. Didn't see you standing there." I stare at him masking most of my anger. "What's that, face fuck? I didn't quite pick that up." He sees I'm not going to start something with him, but I don't forgive him either. "Yeah, I didn't think so. Well, what are you lookin' at? Nothin' you haven't been suckin’ on all week," meaning his long skinny tool. "Yonder’s the ax. Git busy. Chop chop."

The shoes squish in the mud on the way to the wood pile. You can imagine they were warm a second ago, now they’re getting cold. With a swing of the ax I use my anger to wheel the ax into a log, crack it in half, and then half it again. I picture Young John's little brown mop of a head in front of me and drive the blade through his imagined skull. First, though, there's the matter to settle with Old John. His is the head I'd most like to split open. Except then there's also goateed Gary, the bald bullet-headed chemist, probably the nastiest and scariest of this backwoods’ crew. Well, next to the disgusting cow, Dwayne, that is, their assault weapon specialist. Fat turd was the first to slam me and the first to get me to suck him off, which dominoed to, well, this neck collar. I wish I could just snap, run amok with the ax, splitting skulls right and left, running screaming down the mountainside, to the road, to civilization, but honestly I don't know if I could find my way back. Also, I'd never get to hack apart my first victim, not with how armed this camp is. You don't run a meth lab in the back woods and go light on firearms.

Goatee Gary, lanky in a baggy Black Sabbath shirt, boots and green army pants, comes out of his trailer smoking a Marlboro. He shifts his assault rifle higher on his shoulder, makes a kissy face at me. I bring down the ax on a log with his face on it. I line up another log and swing with all the frustration I have, cracking it in two. I right the half log and cut it open like I would his bullet-head. This focus lets me control my anger, zeroing in on the here and now, not feeling the burn on my arm, not feeling the heavy collar, not looking at any particular point in the future, which only leaves the past to contemplate. And I contemplate the shit out of it. But the past has no escape routes, no loopholes, only leads back to the iron loop around my neck. Only sockets and screws clamping together my collar for the time being. If I'm not careful, their next threat: the soldering gun. Permanence with no chance of ever coming off.

***

The GPS says there a short-cut to Route 7. I've never seen it on Google maps but the GPS lady is swearing that if I take the next right I'll cut straight through the Glastenbury Mountains rather than having to circumnavigate around them. That'll easily take an hour off the drive back to Rangeley College. From my parents' house in Salem Mass it's a four hour drive. Funny, that house; though I grew up in it, it no longer feel like home. My dorm feels like home now. I was actually bored over spring break and wanted to get back to my roommates, especially one in particular. Zack, our soccer team's hunky goalie. An hour sooner to see him—and "see" is definitely not the most accurate verb to use in conjunction with Zack. It's worth chancing what the GPS lady promises.

I pass a reservoir and spot an eagle nesting in a tree. It launches from its branch as the Miata rumbles past. It's huge; the wingspan’s enormous. I doubt I would have seen that on the main highway, I think to myself. The road turns to dirt, but it's hard-packed and the sports car has no trouble maneuvering over it. It takes the dips and turns in stride. In fact, it's a more enjoyable ride than whole first part of the trip. An hour of this, and then another hour on Route 7 and I'll be slipping Zack's knickers right off his dark, hairy legs before dinner.

The afternoon sun's getting lower and the shadows are long on the road. The woods are thick and the GPS lady now warns of a turn up ahead. As it comes into view I skid to a stop. It's a smaller road and I feel this can't be right. On the GPS it doesn't look like I'll be on this road for long. The map shows that after a few miles it opens back up to a larger road. I can't help frowning as I turn down this smaller lane having my doubts. It climbs for a stretch and then levels out next to a steep cliff to the right of the car. Trees scale dramatically down one side and on the other climb upward to a peak I can't see the top of. It's winding more and I slow my pace cautiously managing to stay straight in the center of the road.

Then there's the matter of the moose.

I hit the brakes and slide to a dusty stop. Jesus, fuck, it's big. Towers on the road. It's like if you took a horse and put another horse on top of it. Its antlers are as broad as my car is long. It's not moving and it looks angry. I've read that many of the moose in the area, because of the warmer than usual winters, are infested with ticks. Usually the snow and sub-zero temperatures kill the ticks off, but lately it hasn't been cold enough. Many of the moose population have been driven mad. They’re not like the deer population who groom one another. These are solitary creature, and solitary in their madness. If any moose looked crazy-mad, it's this one. I think its snorting nostrils are challenging the Miata. I don't know Moose-speak to demonstrate that the Miata is just a harmless little baby moose, and just wants to go on its merry way. The moose lowers its antlers. They're the frickin’ size of a picnic table and it’s aiming for my hood. Not ever having encountered this situation before, I honk my horn. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard a Miata’s horn, but if a baby moose had a cry the Miata’s horn would sound exactly like that. The mad moose shows no mercy and rams my hood with brutal force. The front end crumbles but is still running. Fight or flight, I think, and put the car in first, move forward, then shift immediately into second, and gun the car as fast as I can into the moose’s long knobby legs. I'm instantly caught in its antlers. It’s pushing me backwards while the car’s wheels spin in the dirt. The Miata juts backwards in fits and starts, and the moose pushes and crushes me and the Miata over the bank of the road. Dust is flying all over, which I’m sure is gratifying to the big bull. The animal’s snorts, bows his head once more and hooks the front end and lifts the engine into the air. I gun the motor again, and a sickly clanking, screeching and sputter comes from under the chassis. It's no contest. The moose easily takes the Miata off the road. I'm quickly traversing backward, then sliding sideways through the forest. If not for a line of birches, I'd be tumbling down the entire mountain. As it is I crunch to a sickening silent stop twenty yards down the mountain. I look up at the moose who's looking down the mountain at me. The moose appears satisfied that it’s cleared the road of its young challenger, and trots victorious down the lane.

Five minutes pass, then ten. Making certain the moose is not coming back—I'm literally shaking from the encounter—I quietly unlatch my seatbelt. I pop the door on the uphill side and carefully gets out of the damaged car. Once I scramble up to level ground I take out my phone and after checking for moose, check for signal bars. There are none. It's deadly quiet. If I strain I can hear the clomping of the moose far down the road but that's it. Eventually even the clopping goes away and it's only me and small whispering leaves through the trees. I hold the phone up in different directions, hoping for some other result but get the same reading. My backpack is in the car on the passenger seat. I scuttle down to the wreck, reach in and grab it. I check out the sun and figure I've still got a couple of hours of daylight. If I'm fast I might get to where the road branches out to the larger thoroughfare, maybe run across some people who can help.

I'm walking for about an hour on the road. It's very calm, a big contrast from the previous hour. Trees here are thin but the land is thickly populated with them. Tall hemlock, wide sugar maple, groves of golden and white birch, a random wild apple tree. I'm trying to distract myself with the forest surroundings so I don't think about a paper I'm in the middle of writing for contemporary history. It traces these Glastenbury Mountains. I'm a dual History/English major, in my junior year. I could never decide which I loved more so I chose both subjects, the interplay between New England history and its mystery writers: Steven King, sure, but way back to Edgar Allen Poe, Henry James, and my favorite, H.P. Lovecraft. He wrote one of the first science fiction stories, about an alien living in a farmhouse, even before there was a name for the genre. It wasn’t too far from here—the farmhouse. Except it was a made up story. There are no aliens as far as I know, but there are other things just as creepy. I guess being born in Salem my DNA has the witch trials carved into it, the fear of unbound nature and a natural fear of others seen from early settler's perspective. Puritans, the religiously persecuted, the sexually repressed. Then there are the generations that have come through these parts, built farms, abandoned them, assimilated farther and farther west. That mound of rocks right there could have been part of a stone fence separating two farms. Maybe the farmers didn’t like each other. Maybe their kids were in love and ran off in the dead of night. Maybe those kids were two boys. No way of telling two hundred years later. It looks like just a pile of white rocks.

No, while the shadows are growing very long now, I'm trying not to think of a paper I'm in the middle of writing about Middie Rivers, a very experienced hunter and trapper, who in the fall of 1945 was leading a hunting party through this same forest and disappeared. He was 74 and grew up in one of the old logging camps knowing every leaf and twig in this forest. And though his party made it back, he didn't. My unfinished paper tracks a spate of disappearances in the last mid-century: Paula Weldon, a freshman co-ed from Bennington College who disappeared on a walk on the Appalachian Trail in December of 1946; a small boy, Paul Jepson, all of 8, vanished from the back of his mother's pickup truck in October of 1950 on a road leading into the forest; also in 1950, Frieda Langer, fifty-three, separated from her cousin, never made it back to their camp. One weird thing they all had in common? They all wore red when they disappeared. Guess the color of the Izod shirt I’m wearing? And those disappearances are not even counting all the hunters from the nineteen-forties like Carl Herrick in 1943, right up to the trio that went missing in the nineteen-eighties. You wonder why hunters keep coming here. Yes, this is what I'm trying not to think about. I'm going to conclude the paper with the reason for the disappearances could be explained by wild animals—bear, catamount, wild boar—but that idea doesn't quite set me as ease as I scan between trees off the road. I really need to step up the pace if I want to be in a safe space by dark.

I've got another hour of daylight when I spot a chain between two trees. There's a logging road behind the chain and up the road there's a guy who looks about my age, in camouflage army shorts and a tank top, waving from a rock. He's young, dark mop in bowl cut, pretty skinny if I can judge accurately from this far away. He has a rifle slung over his shoulder, nothing alarming considering he quite likely a hunter, maybe from around here. "You looking' for someone?" he calls down to me. His voice sounds young even though it registers deep. It cracks a little like he still has one foot in puberty.

"Car got totaled by a moose," I call up the hill. I see a smile and sense he’s friendly. I start walking up toward him. "You don't have a phone, do you?"

"What, on me?" He laughs at the notion, padding down his many pants pockets. "Let me just check. Nope, must’ve forgotten my telephone in my other pants." I know he's making fun of me, but mischievously, not maliciously. He's smoking a cigarette trying to portray toughness, but his eyes sparkle in amusement and betray his good nature. His face alternates between puckishness and a leprechaun. Since I'm closer I see he's got a gap tooth smile, which he flashes easily. After the recent events it’s a sight I’m happy to see. "A moose? That's pretty fucked up, friend. Where'd it happen?"

"Maybe a couple of miles back. I'm trying to get back to the main road." I point the direction I'm heading. “Any idea how far it might be that way?"

"Ain't nothing that way. Dead ends at Deer Lick Creek. Good fishin' but cross it, it just cuts straight up some cliffs. Couple miles both direction."

I'm going over my options, steering my mind away from option 1-despair, option 2-panic, option 3-shit my pants. "Guess I should head back to my car and spend the night. Hike out in the morning. Don’t mean to sound all despondent. Just never been in this situation."

"Nah, man, you don't have to do that." He jumps off his rock. He's cute, shorter than I thought, and though he’s slim, his arms are sinewy, small ropes of muscle over milk white skin. Aside from his gap front teeth, he's got a firm, straight brow, keen brown eyes that droop a little in a sweet way. I like him, and if I can judge by his tooth-gapped grin, he likes me back. "You c'mon back with me to camp. Posse's out hunting. Back tomorrow most likely. You can head out in the morning and hike out of the forest by the afternoon.” He waves up the mountain side for me to follow, and turns quickly around. “Caught me this rabbit this morning. We can share it. You college?" I see the rabbit tied to his pants. My options, I'm thinking in my head, are limited. I nod that yes, I am college, grinning stupidly at him. "Hey, college, you ever drunk moonshine?" His thoughts are breezy and flutter continually across his face. I sense not having the "posse" around makes him happy. I’m thinking maybe he’s also a little touched.

"Nah, never. Moonshine? Seriously?" I pluck out a couple of opening bars on a pretend banjo, imitating the Deliverance song: "Bud-dah-bing-ga bing-ga bing-ga bing." I see he has no idea was I'm going on about, and I immediately abandon the hillbilly mockery. I suddenly feel protective of him. He seems more innocent than anything else, like maybe visitors are rare and he wants to impress me with his rabbit-catching skills. I don't know. I just don't want to spoil things being all jaded city-slicker and shit. I picture being home at my dorm, sitting on my bed telling my suite-mates about this adventure. The moose, this forest kid I met, the long arduous hike back to the main highway. I imagine Miles, our cynical queen of the suite, pressing me after I describe Young John, raising an eyebrow, if I got in the cute little Appalachian boy's pants. "And how!" I picture myself saying, sticking out my lascivious tongue to my friends, seeing that Zach’s jealous, and tackling him back on the bed.

I watch Young John’s cute little bubble butt scramble up the hill, looking back repeatedly to make sure I'm still following him.

***

7. The Eel (Epilogue)

You can check out any time you like,
But you can never leave.

—Hotel California, Eagles, 1976

 

It lays there on the bed solidifying its epidermis, from pink flesh to grey skin. It will ossify in a matter of minutes if it's not coated with mucous or put into water.

All the guests have dispersed. The clock ticks in the empty house.

Its ends have sealed, eyes and small dorsal fins developed, but it's gasping. Elijah picks it up. It's larger than the previous one. Maybe over five feet in length. Surely it will beckon a more pure soul. One not so small and bitter as what was once called Tucker Broderick. Elijah carries it up to the aquarium and let's it slide in.

The doorbell chimes. It will take him ages for him to descend the two staircases to answer.

The front door creaks open and Sergei is staring at the ancient owner leaning against his cane. He's always a little creeped out by the man the few times he's met him. His snow white beard and long grey hair is incongruent with the short-sleeved leather shirt and pants he wears. He's like a relic from vintage porn websites he's visited: he's a study in black and white. Ashen skin, black eyes that are surprising alive. "Yes, Sergei?" the man inquires.

"I'm sorry to disturb you on a Sunday, but I received a call from the parents of my worker. He never comes home Friday and they worry. I  see his truck here and wonder if you have seen him. Long brown hair, very tan, blue eyes?"

The man blinks at Sergei several times before speaking. "Yes. No, a backpack. Yes. There was a strange backpack in the bathroom. Please, come in." Sergei thinks better of it. The man is large, solid, but old, hunched, and he's concerned with Tucker's whereabouts. "I get so few visitors. Would you share a tipple of wine with me?" They have made it to the dining room level, where a half-filled bottle of white wine sits, surrounded by several liqueur glasses.

"I can't, sir. My family is waiting Sunday dinner."

"Pity. Let me get the backpack." Since they've gotten to the dining room, the old man seems a little sprier, leaving his cane leaning on a chair. He disappears into the dark of the bedroom.

Sergei fidgets close to the staircase. Looks at the curious bull paintings, the large Chinese lanterns in a side room, the play of dust through light streaming from the great room a level above. He wonders about the bulls. Is it accidental that their penises are so pronounced? Sergei is a little embarrassed even thinking about it.

The man returns holding Tucker's backpack. His beard is different as is his hair. Streaks of grey run through it that Sergei was certain weren't there before. Maybe it's the light. "Would this belong to the young man you're looking for? I did not look inside."

He accepts it and rifles through the contents. A black hair band, black silk shorts, a pair of jeans and a rebel flag tee shirt he's seen Tucker wear. He smells Tucker's sweat and tanning lotion on the shirt. Keys, wallet, driver ID of Tucker with his usual wary smile. "And you haven't seen him?"

"No, Sergei. I believe I would have noticed a stray workman wandering through my house," chuckles the man. "He's a young man you say? Maybe he has found a desperate housewife in the neighborhood." If the client is kidding he's not too far off from how Sergei fantasizes about Tucker in his spare time. "Are you near to finishing the roof?" The man pulls out a chair for Sergei. "Please," he indicates the chair.

Sergei raises a hand to decline. "We finished. Tomorrow my brother and I clean up."

"Then I must pay you." He exits to the room with the red Chinese lanterns, rumples through a desk drawer. Sergei notices the staircase next to the bedroom. He doesn't remember it from when he and Tucker were searching for a bathroom a few weeks ago. The man is suddenly next to him, laying a surprisingly solid hand on his shoulder. His other hand holds a check. The man's beard definitely has streaks of greyish-black where it didn't before. "For you and your workers, with a little extra for you. We must toast to a job well done." The man is about to pour the wine into liqueur glasses.

"No, sir. I'm afraid I am not a wine drinker."

"Ah. Vodka, yes? You must. One toast. I have delicious Kalashnikov upstairs."

Sergei is impressed. He's not had it since he left Kiev. "I must get home soon, though. To my family."

"You mean your brother's family." The correction stings Sergei. It also makes him suspicious how his client would know that. He has never spent much time with him, nor does he wish to. "Humor an old man. One toast to a lovely afternoon. It will make the day less solitary for me." Sergei considers again while he holds the check. He feels compelled and acquiesces, and they mount the stairs to the great room. There's two decanters on the silver tray on the coffee table. From the clear decanter the man pours out a good amount in the crystal glasses. "Nostrovia!"

"To your health," Sergei says, downing the whole amount at once. It doesn't sit right at all with him. He coughs loudly. When he turns to the man, he's shocked by the transformation. He appears no more than forty, dark beard, not hunched at all but upright and strong. Muscles bulge under his short-sleeved shirt. Sergei suddenly feels a little woozy. The man pushes him back.

"Sit, Sergei. Sit." Sergei isn't sitting so much as trying to get his bearings and not fall over. He's sails back onto the sofa. His eyes blur. As quickly as he can he puts his wire-frame glasses over his ears to try to focus. Then, the strangest thing, he feels he's getting an erection for no discernible reason. Looking out the window at a view he sees it cuts down straight to the ocean. It's even more stunning than the roof. He's comfortable, feeling increasingly euphoric. Bells go off. This isn't any high from vodka. He doubts it was vodka. He can't seem to move, yet his dick keeps rising. Blue ocean, his mind drifts, blue like Tucker's eyes.

"It's a beautiful day, isn't it, Sergei." Elijah bends over. Unlaces, then takes off one of Sergei's shoes. "Tucker is going to love having a visitor so soon." He unlaces and takes off the other shoe. "Especially one with such a good and gentle soul. I can tell these things, Sergei. I was with the church for a terribly long time. A terribly long time to be held in such servitude. Let's unbind that demon so it can breath." Elijah unbuckles Sergei's jeans and let's his large and growing penis bounce out of his fly. Elijah starts stroking it. Sergei flinches, the last movement he'll make of his own volition. "Oh, you're a virgin. I had no idea, child." His dick is leaking precum like a faucet. Elijah, a relic from ages ago, out of the pages of The Inquisition, slows his stroke to a barely discernible crawl. "No. You're right, boy. We should just sit here quiet for a while and take in the view. Tucker's not going anywhere. And neither are you."

6. Ouroboros

Sunrise approaches. There is an oblique orange glow in the southern facing windows. In the early dawn only Riggs and Duncan are left in the tower. Riggs wanted to get Duncan alone and talk to him about the prospects of moving with him to San Francisco should he receive the Artistic Director position for the SF-based company. A teaching and company member position; fight instructor he's thinking. First, though, he wants to see Duncan's professed skills while he's tied to the St. Andrews cross.

Brenner excused himself, saying he's tired. As he made his way to his room in the dark, through labyrinthine passageways in these early hours, hearing the echoes of a whip's crack and then Riggs' bound screams from the tower. A pair made for each other, he thinks. Truth is, he wants to be alone and imagine (and beat off to) what Duncan and Tucker felt when they took the eel. Once he finds his room buried deep within the mountainside, Riggs' muffled cries are only background while he concentrates his mind, dick flapping in hand, around the sensation of what a four-foot creature traveling through his body would feel like. He'll bargain with Elijah to have the experience when everyone is up and parting ways in the afternoon, but Elijah will turn him down, telling him it's only meant for a select few. Brenner will leave in a huff, and it will permanently mark him, compel him to find other ways to over-compensate for the slight. But that will only manifest itself in many years to come.

Which leaves Samuel, Elijah, and poor depleted Tucker making their way back up to the aquarium room. The men park the exhausted boy back in the cowhide barber chair. Samuel scoops a glass of water from the tank and gives Tucker a much needed drink. Tucker downs the glass in almost one gulp. He doesn't see Samuel dipping into the tank a second time in an effort to slake his thirst. The water tastes odd, is not satisfying his thirst, but he begs for a third nonetheless. Samuel obliges. The other ex-Jesuit has gotten out his barber tools and comes up behind Tucker and massages his shoulders. It's as much tenderness as he needs, and melts into the chair. The electric blades click on.

Samuel is spreading foam on his arm. It feels good to have a slow, soothing sensation of fingers going over his bicep and forearm. Elijah's electric blade buzzing through his hair also feels good. He feels he's shedding skin, carefully orchestrated by two men who know exactly what they're doing. Samuel moves to the other arms while Elijah finishes the first phase of denuding the boy's entire body.

The chair is tipped back and Elijah sits on a stool in back of Tucker washing his stubble with warm water. He then soaps the scalp and with a sharpened straight razor starts scraping the sides. Now the top. Tucker's totally into it. The more his body is shaved the more alive he feels. Elijah turns his head to one side. Tucker can't help but give in to whatever the men who attend him want. Elijah lays bare one side of his neck, then tilting his head the other way, strips the boy of any remaining scalp hair. The man takes a warm cloth and wipes his head clean.

Samuel has soaped the boy's legs and is scraping them clean from thigh to toe. Once smooth, Samuel moves on to his public hair, first using scissors to remove the large swath of dark hair, then after foam is applied, the straight razor scrapes against the grain and makes him new-born smooth. Elijah is busy at his arm pits, making sure there is not one hair left on his torso. Both armpits are clean, then Elijah removes the boy's eyebrows.

Both men anoint his body with water from the tank, then turn him over in the chair so his butt is folded highest in the chair. There is a lot of hair to remove back here. Elijah takes the butt crack and the patch of fur at the small of his back, while Samuel works on making his legs completely hairless. When both are satisfied with the result they run their hands over his body, ensuring not one hair remains.

Tucker takes a hand and examines himself. He is rock hard as his hands run over the course of his completely shorn body. "Why?" he asks Elijah far back in his brain, as if he's looking up from a hole dug six feet deep.

"We are removing the animal you were born into, to become something better, more pure." Samuel applies olive oil to his skin. Elijah joins in. Tucker sees an silver urn pour out liquid onto his chest, his groin, his arms and legs, and the lubricant is massaged into his pours, joints, pits, hole. In fact, as he now sits back up in the chair, an inordinate amount of attention is being placed on pouring a lot of oil into Samuel's hand and then cupped inside his hole. He feels like one slimy fucker and is squirming his hand onto the outstretch palms of the men greasing him up. This is like no other sensation. It's as if he himself feels what it's like to be a greased up dick slipping within a firm fist, that his body is a dick made out of his complete form. He can't get enough of their touch. If they keep up their stroking his head will explode in a volcanic orgasm.

First Master Eli bends and kisses him, then Samuel's sunken face bends over and sends his tongue into the boy's mouth. "Time to take him downstairs," Elijah signals to Samuel.

As they descend the stairs, Tucker hears the muffled screams of Riggs from the tower. "What's that?" Tucker asks.

"A story that's not part of yours. Yours is a much more interesting tail," says Samuel as they enter the master bedroom. They're escorting him cautiously between them, but as they cross into the bedroom sense the boy has no intention of running, which is usually the case. Elijah lays him on the rubber sheets and moves him to the center of the bed. "Ready for one more shot?" Samuel's asks. Tucker nods his head up and down, and then sinks face down into the rubber. "And one for you, brother?"

"Give him the same as me. Seven," says Elijah. 

"He'll lose his mind after all he's had."

"The general idea, isn't it?" The men smile. Elijah crawls naked onto the bed. Once he positioned against the headboard, he cradles the boy's head in his meaty palms. "Do you have enough light, brother?" Elijah asks in the dark room who's only light comes from the dirt-covered windows in the back of the house.

"Plenty," says Samuel, taking two syringes from the dresser. He takes the vial of speed and fills both syringes to point seven, and takes a third for himself at the same level. Elijah folds the boy's head into his hairy crotch. The boy sniffs and laps his tongue in the bush. "Hold him still." Elijah grips his head while Samuel find one of the three useful veins in his neck. He gets a draw. "Enjoy this, boy. Totally give in to how you feel. You, too, brother," and Elijah holds his neck to the side. Samuel feels for a vein then pops the point into Elijah's neck. Emptying the syringe elicits a deep, massive cough. Samuel sits on the side of the bed and shoots up in his neck, too.

Tucker hasn't moved since he's been injected. His breathing is locked and has paralyzed his brain. He suddenly jolts upright gasping for air, then coughs, rasps another breath and hacks again. Samuel reaches out for him and puts his skeletal fingers around the boys cock. The sensation sends Tucker into a tailspin, falling forward bumping his head against Elijah's erect monster. "Oh, fuck, Sir, I want to drain your cock," he says, he brain fried of all thoughts save one: lust.

Elijah's eyes are rolled up in his head and speaks from a far away place, saying, "Go ahead, boy. Take it all in." Tucker's head turns as he inhales his Master's meat. "All the way down. All the way." He pushes Tucker down on his cock. Tucker takes it to the bush and Elijah holds him there. Samuel is stroking Tucker's cock and playing with his heavy P.A. causing Tucker to writhe on the slippery rubber. Samuel's feeling his butt, sticking in a few fingers as Elijah sticks a finger, then a second also into Tucker's hole. He's bringing him up to his face so he can see, out of flickering eyes, how Tucker's gape is fairing. With Samuel's fingers and his in the boy's ass lips, they're tearing him apart. His hole is wide open being pulled in different directions.

There are no longer men in the room, only three animals. Elijah rips the boy from Samuel who growls at the side of the bed, like a wolf who's dinner's been ripped from him. "Brother, get the speculum. The boy's not going to take my fist as he is." Samuel snarls. He knows he could take the boy but Elijah is claiming ownership, and circumstances being what the are, he has the right to be the one to take the boy. He careens over to the dresser and out of the bottom drawer produces the forearm-length horse speculum. All he has to do to lube it is draw some of the excess oil smeared over the bed, most of which leaks out of the boy's ass, which he does and hands it to Elijah.

Elijah has gotten Tucker's ass to face his. His tongue is inside the boy's rectum and his long tongue is licking the boy's inner walls. Soon he will want to see the beginning of a prolapse before he's done tonight and will eat it before the metamorphosis. He takes the huge speculum and aligns it with Tucker's hole. "Boy, don't stop sucking my cock. If this begins to hurt, suck me harder." Tucker agrees in a grunt with Elijah's cock buried in his throat. The speculum's base is held next to Elijah's ear. He begins to slide it in and feels the boy's head bobbing up and down more rapidly the deeper in he goes. He must be feeling discomfort or pain and he pushes it in to its halfway mark, for Tucker's head is at his cock like a jackhammer. Right past the halfway point, Tucker's head collapses across his body, his head's buried on his cock, and he's not moving. The boy shudders lying on top of him. He slaps the boy's ass hard. The smack seems to wake him and he once again is deep throating him. Samuel is sitting crossed-legged in front of Tucker's head. He holds a bottle of poppers to his nose. It accounts for the short pause from the boy who's now very receptive to the speculum's penetration and the enthusiasm of the sucking is at a peak. It's all Elijah can do not to cum down the boy's throat.

The speculum has hit a barrier before it's almost in. He signals to Samuel to give the boy another hit. Samuel's raising the boy's face up enough to place the bottle under his left nostril, then his right, then once again under each. Tucker goes back to swallow his Master's cock and luxuriating is the smell of his Master's rancid bush. He pauses in the bush on every decent. It makes his Master leak but doesn't distract him from his objective. The last of the instrument is in and he's now spreading the two duck blades apart. He's got it open several inches. The boy sends out a loud moan of pleasure and torment. Samuel gives the boy another hit then pushes his head down under Elijah's balls and orders him to eat. The boy's head's buried in Elijah's taint and he's rutting like a pig to get down further to his Master's bunghole.

"Come here and look at this," Elijah says, entranced. "Flick on the lamp." On his way to his brother, Samuel flicks on a side table lamp, enough to display Tucker's enormous gape. It's spacious enough for Elijah to ram his arm up to his elbow. Samuel can even add his arm and grab Elijah's hand. "Halfway there, brother. We might be able to do this together."

"It'll be a welcome first, brother. Let's get this out of him," Samuel suggests regarding the speculum. Elijah reverses the processes slowly so as not to pinch any sensitive internal skin. Once they have it removed, they work the boy around so his head's up at the top of the headboard. They tie his hands. The boy's face is brown from wallowing under Elijah's hole. He seems excited judging by the size of his dick, which is a good sign of success for the metamorphosis.

The men tie each of Tucker's legs to the top eyelet at the bottom bed posts so his torso is straining in the air, the better to have direct access to his quite open hole. Elijah allows Samuel to go first while he takes up at Tucker's head with a fresh box of amyl nitrate caps.

Samuel greases up his arm and slowly lowers it into Tucker. Tucker cries out not know where he is anymore, only senses what his body is going through. Samuel feels the cobwebs between colon chambers, fine webs that he's destroying as he penetrates the boy. I'm sure if you've ever fisted someone you've felt the heart beats when you've found a new area to penetrate. Your fingers feel like your touching harp stings directly coming from your fistee's heart. Samuel's feeling Tucker's heartstrings once he gets to the elbow. Every few inches the coursing of blood rushes through the thin fibers separating the chambers. Each time he slides into a virginal area, Tucker calls out from somewhere lost inside his body.

Tucker's unmoored again since the needle shot into his neck. He has no idea where he is. He barely remembers who. He only knows how much he's enjoying his body being ripped away from him. He feels his legs in the air and a skeleton of a man looming above him. Someone, a man with a black beard is feeding him vapors that allows and encourages the skeleton to drill into him deeper. Each inch the skeleton takes, a memory bubbles up and washes away. The skeleton is scratching at a door like a dog wanted to get in. Tucker resists but the aroma hits his brain not only sabotages his defense but makes him complicit in betraying himself. He shows the skeleton the rift, the keyhole, the clue where he can be unlocked. The skeleton is keen on finding these weakness and exploiting them to his advantage. A memory of the face of his fourth grade school teacher, Mrs. McCullough, the oddest collection of consonants and vowels he'd ever encountered, bubbles up. Her black horn-rimmed glasses, her watery eyes, her times tables and cursive handwriting on the green chalkboard, is right in front of his eyes. Then as a price for the sense of pleasure of deeper penetration, he must choose between her memory or this new pleasurable sensation. He chooses pleasure each time and her face fractures and is swept away to eternity; a new depth of penetration bears down inside his body, replaces self with erotic pulp of mindless ecstasy. There is something telling him to stop the slide but it weakens every moment.

Samuel stand over the boy, his arm inside Tucker's hole's up to his bicep. "He's starting to resist. I think he knows what's happening."

Elijah rises from cradling Tucker's head and comes over to the end of the bed. He takes a stance next to Samuel. Samuel withdraws his hand. His arm is covered in pink grease with bits of red at his fingernails. "I'll punch him for a while and see if he regresses. Lower that leg." They each lower a leg laying Tucker's back to rest on the rubber sheet, but still leaves his legs hoist mid-way up the post. Samuel greases Elijah’s hairy black arms. Tucker's focusing on him in a way that he hasn't before. He's starting to see the man's not on his side; giving him pure pleasure is a ruse. His eyes are bobbing above a sea of complete pleasure, a last attempt not to drown. There's more at work here that he starts to fathom, that with each new pleasure, a part of himself is traded away. He knows his name but can't remember how he got here or who these men are. He only knows they pleasure him but at what cost?

If Duncan's hands were extra large, Elijah's are twice as big. Elijah finds it difficult to make the hurdle through his first sphincter. Samuel quickly cracks a cap and makes Tucker forget what's possible and only allows what's desired. His mind is blank again and he pushes his asslips onto Elijah's closed fist. Once inside it's literally downhill from there. Elijah doesn't stop till he's buried to his elbow. Tucker's eyes are rolled up into his head, as hears Elijah order, "Open your eyes and watch me!"

He does. Tucker sees an entire forearm of black hair pull out of him. His ass farts as the air deflates out of him. "Push," Elijah orders. He does, and the man's telling him he's a good boy. That's it, push it out. The man then plows back into him with a force that propels the arm past the elbow. He feels stuffed as he's never felt, feels an object buried so deep a collection of grade school friends he barely remembers show their faces and blow away like sand across a schoolyard. He looks up and sees the skeleton next to him snapping a caplet, holding one nostril, telling him to inhale, while his ass flairs open even deeper on the wrist of black hairs. The man above him plummets down into his gut.

"What are you doing to me?" he asks as more with his eyes than with his voice.

The man only acknowledges he doing something to him. Grunts yes. Tucker pleads again, and the man explains what he's doing, again more with his mind than voice. He's straightening out his colon. The man greases his other hand and is now alternating his fists and arms into Tucker's hole. His hole will never close completely again once the man pushes both hands in together. He bears down inside him, pushing and straining as deep as both hands will reach. He suddenly pulls both out and Tucker feels his guts following them out beyond his asslips.

"Yes!" shouts the man. "Push, fucker! Push it out!" He doesn't exactly know what the man wants but it feels like he's shit or farting, but all he can see in the mirror above is petals of red blooming out of his asshole. The man's fingering it causing bolts of electricity from his hole to shoot to the rest of his body. He's on fire, his asshole is electrified. Whatever he's sacrificing is worth this sensation. He pushes again and the bloom that's coming out of him is being eaten by the man. He's licking not just his asshole but the walls exposed from inside. It's as if he's turning inside out and the more he does the more the man is pleased. He wants to please the man because it's all tied up with the pleasure he's feeling—circular logic, the snake eating its tail. Ouroboros. 

His guts appear to be shy and retreat well within his colon. The man stands. Both arms in him has stretched his opening wide, allowing the man easy access to pile drive one arm then the other again and again, over and over, in a huge power punch into his colon. Within the rapture, there is a final, vague image he has of standing in a crib. He sees his own tiny hands grip the rail. Two figure are in bed asleep. He loses his grip, and the memory slips away like smoke. He doesn't need the amyl now, he needs the man to destroy his hole. Since he's lost his grip on words, he's mouthing nonsense but the intent still comes through to the standing man. Wreck my hole, begging between each punch, annihilate my cunt, obliterate my pussy. He doesn't even know where these ideas are coming from, but he feels Samuel at his side, playing with his dick and nipples, coaxing him to deeper and darker imaginings. The standing man's in a frenzy, as is Tucker imploring the beast above to delve deeper and deeper into his soul.

"That's it, boy. Give up everything to your Master and to His Master." Elijah pushes both arms deep into Tucker, stretching apart his ass, his enormous boulder-like shoulders bulging, veins popping, and then he yanks both arms out at the same time. Both fists pop out bring with them inches of Tucker's intestines. Elijah wraps as much as he can in his mouth and sucks the entire red bulge into his maw. He bites and chews the boy's entrails, gnaws into the center, sticking a tongue deep inside the prolapse. His dick is charged and he holds the prolapse steady and slips in his metal ring, then his cockhead, into the center orifice. He humps the prolapse, holding it like a small animal, while his cock slips deep inside. Tucker's fucked internal and externally. Elijah's rough hands are driving Tucker wild, while the cock buried deep is making him craven.

He implores Master Eli to take him. Elijah is jacking his cock in his extended hole like a wild dog, unable to stop, unable to think. He's locked into Tucker as Tucker is with him. Elijah erupts like a geyser flooding the boy's depth with cum, a stream, a river, a tsunami of sperm flushing out of him. He pulls out and his arm travels along the river of cloudy seed down deep into the boy's body. Samuel whispers to him, "Fisters claim the heart of the boy is the goal. Not us—we say it's the soul. Give him yours." Tucker feels Elijah's shoulder resting at his hole. He feels the massive bush of black pit hair tickling his hairless sphincter. There's no fuller feeling he could possible have, no more feeling of belong to someone than this moment. He nods to Samuel, then nods up to Elijah. Elijah feels the boy's heartbeat, then feels the soul surrounding it, grabs it, and rips Tucker inside out.

 

5. To the Elbow

Duncan McCain's hands are much larger than Samuel's. Where Samuel's long figures thrilled Tucker when they curled into a first and uncurled across his prostate, Duncan's hands are having trouble getting through with even three fingers in his initial sphincter. Yeah, that much bigger.

"I cannot do it, Master Samuel," he say. "The boy's much too tight for me fleshy paws. Sir Eli, might ya have a speculum on the premises?"

"Certainly. A regular one and then a horse speculum, but I don't think we'll need that." He immediately goes over to the side table, opens the cabinet doors and withdraws one about six inches long. "I think this will do." He brings it over and looks down at the boy in the sling. "This is necessary, boy, for us to get you to the next stage, but you're going to enjoy every minute of it."

Tucker's in a daze and peers up at Elijah and accepts what he says at face value not really knowing what he means. He instantly feels a cold, hard sliver of metal enter him. He looked down and observes Duncan's concentrated face, slowly pushing in the metal object. Duncan's expression is one of determination and enjoyment. You could tell he prefers being on this end of things rather than on the receiving end, rather than being an object taking other's cock on the fuck bench. The metal object's expanding, spreading Tucker's hole open, stretching him and exposing him like he's never even conceived of being exposed before. How perverse it is to have these men gathered round and watched as Duncan twisted the speculum open. One inch, two inches, then up to almost a three inch spread, enough in the spot light to illuminated Tucker's pink guts. He can't clamp shut if he wanted to. Each time he squeeze it elicits a murmur from the men. There's a lot of grease coating the hole, but still a lot of flesh that the men don't hesitate to stick fingers in and feel Tucker's colon inches deep. Brenner brings a candle over for all of them to peer deeply. Brenner tips the candle enough for a single drop of wax to hit Tucker's open sphincter. The boy hollers in shock. Elijah give Brenner a single look, and Brenner falls back behind Samuel.

The metal has warmed and once the stretching's finished he feels excited that he's on display. Alan Riggs ambles up close and aims his flaccid dick at Tucker's hole. It takes a good few minutes for him to start his stream, but once it flows, it flows hard and strong. The warmth creeps over Tucker of the sensation of a fierce trickle peeing on one wall then the other. He not that out of it to know another man is urinating inside of him. Judging by his dick he's liking it. He' being used as a toilet and he sticks a finger in his hole to feel it starting to fill up. Duncan, too, is coaxing his hole to absorb the stream. He flutters two finger in the hole, pushing the flesh up and down, letting it drain deeper inside Tucker's track. "Think I'm needing to relieve the lizard, too. Would you mind, lad, if I used you like the toilet I know ya are?" Tucker smiled a devilish smile, which perks up Duncan's cock to no end. It's isn't at full hard on but engorged nonetheless. Duncan stand with his cock readied at the speculum entrance, then when he feels ready to start a piss, he slips several inches of his tool into Tucker's channel. The cockhead easily exceeds the six inches of the instruments, and in silent agreement Tucker clamps down on Duncan's mushroom head. Bearing down creates a secret seal between the boys. Several silent minutes pass with pleasure written all over Duncan's and Tucker's face. Tucker doesn't expect this sensation, however. Very quickly he feels himself getting higher. The euphoria he feels is like a jolt of adrenaline. His heart kicks up, and the sense of Duncan's head in his ass make him start to rock on his cock. His carnal feeling toward Duncan increases. With the contraption in his ass a true fuck isn't in the cards, but the residual effect of this piss makes him horny for whatever was next. He won't have to wait long.

The speculum first is released, then carefully withdrawn. "Let see how ya feel now, boyo. Oh, aye, a nice stretch ya had, didn't ya?"

"It feels so good, please take my hole, Duncan."

Duncan starts with three figures, then easily adds a fourth, and then his thumb. His entire paw's still large for Tucker's newly fisted hole, but the chem piss that's coursing through him, is compelling him to ride the fleshy part of the thumb up and over, enjoy the discomfort, and quickly guide the hand pummeling down his chute. The sphincter closes on the wrist pushing the hand rapidly inside. He gasped at it girth and rapidity of which he's taking Duncan's hand. Duncan let it sit there while Tucker adjusts to what now felt like a giant potato in his ass. But it isn't a damn potato, is it? It's Duncan's hot fucking hand, and he couldn't be more pleased that it was this handsome guy that he now sees in the mirror above starting to slide in and out, slowing at first, but quickening the pace once Tucker can take it. 

When the rhythm's established Duncan begins taking him on the ride of his life. The swinging of the sling helps. He can see Tucker's not interested in him being gentle, and he's happy to oblige. New to fisting himself, introduced a few months ago when Samuel took him over the brink in this very sling, he knows traditionally it's part of S&M. It was only late in the seventies it was ruined by a book called Trust, which put the bottom in charge. He's learned Elijah and Samuel, coming out of the tradition of the Catholic church, that it's up to the Top to determine the pleasure/pain ratio, not the bottom, and it only advances a fistee to be able to take a fist deeper and wider, when the Top is in change. It seems like Tucker instinctive acknowledges this. Tucker closes his eyes and feels how much he could let Duncan penetrate him. As much, in fact, as Duncan wanted. A little at first, but when Master Eli brakes some amyl under his nose he feels himself not only open up to Duncan, but he's bearing down so that Duncan is able to get in him deep on each swing. Soon he's riding half of Duncan's forearm, and as he's preparing himself to bear down even more for the deepest invasion he can, his senses suddenly turn inside out when Duncan takes back control of the ride and ejects his entire hand out of his ass. His audible gasp takes the other by surprise. He yells to the ceiling not in pain but with elation. Another new sensation, during a night of new sensations, is born and he wants it again. 

"Oh, fuck, man. Do that again, sir." Mmm, Duncan liked the sound of "sir" and positions all his fingers together, and in one move, conquers Tucker's hole in a single stab. The hole's more than willing and he enters him and delves deep and once again withdraws it quickly. Tucker gasped again and flares his hole for Duncan to re-enter, which is exactly what Duncan does. The boy's hole is loosening and in so doing is putting the innards of his hole on display each time he's exited. 

Master Eli comes around to view the blossoming hole. "Nice. Look at those lips." He hooks a finger on the edge of Tucker's sphincter and pulls it open to show the others the beginning of a bloom. "Close your fist. See if he can take that."

"He's just staring to open. Dunnot know if he's ready." But Duncan curls his fingers anyway. Samuel applies a handful of lube over his knuckles and wrist, and Duncan pushed hard at Tucker's entrance. It isn't going to be accepted until Eli brakes another cap under his nose. He holds it steady for Tucker, telling the boy to keep breathing in. On the third inhalation, the fist brakes through, as much from Tucker opening as Duncan pushing, and Tucker voices an intense rush of exhilaration. He holds up a hand to beg Duncan to let him adjust, but Duncan denies him, stays in charge, punching in deep, then pulling out quickly, and punching in again while he knows the lad's still rushing on the amyl. Tucker's letting out the usual "oh, fuck, oh, fuck," but soon it's turning into, "yeah, punch my fucking hole. Make it a slopping cunt." Duncan's sees Tucker's turned the corner to the dark side of fisting, not sensual but destructive. Samuel's taught him well. Duncan's right there, having led him to this next phase, with Tucker ready to get his hole wrecked. 

"Fuck yeah, pig. Gonna turn that hole into a gaping maw." Duncan whispers. 

"Yes, sir. Punch my cunt!" And they start trading fuck yeahs, and please more, back and forth, under their breaths, until Tucker is pushing out his hole to meet each of Duncan's punches. His lips spread wide and arch for Duncan's hand. Every now and then Duncan keeps his hand inside and drills him open further, twists and pistons, sending Tucker into heights of ecstasy. This lets Tucker open not only with his lips flapping when he finally pulls out of him, but allows his punches rhythmically landing deeper and harder, taking in almost three-quarters of his forearm. It's a mighty hard two handed punch he's gotten into, and all the men are dripping in the erotic air of a virgin hole being willingly raped in the light of the flickering fire. The ritualism is not lost on any of them. They view Tucker as a sacrifice and a totem of their belief in absolute pleasure.

Samuel can't take it any more. He's spouting his long slender cock, foreskin entirely stretched back, and he saddles up to Tucker's ass. "Jack me off in him, boy. The cunt is perfect!" He slips his member inside and waits for Duncan to slide back to the entrance and grip him in at the entrance. The rectum is stretched larger than it's ever been tonight, taking both fist and cock, and Tucker's riding the trail of dopamine of his first punch fisting. He's ready and eager to have a cock and fist in him together, so much so Samuel can keep pressing until not only is his cock inside Duncan's fist but, with Duncan's help, both his balls falls into the receptive hole. Duncan's greasy paw has no trouble finding Samuel's balls and he's squeezing the hell out of them, Samuel not minding one bit. Duncan slathers him in grease, clamping down hard on the invading cock and balls. "Oh, fuck YEAH!" shouts Samuel. Elijah comes up behind Duncan and starts playing with his nipple. 

Riggs is getting too excited by the spectacle. He crawls on all fours under the sling and begs Duncan to fist him too. It's a circus act as Elijah grease Duncan's hole and slips his major P.A. inside the red head's slender ass. Brenner slaps his dick on Tucker's gasping mouth and the men become one orgy beast: fucking, fisting, jacking, sucking one central figure. And that central figure is wailing and moaning like a slut, with a cock in his mouth, nips tweaked, a fist holding his ass wide open, and a cock ejaculating and slathering his walls with cum. A hard slam, a breath from Samuel, then a second later another round of piss for Tucker's butt. Samuel jacks Tucker's cock lying in front of him and the boy, feeling every orifice filled, his brain recognizing he's being used as a cumdump and toilet, and with Duncan's arm now freed of Samuel's cock, is going up to his elbow. The last three inches easily open up and Duncan is fisting inside Riggs sloppy cunt and at the same time quickly into Tucker's newly stretched hole. When he gets to the crook of his arm he sees Tucker watching the entire spectacle in the mirror, and Tucker can't hold himself back. Tucker shoots and hits the mirror above and then with Eli fucking his own hole, Duncan shoots hands-free, spraying Tucker in the face. He's right in the center of where he wants to be. Eli rises on his toes filling Duncan with cum, which combined with Riggs and Brenner's early slop, white juice runs down his legs. Brenner floods Tucker's mouth with a river of spooge. Tucker relishes the taste and the sight of his face covered in cream. He licks his lips ready for what's next.
 

4. Duncan

There's no reason to be coy about this or draw it out further. Either the late seventies seeped into the present, or the other way around. 

Just so we're clear before the WTF confusion sets in.

Time is a door. It’s always locked with no way to get from one room to another. You age through without noticing, and you travel in one direction only. But that’s not the propensity of this house. Doors connect to other random rooms, designed by whim. Passageway to staircases to doors you thought were elsewhere. Here, there are passageways that lead back to different eras; here, there are stairs that lead to a wall, sometimes lead, akin to a relationship, nowhere, to a dead end and a waste of precious time; here, there are hallways that lead to different mores, different beliefs, different outcomes, different proclivities, some as amoral and far afield as The Inquisition or the cell of de Sade. One link to The Inquisition timeline lies in this house upstairs, preserved in the antiquity of a St. Andrew’s cross, within what Elijah calls The Tower. Echoes of victims are burnished within the aged wood, burned bones, fractured bodies. Their cries are not limited to only one time, but reverberate throughout time in the nails of the cross. This house breaths life into such a relic and takes life from it. 

The Tower is part of the original structure built a floor above the kitchen. A spiral staircase behind the kitchen leads to up it. Besides the stellar view of the city, it houses a small stage complete with spot light and a sling, the aforementioned St. Andrew’s cross, a fireplace ablaze, causing the current occupants to loosen their dinner garb one button at a time, a padded fuck bench, and four overstuffed wingback chairs, three of which are occupied at the moment. A fourth, a slave, sits next to one of them.

Time is a locked door. And while it holds that no one gets to pass from one time to another, there’s always a keyhole that leaks light through it from time to time. Depending on your perspective you can look through it forward to back, or back to front. It only depends upon which side you’re on and how open you are to seeing the other side. 

Three men sit in comfortable wingback chairs, all have backgrounds in performance of some kind or other. Two ex-Jesuits come from the church. Elijah, Master Eli, who you’ve already met, is upstairs rousting Tucker; Samuel you don’t know yet, but is the nastier of the two ex-monks, and is petting, at his feet, his slave's wavy red hair; the lawyer and San Francisco councilman, Terry Brenner, comes from the court; and a young-ish actor-director, Alan Riggs, comes from the stage and from back east. 
Samuel, as Eli knows, has brought along a young slave and protege, Duncan, who’s been instructed to remain on the floor this evening—collared, body shaved except for bushy red pubes left intact, exposed to the room in his chaps. Wearing his leather harness, you can admire his young, developing muscles. Certainly the councilman does. Riggs, on the other hand, focuses and the ginger pubes. Samuel’s been intrigued why only his young protégé has been invited. Elijah, during dinner, said he had, through pure serendipity, found another young man this evening, naked, erect (having gotten into the chem piss), going through his things when he got home. He left him upstairs “stewing” with an eel to keep him company through dinner, and thought it would be interesting to bring him and Duncan together as after dinner entertainment.

"It kills the eel, you know. You remember, don't you Duncan?" Samuel says. The slave is not allowed to speak, but nods with a slight shiver.

"Poor eel," says Brenner excitedly. "I must try and get some."

"Duncan, you've taken an eel?" asks Riggs, gazing at the luscious lad. Duncan nods and looks back at the floor. "And I thought that was just urban legend."

"It was an excellent bridge to his first fist. He could take anything afterward," the defrocked priest says, "couldn't you boy?" The boy looks up, agrees, then looks back at the floor.

"Look who I found," announces Eli, coming back in the room with Tucker. Tucker's naked, wearing just a collared and a dazed look. Duncan looks up at Tucker and immediately, like a starving dog, starts to get hard.

"He's lovely. What's its name?" Brenner ask Eli.

"You know, I never got around to that. What is your name, boy?"

"Tucker," the boy says glancing around the room at the men and the red haired boy growing a noticeably large erection. His own is now on the rise, too, looking at the attractive red head.

Eli points a finger next to his chair and Tucker instinctively kneels down next to it. Eli sets a quarter filled bottle of chilled yellow liquid on the coffee table between all the chairs. From the side table he brings over four liqueur glasses, setting one in front of each of the men. Duncan perks up beside Samuel.

"Down boy," scolds Samuel. "You know only from the tap or if I piss in you. Tonight's special, though, isn't it brother Elijah."

Eli smiles and takes two large syringes from the side table. Duncan sees them with wide frightened eyes, but Tucker can't focus on them. He's still looking around the room to take in the new men, and trying to figure out why he feels so empty.

"Master? It's really dead?" Tears are welling in Tucker's eyes.

"We all die, boy." Eli is wiping a tear off his face. "We can only hope we die as happy and warm someday." Eli is pouring the chem piss in the four glasses. "He's been shitting the eel for at least the last hour. Poor thing," he explains. Eli lifts up his glass. "To the eel. Heil!"

"Heil," shout the other men, and down their glasses.

"Brother, will you do the honors?" Eli asks. "Mine needs his booster and it looks like yours is a bit skittish tonight." Eli goes to the fireplace and tends to the fire.

"He'll be fine in a minute or two. Duncan, heel!" Duncan lays out his muscular forearm and pumps his fist to push out his veins. Samuel scans them over, picks one that isn't as bruised as the others, and pops the needle in at an angle. He rotates the syringe till he gets a good draw of blood and gushes the content into the boy's arm. Duncan's on his haunches, and staggers a bit as the drug hits him hard. He's trying to focus on Riggs directly across from him. Riggs is licking his lips as the boy grabs hold of Samuel for balance. He can't help himself and begins chanting, "fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Oh, yes you will be fucked alright," Samuel assures him. "Now sit. Tucker, come over here to me. Let's try something fun."

Tucker starts to stand, but Eli yanks his chain, pulling him by the collar back to the floor. "Always on all four, boy, unless I tell you otherwise." The boy crawls on all fours to Samuel.

While Riggs and Brenner watch Samuel prepping Tucker, Riggs continues a conversation they were having at supper. "The artistic director of the company is retiring in September?"

"Definitely," assures Brenner. "It'll be announced at our next board meeting. I chair so I can certainly guide the nomination your way. The company's on the elderly side so I'd say you're going to need some new blood." They both spy Duncan, who Samuel informed them at dinner was a broke, out of work actor. The two men see he's now on the lust side of the drug looking around the room licking his lips and growing his manhood to monumental proportions. "I'd say, Samuel has enough of a corral he could spare one or two." Samuel hears his name and looks up from Tucker's cock in his hand, smiles a "perhaps" at the men, and sticks the needle in the large vein on Tucker's shaft. 

Tucker is puzzled at the syringe stuck in his dick, then feels it. "Oh, shit," are the last words out of Tucker's lips before he falls backward hitting his head on Eli leg. 

"How much was that," Riggs asks.

Eli rights the boy's head. "Six or six-five. He had half a gram before you came."

"Phew!" says Riggs. "I'd be a fried mess if I had that much back to back."

"Well, I think that's what he is," says Brenner. He's right, too. Tucker is bright red, mouthing words without speaking, eyes shaking back and forth.

"Holy fuck!" Samuel slaps his knees and cheers loudly, "Just another regular American boy! Let's get you up and ready, you hot fucking piece of boy meat. Grab that arm, brother." Between Samuel and Eli they grab Tucker under each of their arms. Even though Samuel has been losing weight at alarming rate this past year, both the men are tall, and easily drag the boy over to the sling. Tucker's toenails scratch across the rug, then over the mosaic tiles, then up the wooden platform. He's flying through the air, sees his legs miles out from his body, feeling the best he's ever felt in his life, two men putting his feet into leather straps, a small pillow being adjusted under his head. He can't keep up with the dopamine flowing through him. Everything is perfect. Lights are adjusting so there's a dim glow outlining his body. A fire illuminates some men in the room. He's hot as hell and his loins burn for someone to touch him. He sees a tall dark hair man between his legs who looks familiar. The man is stripping off his black shirt. He looks super-human, less man than a figure built from rocks. Tucker feels his hole fully agape and invites the man to enter him. A phallus larger than he's ever seen pierces his hole all the way to the man's black patch of hair in one fell swoop. A hand turns his head sideways, encouraging him to suck on a half-erect cock. There's lots of foreskin on it to push back, and an overwhelming taste of rotten cheese, but he's boiling in lust and wants to be used by these anonymous men, so eats the smegma and licks the knob till it's clean.

The one he's sucking off shouts, "Duncan, get your ass on the bench. Let 'em fuck you, then you can help me play with this one." Tucker looks off in the flickering darkness and sees a boy positioning himself on a bench, with two dark figures entering him on either end. The foreskinned man brings Tucker's head back around to continue sucking him. The two men over him take turns pinching his tits. He reaches up the foreskinned man's chest and tweaks his nipples. They're gigantic, nipples as big as baby bottles. The man brings down his nipple for Tucker to nurse. They're foul tasting, sulfur mixed with feces, but he's hungering for it. The nipple almost fills his mouth. When he's scraped the taste off it, the man offers his other one, all while his ass is pounded relentlessly. He spies the foreskin man reach over to the man fucking him. He feels a finger, then two slip in his ass in addition to the pounding cock. The black figure between his legs lets out a roar, then slams his ass hard, and hard again. He pauses, head bent. Tucker feels a pulse cock enlarge, contract, enlarge, before he feels a mammoth cock slip out of him. 

Again he has that empty abandoned feeling. I trickle of sludge slides out his ass. It's warm and foul, extremely pungent and the man he was moments ago sucking is now at his ass, eating him. He feels an unnaturally long tongue sliding inside of him. The dark haired man is now next to him shoving his filthy cock in his mouth. It reeks of shit and salty cum and grease. He gags but the member is pushing against his face so the dark bush that absorbed much of the butt slime is now covering his nostrils. He's breathing through the black bush but as much as he feels suffocated, he's also desiring and completely enjoying it, feeling how helpless he is to giving into and being used by these pigs making him one of them.

The slime of a tongue is replaced by firm fingers, three is what he counts, sliding into his hole. A slippery fourth is added. Something is broken under his nose and the vapor he inhales sends him deeper into denigration. Piss spurts from the cock buried in his mouth. He's not drinking because it's so deep in his throat, it's pouring directly into his stomach. The man encourages him to let go and be a sewer for him. Another cap is broken and a whole hand is beckoning at his hole, trying to enter him, whole. Butts weren't make to take in hands, he thinks, but he's surrendering to the seductive thought of it. He's never considered it, but since it's being offered he's thinking how much he'd like to give into it. It's crowning, at its largest stretch and straining the muscle, how hard it hurts, how much he wants it. Then it breaks through and he's repeating a mantra of the fisted: oh fuck, oh fuck.

Every nerve ending inside is calling out in overwhelming pleasure. He can visualize how his asshole is clamping down on the hand, pushing it deeper inside. He doesn't know when it will stop sliding up his ass. He doesn't know if he wants it to. He can't believe how good he feels, how unnatural it is that he's sensing the world from the inside. He didn't know this was possible. "Yes," he says to the man who's inside him. "That's so good," he says looking up into the face. It's white, the face, black eyes, sunken cheeks, mucous running out his nostrils. "More," he intones up to the man. The man sneers and obliges. He feels the large hand bend into a fist, nails scrape against his rectal walls. The man purposefully twists his knuckle against his prostrate sending waves of intense pleasure, too much pleasure, it's hard for him to stay in his body. The hand unfolds and journeys deeper into him. The hand is stuck on a blocked passage. He is in the passage. He is the cause of the blockage. It is him, he has to tell himself. It is his body that is willfully being used. He is as much participant as spectator. He feels first one finger drilling against the internal barrier, then two fingers circling, applying pressure. With the third finger penetrated, forming a small triangle in his colon, it's able to pry apart the second sphincter and open the passage for the rest of the hand. It feels like his body is being raped, forced open and he's loving it. He's writhing on the man's open palm, impaling his body as much as he can in the swaying sling. He's trying to bounce on the man's hand, and the man is all in favor of it. Two men talk above him, demons in a flickering hell. "I don't want him damaged," the man by his head says. "The boy is completely swallowing my arm. I can't help how much in heat he's in." "Slow it down," the man next to him warns. "Duncan, get over here!" calls the man fisting his ass.

Tucker feels the hand being withdrawn and is almost ready to cry as it leaves. A feeling of abject abandonment is taking him over. As the hand withdraws he's trying to draw it back in. He squeezes on the palm and it slides back in somewhat. "He's doing it, not me," objects the fister. "You want to get pistoned, boy?" he asks rhetorically, as he started pile driving his fist in and deeper in, though never breaking completely out. "Don't close your eyes. Look at me when I'm fisting you!" He doing it hard to keep Tucker's attention, but it's having the exact opposite effect. The harder he's being fisted, the further out of his body he is. All that remains is his voice: "Fuck me harder, harder, harder." They are trapped like Chinese finger puzzles: the harder the fist pulls out, the harder Tucker clamps down on it.

"Yes, yes," Tucker begs, luxuriating on the trapped fists, unable to control how hard he's rocking on the man's fist. His colon is on fire, flaming in lust, seeing out of the darkness a beautiful young man with bright fiery hair coming toward him. With one enormous gut-wrenching punch exiting his hole, the fist flies out of him. Four men and the boy are transfixed, staring at a very open hole. "Beautiful," exclaims the man who fisted him. He bends down and licks his hole. He sees the man pulling his asslips apart, lapping at his insides, coaxing him to push harder. In the mirror above him reveals his pushed out colon that all are fingering. The dark pleasure he's feeling he wants to continue. "More," he begs the group.

"Duncan. Show him more," instructs Samuel.

Duncan smiles, feeling Tucker's splayed out hole. "Aye, Sir. It'll be a pleasure showin' the lad how much he can take, and then showin' him he can take a wee bit mure."

 

3. The Aquarium

He's backlit so it's hard to make out the face but this is what he can see: his leather cap, with black shiny visor and chain that lays over it, almost scrapes the top of the door; there's a black beard, maybe with a touch of grey; the eyes are deep set and unseeable; leather jacket, black shirt, leather tie, leather pants, leather boots; a black baton that clinks against a ring on his left hand. "Not the kind of house you want to break into," says the figure. The voice is the essence of authority; calm, resonant, deliberative. The voice of a cop who pulls you over; the dread you hear in the doctor who has bad news; the judge who asks how you plead—final, unequivocal, no second chance. "Did you shit on the dining room table?" his first questions.

Tucker's compelled to respond but at the last minute is taken aback by absurdity of the questions. "Wait, what?" He's incredulous, ignoring the fact he's naked and holding a box of the man's poppers. The whole situation is absurd. "I, no! I'm working on your roof, man. I'm one of the roofers."

"You're naked going through my drawers is what I see. There's shit on my table. And I don’t employ roofers." He waves the nightstick, calling him out of his bedroom. “Let’s go.”

"Huh? Dude, I just took a shower and my clothes are missing. That's it. Do you know where they are? I just want to get them and leave."

"You think your clothes are in a drawer with my dildoes? I'm not telling you again." He beckons with the nightstick a second time. Tucker has no choice but moves toward the man who backs out of the door to let him pass. "Up the stairs," he instructs, pointing with his stick. Tucker takes a quick glance at the table. Jesus fuck, there really is a pile of shit on it. He smells it too. When he’s a foot away from the man, his fight-or-flight response kicks in and he decides to make a run for it. Naked be damn, he'll choose running naked in the street rather than stay here. He tears past the leatherman who only has to take one step in his direction, grab his ponytail, yank him back and crack the back of his knees with the baton. Tucker's crumpled on the floor. Leatherfuck pulls him up by his hair and tosses him like a doll toward a stairwell between the kitchen and the bedroom. "Up," is all man says. It's not the stairs to great room but through another archway, that, if Tucker has his bearings right, would be leading him into the side of the mountain, which seems unlikely but true. "Up," says the man. "I won't tell you again." Tucker staggers up the steps feeling the backs of his legs. Now he's truly scared. The man pokes his butthole with the nightstick. "Move," he orders. Tucker takes two steps at a time. 

"Dude," he's whining during his ascent, "I swear to Christ I just took a shower and someone took my clothes. Hey," Tucker says, turning around halfway up the stairs. "Whoever took my clothes probably took a shit on your table. He's probably still here. The door was unlocked, I bet, right?"

"It was wide open. Move!" Tucker proceeds to climb but his feet are damp and he stumbles on the last step, falling forward. "Get up and get in that room." Tucker scrambles up holding onto the railing, sees the door the man intends for him to enter.

"I bet he ran away just before you came in." Tucker turns the glass doorknob. The room is bathed in blue light undulating in waves filtered through the water of a large aquarium. It's dark except for the aquarium taking up most of the far wall. A small window is cracked open, but it’s on the mountain side of the house so no light comes in. On the other side is a single bed and nightstand. In the center of the room stands an old, ornate barber's chair. "Sit," the man says indicating the barber’s chair.
"Please, sir. I apologize. I'm really, really sorry." He doesn't want to go in. The nightstick prods against his butt again. He turns around and pleads. "I just want to leave." He’s afraid he won't come out of this room if he goes in. "I work for you, man. Ask Sergei. Call him. I even asked if it was okay to use your shower and he said it was." The man's physical presence forces him to step backward into the room. Tucker scans the room, sees within the aquarium a large eel slip out of pile of rocks.

"Were you in my refrigerator?" the man asks.

"What? No. Yes, I drank some of your wine." The man is backing him deeper into the room. He hears the aquarium’s filter hum as he nears the chair. "My wallet's in my clothes. I'm sorry. I'll pay you. I didn’t drink a lot. It had turned, I think." He's totally creeped out by the dark grey eel. It's four feet long and tracking back and forth in the tank. Tucker looks up at the man hoping his eyes look pleading enough, but he's flashing on the cum on the shower glass, the crystal he drank out of and left unwashed, if he put the desk photos back exactly as he found them, the shit that’s not his on the table, how fucked he is in this stranger's eyes. 

"Sit." Tucker falls back in the chair and looks up to the man's face bathed in the aquarium’s light’s blue glow. His face is broad with wide set eyes. The brows arch menacingly. His nostril flare as anger washes over his face, then recede when his face becomes once more placid. His beard covers everything but pock marked temples and a deeply creased forehead. Between his thick brows a furrowed W forms as he scrutinizes Tucker. He has one silver earring on his left lobe. Tucker's uncomfortably sticking to the chair trying to move back away from him. The large chair’s cold, the brown cowhide’s tacky on his bare ass, and metal arms have straps, which brings him to a new level of anxiety. "You drank yellow liquid in my refrigerator?" Tucker nods apologetically. The man's burst in a roar of laughter. “Hope you liked it, fucker.” His mood’s lightened. He takes off his jacket, then his leather tie and throws them on the bed. "Your cock. I see. Strap your legs down."  

"What are you going to do?" His mind is racing. What choice does he have? The man's unbuttoning his shirt displaying a chest that’s incredibly ripped. His pecs are boulders. Even his nipples are enormous, unnatural, each the girth of a fingertip. "What was in the bottle?"

“It’s keeping you hard for me.” The man's teeth shine blue. "Strap yourself in."

"What? Why?" Tucker asks, confused. Looking down he sees straps at his ankles, thighs, waist, and chest.

"Legs first," instructs the man. Defiantly Tucker shakes his head no. The man immediately strikes his nightstick down hard on the metal chair's armrest. Tucker barely gets his arm away before the rod strikes with a loud clang reverberating through the room. Tucker makes sure he's not going to swing the baton again, then folds over to take the two ends of the strap at his feet and loops one strap through the metal binding of the other. He does the same at his thighs, waist and then chest. The man sets the stick down with a clunk on a metal tray behind him. ‘Roid freak binds one of Tucker's arms down, once at the wrist and once below the elbow. He then slowly walks around in back of the barber chair and puts his hand on Tucker's bare shoulder. It's the first time he's touched by him and his large, cold digits engulf his entire shoulder, sending a shiver through him down to his erect dick. His ice cold hand runs down his bicep and the man binds his other wrist. "Chem piss. I’m guessing that’s why the dick," he says. His voice is calm, relaxed, even amused. His words are chosen and explicit. "How long have you had your Prince Albert?" he asks. There is a layer of seduction lying between his words, the phrasing, his cold breath on Tucker's shoulder. He comes around back into the blue light and places cold fingers on Tucker's erection, stroking him soothingly.

"Almost three years." Tucker's not used to a man touching him. Still, his cock is rock hard. "When I turned eighteen. Sorry, man, can’t seem to lose the stiffy. Had it since the shower. Chem piss you said was in the bottle? What’s chem piss?" The man tilts his head and smiles blue teeth. Tucker is trying the read the man's face. One moment he’s amused, the next angry, and in the next lascivious. The wavering blue light makes it hard to get a fix. His size is obviously intimidating. He's gotta be one of those Gold Gym body builders. Muscles on top of muscles. Veins in the neck when he's pressing rows of huge plates, teeth gritted, grunting. His spread lats makes him look like a cockroach. The black beard hides most of his face, a mask. His eyes are dark, but Tucker’s seen the lascivious look when it crossed his face before. He sees it in Sergei occasionally—a marked intensity that scurries away when confronted, lays hidden beneath the eyes. When he was in high school, he and his friend Reed would lure men at department stores into back dressing rooms when they came across this look. Then on threat of an accusation of molesting a minor, being threatened to be turned over to security, they'd rob the dupes. Once Tucker even peed on one of his victims. Now that look flutters across the man's face, only this time there’s not one fucking thing he can do about it.

The man puts a frigid finger through the P.A. and gives it a tug. "You must have had one of the first ones." He unbuckles his belt and unzips his pants letting his pants fall to the floor. He steps out of them. A majestic meaty member flops around, surrounded with a black bush as hairy around his cock as he is hairless over the rest of his body. Smooth cut legs, rock solid veiny arms, slim six-pack abs, crowned by an enormous, thick double zero P.A. jutting out of his piss slit. "Malloy did mine. Did he pierce you? You’d probably be the youngest."

"Uh, some girl in a store in Hollywood. Sarah something. I forget."

"A girl?" The man examines him skeptically. "There's no women I know doing this. Malloy's the only one I know that's piercing." His nose flairs as he's breathing. "You lying to me again, boy?

He doesn't know why the guy is getting worked up. "Uh, no sir. They got a couple of bitches piercing there." He's pacing back and forth like the eel in the tank.

"Bitch did your wings too?"

"No, sir. Geezer in Venice. Did it on the boardwalk. Kinda used me to draw in customers. Took two days."

"You like pain, then?" He’s starting to flop his dick around in his hand, getting it hard.

"Not really."

"Bullshit. See this pentagram?" He bends his shoulder over to show Tucker. "Hurt like a mother fucker." His dick’s oozing a little pre, grown out now to maybe a good nine inches and still going. "You lay there for two days for that? You have to be one hell of a masochist." The man's up against Tucker's shoulder rubbing his fist and dick against him, with his other hand he’s pushing his head down to his cock. "Not that I have anything against a good masochist."

"I'm not queer, man," declares Tucker, snapping his head away from the man’s giant woody.

The man smacks Tucker's with his palm hard enough for spittle and a trickle of blood to splat out his mouth. "You calling me a queer?” He takes Tucker’s face in his large hand. “The fuck you're not. The only reason I didn't hand you over to the fuzz right away was because of that tattoo. I thought, maybe this boy might have some surprises in him." The man is holding back final judgment, searching Tucker's face. He's looking at him quizzically. "So tell me—boy who runs around naked in a stranger's house—are you Greek active or passive?" Tucker's lip feels swollen and he's looking at the man as if he's crazy, which he probably is. 

"What the fuck are you talking about? Your bat-shit crazy." 

Tucker thinks he might be hit again, but the man's pacing, not nervously, but in thought, deliberating. He stops. His eyes are fixed on the eel watching it swim back and forth. His eyes follow it like a metronome. The whites of his eyes are tinged blue. He speaks, staring past Tucker at the tank, "There's something off about you, boy, which I like. You talk like you’re from outer space. You're not like my other boys. But you will be. We just need to re-wire you." He's now pondering Tucker's dick. "Three years and you're still at a ten gauge, huh?" The man goes to the nightstand, suddenly enticed, decided. He takes out a small box and brings it over to the tray behind the chair. Tucker hears metal on metal, then something heavy hits the tray. "We have a long night ahead of us," he hears the voice behind him say, "but first things first." He wheels the tray around, also bringing with him a stool. "Anyone who shits on my table the night I'm giving a dinner party better have at least a zero gauge hanging between their legs." He shows him a massive piece of jewelry, a thick captive bead ring, one that will in no way fit his pierced channel. “You got a piece of meat where it will hang nicely.” He tugs the pull chain cord overhead and a bare bulb lights up the room. He pulls a lever and Tucker falls backward almost horizontal in the chair. His captor straddles the stool and scoots it close. He picks up a two-inch rod, thin at one end, tapered thick on the other, and applies a liberal amount of lubricant over it. He takes Tucker's P.A., bend it open and releases the small ball that holds the captive bead. It flicks off and rolls under the bed. The man pulls the opened P.A. out through Tucker's hole. He then takes the tapered rod and sticks the narrow end into Tucker's piss slit, feeling around till he finds the pierced tunnel and starts pushing it through. As the rod grows fatter Tucker starts squirming against his restraints. His hands claw at the arm rests, and as it gets to the thickest point he starts yelling in genuine pain. The small nerve cluster area scream out as they're being torn and ripped apart. The man pauses the stretch. "This will get you to a two gauge but not as big as zero. Zero gauge is like getting pierced for the first time. Did you enjoy your first time?"

No, please, stop. No, I didn't enjoy it, but it was fast and it was over."

The man moves the tray closer and brushes up against Tucker's ear. "Where's the fun in that?" he asks, and continues pushing the rod to its broadest width, lets it hang there agonizingly stretched while Tucker hollers, takes a breath and hollers again. "Almost done." And he passes the object all the way through. "Right on, right on," he praises Tucker who shudders, forcing back tears. The man examines Tucker's face, almost as if seeing him for the first time; searching for who he is, what kind of person is revealed through pain. This is the currency in which the man transacts. "Now, what's this about making America great again?" He reaches up and brushes his hands through Tucker's hair, calming the boy down. "I thought hippies hated America." The man runs his icy fingers over Tuckers face, feeling a single tear trickle down. Tucker’s trying to recover, breathing in diminishing huffs. "I have to tell you, I'm conflicted, boy. I do like something to hold onto when I fuck a slave, but truth is, I prefer them shaved, completely. Tell me, have you been collared and shaved before, freaky boy, with your tattoo and your Prince Albert? You must have had a Master. Maybe a few? A kinky perv that likes to play with stranger’s sex toys, that gets off on nasty pictures of filthy men. You want to be with filthy men like me? Your dick doesn't lie, son." Tucker's realizes he jacking himself in the man's hand, riding his cock up and down through the man's clenched fist. "You want to serve Master Eli?"

Tucker stop his jacking, but Master Eli's not having it. He bends over and sucks Tucker's nicely cut dick. Tucker's hand splay out trying not to enjoy it but he feels he might nut any second. "I'm not into it, man. It's cool you are, and I'm not dissing you, but, dude...oh, shit, you’re going to make me cum."

Master Eli releases his dick. "French passive. How about French active?" He gets up and offers his half-mast dick to Tucker. Tucker turns his head away. "You're are a tease, aren't you, my hippy-dippy prowler? Either that or you’re conflicted. One thing you're not, is not digging this. But I think all you need is to be opened up. Your limits pushed. Relax your morals. You do uppers? Downers?" 

Tucker shakes his head. "Not any of that shit. I’ll do molly at a club, sometimes, but that’s it."

"You are a strange one, I have to say. Never heard of molly. But I have something that will definitely un-conflict you. They say speed kills." He goes over to the nightstand and opens a second drawer and brings out a syringe. "But I say speed liberates. It has all my boys anyway."

Tucker eyeballs it from across the room. "No, definitely not. Dude, seriously, no needles. That's asking for AIDS, nada, no way, not into it. Listen to Nancy Reagan. Just say no."

"What’s this AIDS? Nancy? The last governor’s wife, the actress? You come out with the strangest things, I think I want my friends to meet you. You’re a funny...dude. You sound like you're from another planets. But what I have here, son, it going to send you into orbit. Then you're going to belong completely to Master Eli. I guarantee. You won’t believe the things I’ll do to make you feel good, boy. Unbelievable things." The man runs his cold palm down Tucker’s chest to his stiff prick. The man flips Tucker's arm over, taps inside the crook, and jabs the needle in a juicy vein drawing a plume of blood. "Ready for takeoff, rocketman?"

"No. Don't."

"Just go with the flow, baby. Go with the flow." 

He releases a complete half gram of speed into Tucker's body. Tucker coughs violently, while Master Eli withdraws the syringe and bends over to lick the trace of blood. Tucker's head’s thrown back, his eyes lose focus, he feels a rush sluice through his body, in his ears, in his heart, in his ass. He alternates between repeating Shit and Fuck. There’s a high-pitched ringing in his ears as he’s rips through a tiny hole in reality that changes his orientation to the world. Wrong is right, hot is cold, Master is God, good is evil and evil good. His eyes focus back on the huge hulk that's in front of him. Thank you, he mouths while his Master takes up a very large two-inch rod, lubes it and sticks it into Tucker's pee slit. He finds the hole and pushes it in as far as the stretch allows. "Daddy's got to hurt you but then it will all be alright. If you want to cry it's okay. Be a big boy and it will be all over soon." Master Eli sports a raging hard on as he push the fattening rod further through the hole. He can see Tucker's face contorting in sweet, blissed out agony. He's fighting the pain as best he can, the drug careening through him is scrambling his senses. "Daddy's so proud of his boy. Almost through. Boy loves how much he penis hurts, doesn't he?"

"Yes, daddy, hurt me." Tucker's face is twisted from too many sensations at once, his hands are clawing the arm rests. He's beet red fighting against his bindings and from the initial rush of the slam, his heart rushes blood everywhere. "Wait, wait! Please, it too much. Let me get used to it."

"Daddy needs to finish, son. Daddy got lots to do. Daddy wants to show you off with a big boy piercing to the guests. Just a bit more and it's through." He pushes the rod another fraction of an inch, drawing a wail that echoes thunderously through the house, roaring through windows and chimney, through the canyons of Echo Park. A coyote high up in the brush recognizes a wounded animal and howls back an answer. Tucker’s head thrashes against the chair's headrest. Anguish is entwined with the drug, bringing him past shock, laying him out naked to a world with awe that is at once ecstatic as it is destructive to who he is, his logic of desire, where his sexual loyalties fall, what he wants—no—what he needs from now on out of the man deconstructing him. The man sees Tucker fall through another rush of the drug’s powerful pleasure, not only accepting his tormentor along with the administration of pain, but bearing through drug and shock, encouraging Master Eli to hurt him even more. Tucker looks in his face and whispers do it. With that final surrender of his soul the breach is ripped wide open, there is very little blood, and the circular ring passes through his piss slit and through the newly stretched passage. His head is back in a silent scream.

"One last thing to do, my hippy boy, my beautiful, debauched intruder, who called me out and debased himself for me." Tucker sees through watery eyes his Master hold up pliers that are closing the thick ring onto an enormous bead. With a pressure that shakes his Master grip, the ball is sealed shut. He’s locked into the zero gauge. The ache is strong in his dick but the agony is starting to diminish. The chair’s straps are loosened and his Master's lips seal over his mouth. He wrestles a warm tongue filled with passion and lust. He's being lifted from the chair, cradled in the most powerful arms he’s ever felt. He utterly surrenders to a Master who will take care of him, provide for all his needs, who's lays him on the bed for the final act. 

Tucker unmoors himself from time and wallows adrift in the coolness of the turned down sheets, in the aquatic light of this unusual room. He's breathing underwater. His legs float up to his Master's shoulders. Something cold, wet and covered in mucous is being pressed against his small, tight anus. It pops in and he feels it slither into his rectum. He's waiting for it to start to hurt since this is all new to him, the territory virginal, but it doesn't hurt. He likes it, the viscosity’s soothing, his muscles contract and expand, inviting it to flow inside him as deep as it wants. He senses one hand being tied above him, then the other. He wants to be tied, he wants whatever his Master wants. He's being plowed deep and it's invading the most intimate parts of him, where no one touches, where no one knows, places even he never felt existed. So deep he feels his organs rearrange. His intestines are realigning, straightening, his body dictated by some outside force. His body is overtaken with pleasure; it’s no longer him but a primordial version of him. A cloth is tied over his mouth and knotted behind his head. He moans in ecstasy into the rag as the invasion transcends him to his core. He feels one leg lowering off a rock-hard shoulder, then the other, each tied to the bottom of the bed. He feels warm liquid spray across his faces. He sucks on the wet rag tasting salty remnants of warm spooge. He looks up to see Master Eli standing next to his head, flicking the last of his pale seed across his face. Strangely he still feels his entrails being invaded, wonders how that can be with Master hovering beside him. Master reaches between his legs and grabs the end of the eel and squeezes the tail to encourage its ultimate journey through his sphincter. The eel in entirely inside him. It moves forward generating a body wave that slithers up in one direction, and eases out reversing the undulation in another. Back and forth it drills within him. The body orgasms he releases over the next several hours while Master is away, are like none he's ever known or will ever know again. The door closes and he's left breathing underwater, internally erupting in breaking waves, over and over within the blue light. 
 

1. Tucker Broderick Doesn’t Give a Shit About You

From where Sergei is crouched straddling the rooftop, he can see right up Tucker's shorts. He’s aware, too, that Tucker does this on purpose. Tucker bites down on a string of nails between his teeth, methodically laying down a shingle, pulling out a pair of nails and securing the oyster grey shingle in place. He then crab-walks up a foot or two to ready the nails for the next shingle. Between hammering, he looks up at Sergei in his wary, enticing way (the shit) and scratches his balls, also on display. Sergei glances down from his rooftop peak and secures his top ridge cap shingle. Since Tucker is close to laying the final, upper-most course of shingles, he’s pretty close to Sergei. His balls will soon be close enough to touch. Sergei has to look away.

Sergei takes wire rim glasses from his shirt pocket and wraps them around his ears. The view from the roof of this Echo Park home is epic. The smog abated with last night’s windstorm, and today you can actually see Santa Monica. Past old Hollywood, past Beverly Hills, past Brentwood, right down to fucking Santa Monica beach, miniature palm trees and all. The blue expanse of the Pacific ocean is almost as blue as Tucker’s eyes. The view up Tucker’s shorts is even more epic. The sun slashes directly over his large hanging pink crown. In the dark cave beyond you can even make out a dark patch of pubes. Inside the shadow glints the thin metal P.A. piercing his dickhead. His crouch has his left leg bent up toward Sergei on the upside of the roof at a right angle. The other leg, muscular and taught, is straight out, balancing him against the roof’s pitch. The baggy shorts are long and droop open enough to let the warm afternoon breeze flap the black polyester silk, swaying his long, hanging ballsack in the same warm breeze. Sergei feels his own balls churn in his worn Levis. The breeze up here on the roof blows Tucker’s auburn hair off his shoulders. If not for his red cap it would blow all over his face, but the cap holds it down. He nails his last shingle at roof’s peak next to Sergei, then stands, scales back down the roof to his last course of shingles. Sergei quickly replaces his glasses in his pocket hoping Tucker hadn’t seen them. He feels they make him older than he is. His bald spot doesn't help.

"Boss-man," says Tucker turning to him. Sergei shields his eyes against the sun, low in its descent toward the ocean. “Only got a few more in my row, then what?” Tucker voice is sonorous. Sergei learned sonorous in English class last night, and it describes Tucker’s voice to a tee. Deep and full. He has no right to have a voice so rich, when his is so scratchy with these foreign, garbled words always tripping over his tongue—or a face so striking he feels he's always caught staring. Admit it though: You’d spot Tucker easily in a crowd, even if he wasn’t just wearing shorts and tennis shoes and nothing more. He isn’t pumped up gym-built, but his torso’s a perfect V. His arms are cut like a bronze statue from working construction outdoors for him since graduating two years ago from high school. His chest is broad, tan and smooth; his chiseled pecs rise and fall with his breath while his foreman thinks what, indeed, was next. An invite for a beer after work? Maybe enough to have him once again pass out on the couch? Sneak a quick blow job that would not be mentioned in the morning?

The breeze changes slightly so Tucker is now directly upwind of him. He can smell the suntan oil and body sweat. Being near-sighted, it’s the first time Sergei reads the words on Tucker’s red cap. Make America Great Again. A cloud of birds suddenly swoops close to the roof and scatters overhead. They gathers again into cloud formation and disappears over the ridge. Sergei sits back on his butt, seeing Tucker in a different light. “Really, man?” Sergei asks.

“Fuck yeah. Trump that bitch, yo.” Tucker hears the disapproval, takes off his cap, reaches in the pocket of his shorts and takes out a black hair band. His face is impassive. He twists a pony tail, sticks the band over it, and puts the cap back on. He looks down at Sergei, asks, “You think owner-man would mind if I use his shower before I take off?”

Sergei thinks about it. “You have towel?" he asks. Tucker nods. "You lock up afterward, okay?” 

“Da,” Tucker mocks his accent with a smirk and a wink. He knows what works on Sergei.

At the lip of the roof Sergei's his younger brother Alexei—or Alex, as he insists now that he’s married a pretty American girl—pops his blond head up. He scans the two figures at the rooftop, tilts his head down slightly, raises his eyebrows, opens his eyes wide, and swears, “What the fuck? You guys aren’t done?” He eyes Tucker guardedly seeing how Sergei is eyeing him, or specifically—he knows his brother weakness—is trying not to eye him. “Come on, man.  I told you I want to knock off early. Cindy wants to go to her parents' house and show off the baby. Sergei, she wants you to come too.”

Tucker says, “Fifteen, twenty minutes, bro. Right, boss-man?”

“Da,” says Sergei, spreading his legs out, straddling the roof, and hammers down another ridge shingle.

Alex disappears down the ladder, while Tucker inches over to his last course of shingles. Squats. He’s maybe a foot away. Sergei stills smells him. It’s not lost on him that Tucker’s crouch exposes more than an inch of his crack. In fact, in the bright sunlight streaming down his spine, Sergei sees the brown swirl of butt hair blooming out of Tucker’s waistband. He even sees the parted canyon of entangled hair that disappears down into darkness. He follows a trickle of sweat traveling like a rollercoaster that falls into the canyon. He's staring again. This close, looking up at Tucker’s billowed back spread like a sail, he can’t tell if the tribal ink covering his back is supposed to be wings of an angel or wings of a bat. Tucker shuffles up another inch closer to attack a nail at mid-shingle. He’s close enough to see beads of sweat perched on the swirls of crack hair. He loves his brother but he feels trapped in his life. However crisply in focus the glistening beads inches away, tonight, and most likely forever, they’re out of reach.

 

2. The Closet

Sergei and Alex putt-putt down the street in their nondescript coup. Sad! Tucker Broderick takes his day pack from the bed of his truck and walks to the house. 

It's weird, this house, you gotta admit that. He looks up at the scattershot pink structure, at its many angles and levels. Nothing straight about it, especially the owner, Alex had told him. Ground level's the one-car garage. The green door accordions sideways. A staircase to the left leads up the steep cliff to a stone landing where there's a glimpse of downtown Los Angeles. Mostly, though, the landing looks out to the flatlands of South Central. The front door is thick and arched, probably the original mahogany from the 1920s. A caged peephole and ironwork hinges so ornate he's surprised someone hasn't stolen it decades ago. Terracotta pottery with bougainvillea surround the stone landing. Large palms overhang making the area, even though it's still in the nineties, feel shaded and cool. 

The inside entrance is small but with the arched picture window above the garage expands the view to the hills of Hollywood and makes it feel larger than it is. French doors to the left are curtained and hide a staircase that leads to the main floor. Why cover the staircase? Seems bizarre. Lots of wallpaper on this floor. Printed bougainvillea and palm fronds again. Tucker hates coordination. Reminds him too much of mother. You might miss it but under the stairway a glass nob opens a camouflaged closet wallpapered over. A table stands in front of the railing with a glass bowl filled with loose change and keys. The stairway is not grand but nicely refurbished. He and Sergei had toured the house looking for the bathroom once before. He remembered there were many staircases, some leading to just one room. Yeah, weird like that. It was like someone one day woke up with a bright idea and added another room on a whim. That's how the house was. No real design, just a collection of whims. 

He remembers you go back to the master bedroom on the main floor to find the bathroom. He's taking his time today, though. He doesn't have real plans. No one's waiting for him. Here's the dining room on the main floor landing, a large kitchen is in back. He strolls through the kitchen, opens an ancient fridge to see what's cold. Milk, a half-filled bottle of Pinot Grigio, no beer. He picks up the wine, recognizes it as a decent label from a very old year. Uncorks it and chugs down half the content before he tastes that it's terribly bitter. Must have turned. Goes to the sink and bends over to sip from the faucet trying to get the bad taste out of his mouth. 

Back out in the dining room there's a small room to the left. It has an arched window that opens to a balcony, which overlooks the stone landing. Wallpaper in here is of large Chinese lanterns. There's a old oak desk in the middle facing the window. He peaks in a drawer. There's several manila folders. He pulls out one. Yellowed photographs of naked boys and men. None handsome but tough, some almost sinister. They look like derelicts, homeless men and boys, naked on mattresses passed out, drunk, drugged, under overpasses, in flophouses, a few which look like this room, same desk chair. He puts it back and closes the drawer. The house is silent except for a clock ticking somewhere. The opposite side of the dining room is the master bedroom and through it is the master bath. He looks up seeing dust play through sunlight from the great room upstairs. He wants to see the sunset. 

A set of stairs perpendicular to the dining room leads up to the great room. Not large but its double height ceiling gives the feeling of vastness. From here he overlooks the dining room, the silk table runner, two ornate candelabras, the dark painting of bulls on the wall. Three stories above street, he looks out to the city. The height clears the low canyons and expands out to see the city basin. You see the sailboats coming back into the marina for the night, a tanker trolls off the coast of South Bay beaches, Palos Verdes where he lives with his parents in the detached studio above the garage, all the way over to Long Beach with its oil rigs that dot the coastline. It's a rare day in L.A. when you see this much. The sun's still far from setting but there's the beginning of pink tinge in the sky. A ribbon of yellow follows the sun across the water. He figures it'll set in another hour. He'd like to be on the freeway by then.

Opposite the window is a huge fireplace, not that one's ever needed in L.A. In front of it sits a couch. He flops down and kicks his sneakers up on a large coffee table. There's a silver tray with crystal glasses and two decanters, one clear, one brown. He picks up the dark one and smells very oaky scotch, pours himself a good amount in one of the crystals. Looks out to the city, toasts himself. He grabs his crotch for no discernible reason but simply because it feels good. He takes another sip, feels it burn his lips, tongue, throat, and then his belly. He's feeling exceptionally good and he's getting hard. He's inclined, against his better judgment, to whip out his hefty meat and beat off right there on a stranger's couch. A gong from a clock strikes the half hour. He swigs the rest of the glass and sets it back on the tray. 

He hops down the staircase and back to master bathroom. Palos Verdes where he grew up is filthy rich, but this bathroom he recognizes as old wealth; wealth from when L.A. was new. All original fixtures. Spacious. Pair of white porcelain faucets that read Hot and Cold at the sink, white tiles with a stripe of mint green at chest height. Hand-laid hexagon tiles in elaborate patterns cover the floor. The toilet's metal and huge, flushes with a pull chain atop a tank that sits at head height. It had been a long day. He lets his shorts fall to the floor and steps out of his shoes, puts his backpack on the counter. He opens the toilet lid. He's semi-rigid so he needs to carefully aims his piss over his P.A. He tilts over so it's aimed straight down, not splashing in random streams. He gushes powerfully for a few solid minutes, relishing the release and enjoying the loud noise it's making in the bowel. He shakes his dick a few times and goes back to the mirror. He pulls the band off his ponytail, shakes out his mane, and stuffs the band in his pack's front zipper. He's tempted to use one of the big white plush monogrammed towels on the rack. SM, reads the monogram. Funny. Instead, he takes out a small terrycloth beach towel he grabbed from home and flops it over the glass shower stall.

He peers down and notices a lower drawer partially open. There's something flesh colored inside. He opened it up and finds a cone-shaped piece of rubber that then tapers down to a slab of pink rubber the size of a quarter. He's heard of butt plugs but never seen one up close. By all rights he should be grossed out but he isn't; mostly he's curious. He picks it up and feels its heft and density, where it gives, where it's rigid. It's pretty big. So fags put these up their butts? Why would you do that? He puts it back in the open drawer and rinses his hands.

He gets in the shower and picks up a hanging metal hose. He gets what the nozzle's for and let it drop. He turns on the faucet and water spouts out the hose in a spray that makes the hose dance and clang around the stall. He reached up and turns a nob connected to the wall pipe that makes water run through the showerhead. He rinses the day off him. The spray feels like rain and the splatter echoes across the tiled room. He soaps his pits, his butt, his pubes. His got a full eight inch erection and it's soaped and ready to go. He gives it a couple of whacks, then holds his balls and starts getting into it. First he thinks of tits, huge tits swinging, wet and bouncy. Pussies pushed open showing pink and red. But then there's an image of the derelict man on a mattress under an overpass, his prison tattoos, a lewd pose showing off his dirty holes, another picture of a filthy boy reading a girlie magazine, cum on his stomachs. He's edging. He switches his mind to cunts he's fucked, sloppy twats, dry tight virgins, but they're pushed out, he's edging more when he feels the density of the buttplug, knowing it's been up someone's asshole, what that must feel like. He spurts hard and spurts hard again, right across the shower stall. A big wad of cum's running down the glass. He shakes and steadies his knees. He strokes himself a few times more. He contracts with each stroke. Then polishing his nob hurts and he stops. There's a bottle of shampoo on the floor. He picks it up and smells it approvingly. He rinses off his hands and lathers his head, massages his scalp, and then rinses his head back with the sensual streams running through his hair. Some soap gets in his eyes and he turns around and lets the water wash over his face. He rubs his sockets and floods his face with water. His body loosens; the soot, the sun, wash away until he's fully relaxed, freshly jacked and ready to head home. His dick's still hard. He shuts off the water. He clicks open the gold handled door and wipes himself with his beach towel. The owner's hairdryer sits next to his pack on the counter. He sets it on high, brushing out his hair with his fingers. Straight, parted in the middle, feathered to perfection—he's satisfied. His dick's still hard, which is increasingly weird, but looking at himself in the mirror he looks pretty hot. He thinks about taking a selfie. Nah, instead goes for his jeans and tee-shirt in his backpack. It's empty. He opens a back compartment. Also empty. He looks on the floor for his shorts. Missing. He's being punked. He put his knuckles on the counter. "Hey!" he shouts, echoing against the tile. "Cute, bitch! Not funny!" He smacks his hands on the counter. The only thing not missing is his red cap, which he puts on. He tries wrapping the towel around his waist but it comes up short. He goes out naked looking for the thief.

He darts through the master bedroom into the dining room. Dusk's approaching and the wooden floorboards creak hollowly. Only thing he hears is tick-tock. "Hello?" he calls up to the living room before bounding up the stairs. The sunset has gone from pink to red, the sun a few inches above the water. He looks out to see if there's a car outside. The driveway's deserted. It's possible someone had parked in the garage but he isn't going out in his mini towel to find out. He thinks maybe he can borrow something in the owner's closet. He'd bring it back on Monday. And why won't his dick go down?

The bedroom's in the back part of the house close to the hillside. It's cavernous and dark in here. He switches on a light which does little to fill the darkness. The light's maybe forty watts and the room's paneled in rich mahogany, which easily drinks up the wattage. The bed's enormous with pillars on each corners. Large eyehooks where the mattress meet the bedposts. He isn't liking this much at all. He finds the closet secreted within the wood panel. He opens it up and finds a shadowy gloom. He can't see a thing inside but senses it goes in really deep. He reached around the door looking for a switch and finds none. He enters cautiously raising his hand in the air hoping to find a light cord. A few feet in and he's still searching. It's probably the biggest walk-in he's ever seen—or not seen. About eight feet in his hand hits a small piece of chain. He tugs it and the closet bursts with a harsh light. Surrounding him is an enormous collection of leather jackets; beneath hang leather pants, some with, some without crotches; a row of various height boots stack against the back wall; above them a row of caps, a second shelf of masks, some with zippers for eyes and mouth, and a few gas masks; opposite the jackets are harnesses and vests, also some rubber shorts and tops, one piece is shiny rubber that would encase you from head to feet with only a few holes at your mouth and one hole for a dick. From the size of the jackets and pants he figures it fits someone tall and either extremely fat or exceedingly muscular. Neither he wants to meet. He turns around to leave but someone's blocking his way. He jumps back only to realize it's a full length mirror on the door that shut while he's been looking around. He wedges the door open and lets the light spill into the room.

There's a dresser where he should find something, underwear, shorts, a sweater, something that will get him to his truck and out of here. In the first drawer he finds handcuffs and wrist restraints. A second drawer is full of rope and bandages. He started to get panicked and rifles through drawers several at a time. Blindfolds, ball gags, leg restraints, studded arm bands, cock rings, long metal rods, medical instruments that he can't even begin to think what they're for, jars of lube, a drawer filled with large and extra large dildoes, a box of small brown vials. The vials are slimy and smell off-putting. In fact the whole room has a stale scent of grease. Now that there's more light he can see the bed is covered by a large rubber sheet and streaked with grease. Art on the wall is of men with exaggerated nipples and massive cocks, fisting, fucking, and pissing on each other. They're signed Tom. The entire ceiling's mirrored. He sees himself on the ceiling looking down at himself, naked, cock still amazingly erect. Also reflected, taking up the entire doorway, a bearded leatherman smacking his palm with a nightstick.

Phoenix in Ashes

The room was painted white. The one and only window was bricked up with cinder blocks and also painted white. There were two short U-shaped fluorescent lights on the ceiling on each side of the room. The room itself, no more than a skinny closet, measured four by twelve, room enough for a single bed that Ash was on, a chair next to it, and an IV drip. You might make the mistake thinking that the room was larger. A two-way glass on the side opposite Ash's bed lined the wall might be the cause. Mr. X's room was on the other side, a room much larger. From there Mr. X could, day or night (for the fluorescent lights were never turned off), observe Ash, see if he was awake, how his state of mind was, if he was clawing again at his groin.

Ash was doing it again. His hands, like twigs, scratched at his crotch. His head tossed from side to side in delirium. Mr. X burst into the room and once again strapped his weak arms down to the side of the bed. He'd kept him in a twilight sleep, an opioid bath dripping in to the IV next to Ash's head, for weeks now. The castrated boy hadn't spoken since the operation, only when his arms were unstrapped did some latent sense memory draw his hands to body parts that were now gone. He'd moaned and cried out not knowing where he was, if he was waking up inside a nightmare, or if this was an ever-present, lasting nightmare he could not escape.

The buckles clasped. Mr. X increased the opiate drip a touch and Ash seemed to settle back down with only an spasmodic thrashing on the bed. "It has to accept it is an it now," said Mr. X to Ash. "It is a butterfly that is now a caterpillar. My own mother and father would say you are now pure. I think you are better than pure, you're defiled. Like myself, you will never to get into the kingdom of heaven." Like many other times over the last couple of weeks when he would come in and calm Ash, adjusting the dosage in his IV according to the patient's mood and temperament, once Ash settled he'd open the boy's robe and begin eating his vagina.

In his half-alert state, at war with his rational mind, Ash looked forward in his own perverse, drugged-up way to this routine. It was either this or staring for meaningless hours up at the two fluorescent lights in the ceiling. He'd feel the split tongue enter his slit, licking the walls, starting at the base of his cunt and ending what was ostensibly the remainder of the nerve cluster of his cockhead, now his clit. Mr. X would take extra care stimulating his clit, flick it with tongue, wrapping it in his forked tongue, pinching and prodding it with his large, coarse fingers, whatever and however long it took to get Ash to climax. He wanted to get him to enjoy his new sex organ. Ash's half-conscious body would fight against the pleasurable sensation of Mr. X eating his pussy, resist the urge to relax and open his legs and let Mr. X orally penetrate him as deep as he knew Mr. X could. He put up a raging battle against Mr. X's desire to normalize his situation, no matter how much pleasure Mr. X inflicted between his legs.

Mr. X felt up the strapped down body. He let Ash's brown public hair grow back, most of it anyway. He loved to get out his razor and carve new patterns in his bush. Today he shaved it back so there was just a thin line like an exclamation point above Ash's new pussy. He hadn't gotten Ash to cum yet but was far from frustrated. This was edging time. Time was a valuable partner and on his side. "I hoped to trust you by now," sighed Mr. X diddling his twat, "but I see I cannot. It needs to take care of the gift I've given it. Your opening, if I left it alone, could grow together. Today we start using more practical measures."

Mr. X withdrew a small child's tooth brush from his lab coat. He greased up the handle and showed it to Ash. The boy's eyes drooped. He only was aware of shapes and shadows. Mr. X rubbed the small, hard handle against the boy's cuntlips. He did not force it in but instead began rubbing the end from the base of the slit to the tender clit atop. After fifteen minutes, slowly Ash relaxed his legs. The drug assisted, but he was mostly seduced through steady rhythm Mr. X employed. Up till now only his captor's tongue had worked on his cunt, now a more substantial and insistent object was being offered. His resistance to the object was actually working against him. He tried to push it away with his hips, which only served to open the feathery skin. Mr. X was rubbing the small object against him, teasing him. It gradually slipped in against the fight Ash was putting up. The more Ash fought the more ground Mr. X was able to gain. The further Mr. X penetrated the more pleasure Ash received. Yes, it hurt, but the discomfort was proportional to the increased euphoria Ash was experiencing. By the end of the fourth inch, the toothbrush bristles rubbed painfully against Ash's new clit. The first time he felt it he let out a loud gasp of breath, almost waking him to full state of alertness. Mr. X backed off a bit but was pleased to see Ash instinctively searching again for it, thrusting his pelvis out so he might experience this erotic pain again. Mr. X himself was aroused seeing the battle ebbing and flowing over Ash's face: resisting the pleasure and torture he was experience in his new organ and the emerging slut he could be if he gave himself over to it.

He undid his lab coat and stroked the naked flesh waiting beneath. He only had to hold the small rod in place and Ash did the rest. The thrill of using his groin in a way he was completely unaccustomed to, but quickly learning to enjoy, made Mr. X leak a stream of precum. Ash soon gyrated on the tool, trying to get it in deeper, to rub his clit harder against bristles. Mr. X had the strongest desire to get rid of the small rod and rape the boy, but he knew Ash wasn't yet healed and would rip his sutures and he'd have to start again. Beside this therapy was ongoing and far from tedious, required him to continually visit his patient, hardening and deepening his pussy to eventually serve anyone, no matter the size or roughness. As Ash fucked himself, writhing now like a whore on Mr. X's instrument, Mr. X spewed out another stream of semen splashing over the patient's chest and face. Ash continued to rock until his body, too, shook in a climax of absolute pleasure. Mr. X continued to brush the soft bristles against the clit long after the pleasure diminished. Now the pleasure turned to over-stimulation causing Ash to fight his bindings, to rock his hips to try to expel the foreign object, clawing at the sheets under his arm restraints, begging his captor to stop.

This was Mr. X's most enjoyable portion of his visits. He could keep this part up for hours.

***

Another week passed, and as much as he'd prefer to play with his drugged up castrated boy he knew it was better to begin flushing his system. The kid owed thousands, and the interest, just during this first month of convalescence, had doubled what was overdue to the Colombian connections. A month ago he and Sebastian had orders to have him whacked and liquidate what they could. Their surprise was that he came to them on his own accord not knowing the den he was entering. Those few hours they spent with him made them change plans. He was smart and useful, a good fuck, and could make them more money in films and as a favorite to their more selective clients. Sebastian sold the bimmer and took the proceeds back with him to Bogotá to put a down payment on some of Ash's debt. The alternative, Mr. X and Sebastian calculated, would be to take the loss but that would mean a hit not just on Ash, but Dr. and Mrs., his two sisters, and Ce-ce, the family Pekingese. A lot of carnage and, in the end, what did that give them? Besides, his vaginoplasty operation netted a nice initial coin from the men who'd observed, and interest in whoring him out once he healed made him and Sebastian realize they'd get back all their money and then some.

Over the past week he'd started decreasing the dosage which caused Ash to become more lucid but also caused a lot of vomiting the first few days. While emptying out one of the buckets, Ash's first coherent words were "Where Sebastian?"

Mr. X is certainly demonic but he's also human, and prone to jealously. The question, with him holding a bucket of Ash's puke, irked him. "Covering up your shit."

Ash focused his eyes around the room, stopping at Mr. X, then looked down at his robe. "What did you do to me?" Ash wanted to reach his groin but was bound to the sides of the bed. Tears welled up in his face as he rocked his hips against his robe and felt the absence. Cramps seized his belly and he bent over the side of the bed to puke, while Mr. X quickly put the slop bucket under his face. Ash retched for a good ten minutes while Mr. X waited in the chair.

"Tell me when you finish. You need to get you up and moving today. Too long recuperating in bed. I need you to be stronger. Be more than just pussy-boy." Ash wiped the slime off his lips on the side of the bed.

He looked up into Mr. X's immobile face. "Are you going to let me go?"

"Not like you are. Right now you are full of hatred and thirst for revenge. I understand this. Believe me I understand. But you boo-hoo all day, think this is the worst thing that ever happened. You are a spoiled idiot. This is blessing, you owe us and we have made do so I don't kill you and family and family pet. Your pizdá was small price for what you owe me."

"Small price?" Ash cried out incredulously.

Mr. X fingered Ash's boy cunt. "This will make you more money that your pitiful dealing ever could. You sell only to college boys. I sell you to powerful men. Like Zola's whore of Paris, San Francisco will be hurling itself at your cunt." Mr. X pulled out an adult toothbrush. "If I take off binding, do you know what you will do with this?" Ash focused on it and nodded obediently. "Show me." Mr. X released one of his arm restraints.

Ash fixed his eyes on Mr. X, taking the brush. He opened his robe seeing the smooth mound and felt his pussy with his hand for the first time. It was a shock that was difficult to take in. His head fell back and he closed his eyes. It was like he was feeling someone else. Instead of something that flowed from him, there was a new presence of something that flowed into him. It was something he couldn't wrap his mind around but his fingers didn't lie, nor did the sexual excitement he felt when a finger slid inside him. He tried inserting the base into his cuntlips. They were dry and stuck together. "Would you lube me, Sir?" He spread his legs a little to entice Mr. X.

Mr. X appreciated the obsequiousness of the castrated boy. He bent over and began kissing the wound, slowly separating the lips to add saliva to the vagina's walls. He was sucking on the clit gingerly, brushing Ash's thighs lightly to get him used to submitting like he would from now on.

With a clenched iron fist Ash raised the brush aloft and with all his might drove the object down toward Mr. X's neck. Mr. X sensing some movement started to rise, so when Ash landed the blow instead of penetrating his neck, it hit Mr. X deep in his back. The man roared, maimed, thrashed around to reach the object sticking in his back. Ash pushed him off the bed while Mr. X flailed on the ground grabbing at the object, snapped it in two, managing to leave half of it lodged behind his shoulder blade. He twitched in fury, one hand trying to dig it out, the other hand grabbing at Ash. Ash quickly leaned over and unleashed his other arm and legs. He wrapped the robe around himself and hobbled to the door. Mr. X grabbed one of his legs but Ash kicked him off, then booted him in the face with his heal for good measure. He got to the door, opened it, discovered the outside had a lock. Mr. X saw what Ash was attempting and in spite of his raging pain, leapt toward the door. Ash leaned with all his weight against the door, locked it, and felt a loud thud bang against the door.

He scanned around, found himself in a small hallway, one door leading to Mr. X's room, one to a toilet and a third to the outside. The door to the outside was locked. He limped into Mr. X's room and started searching for keys. A desk, a single bed, a closet, and the one-mirror showing Mr. X bashing the door. With each ram, the injured man exploded with fury.

There was a window that looked out to the alley. It was barred. He raised the window and yelled for help. His cry echoed among the bricks and garage doors. An alley cat jumped off a trash can, a squirming rat in its mouth. He ran over to the desk, rifled through the drawers, found only files with papers, his name among them. His address, his parents, sisters, acquaintances. He put it back. On the back of the closet door hung Mr. X's long leather coat. He jerked it off its hook. The right pocket jingled. He felt inside and extracted a large ring of keys. He threw down the jacket and rushed to the outside door. He tried one key after another. Next to him he heard the cracking of the hinges. Mr. X was hollering in a foreign tongue, ramming the door repeatedly. Then suddenly he went quiet. Ash doubled down speedily trying the remaining keys. The final key worked the lock. He was free! An explosion of shattering glass exploded behind him. As he opened the door and ran out, he looked back to witness a chair and raining glass fall into Mr. X's room, then saw Mr. X climbed out, hands bleeding where glass remained in the frame. "Stop!" Mr. X yelled. In bare feet and thin robe, Ash skipped and sprinted down the hall. "Stop!" bellowed Mr. X.

He was almost to the top of the staircase, when Sebastian appeared. He ran straight into him, and Sebastian took a step back then grabbed him by his shoulders. The boy was startled like he'd seen a ghost. Sebastian, hair slicked back, wearing an expensive business suit, eyes once again slits of suspicion, held him forcefully. The boy heaved a heavy sigh, breathless. He hung his head in defeat.

Sebastian broke into his gold tooth crooked smile. "You give me such a big welcome home. I missed you too, mi amigo hermoso," Sebastian said, pulling Ash into him, embracing him in an inescapable hug. 

***

Whereas sometimes life is random, a story should have some sense of coherence. Do parties like this exist? Yes. (If you ask a former Master of mine, one who’d been a Jesuit and his other ex-Jesuit friends he’d bring by, he’d tell you definitely—in fact, much worse/better occurred, depending on how you see things.)

For me, this party is a mixture of elements of your generic Black Party with one of several private fisting parties I’ve attended. For example, the simple walk-through of the “wide, dark tunnel” from the bottom of the stairs where Ash stumbles, to the main dance floor, that corridor is a direct lift from one such fisting party—one from a couple of weeks ago that’s still vivid. Here’s what really occurred: There’s about eleven of us. At one point I’m fisting a very advanced fistee going in very deep, and I see that the Crisco is turning pink. I ask him if he wants me to stop. He says go on. I’m turned on and start punching him, and the pink is starting to turn to red. I warn him and his response is “harder.” Meanwhile, in the next sling over a young Filipino kid, boy really, small, short, has a stool he’s jumping up on, climbing down from, trying every angle on this older guy he’s working on, fucking, fisting, both. I’m a little out of it, but his small frame definitely looks to me like a spider monkey. The sling on the other side of me has this seventy-year-old guy slowly punching a young twenty-year-old (who a few hours earlier had been fisting me). The guy in the sling’s very quiet for a very long time, simply taking each of the slow punches, then randomly he lets out an enormous wail. So combine this party, smash it together then edited it to a single paragraph, letting it play out as a prelude to the main dance space, gives you the sense of what it's like for Ash. Is it real? Yes. Is it true? I punt: sort of. 

Ash's financial fuck ups and payback, among other things, returns in The Phoenix. 

Ash stumbles on the last step going down. Sebastian catches him. He's in Sebastian's arms now in more ways than one. They go through a wide, dark tunnel. Slings on both side. The slings are full of men getting fucked and fisted. It's hard to focus on any single couple. Some slings have multiple men surrounding them, some men get sucked, some fisted and groped. It's hard to tell where one couple begins and the next quartet ends. One thin Filipino man is hyperactively climbing all over a portly middle aged man like a spider monkey, fucking him at times, fisting him, sometimes fisting and fucking at the same time. An older man sits on a stool toward the end of the corridor and methodically punchfucks a very young man. There isn't passion passing between them, just a steady rhythm of fist after fist. Periodically, and asymmetric to the punching, the younger man wales out a mournful yowl, half regret, half acceptance and desire. The grease is turning from pink to red. The old man asks if he should stop. The young man says harder.

Sebastian leads Ash into the main area. The Assemblyman is right. Slings, fuck benches and St. Andres crosses line the walls filled with willing performers. Sex surrounds the dance floor. Lights of blue and green switch back and forth with red and yellow. The scotch and pill already has an impact on Ash. The colors are more vibrant than ordinary disco lights. They have a sheen on the edges. He can stare into them without going blind. He and Sebastian take to the dance floor, but instead of dancing, Sebastian stand on the sidelines. Ash waits on the shore of the sea of men. He undulates, encouraging Sebastian to join him. He rocks his pelvis, strokes his arms in front of him like he's churning butter, circles an arm above his head, movements that have, in the past, enticed men and women to him. Sebastian stands unmoved, squinting, watching, waiting.

The dance floor absorbs Ash. Many men are naked. They rub their bodies against Ash, encourage him to gyrate to them. He is sandwiched by a couple, one auburn haired, one jet black. They writhe and grease Ash with their sweat. Ash is rippling between the two men's bodies. Then the tide passes him through deeper into the crowd. At one point, inside the heavy electronic beat, his body is passed into the air. Hands feel his torso, his crotch, his face, swirling around, point this direction then that, turned so that anonymous men can feel every inch of him. He feels a boot pulling off. He says hey to the ceiling amused. Another boot, socks comes off. He sees he's not the only body floating above the crowd. He reaches out to one but is being floated the other direction. He's turned over and someone is at his zipper pulling it down. His pants inch down and expose him. They're off and the men below now stroke and pamper him. He's loving it. Another body in the air right beside him floating naked too above the crowd. He extends a hand as does the other, and they feel their arms locked together, seeking mooring, but pulled apart, each carried on a tide that billows them together, then parts them to separate ends of the dance floor. Hands and fingers probe his ass, lube him, caress him. Clenched fists grope his cock. His flesh is licked, tits sucked, balls fondled, all the while the flares of green and blue to yellow and red wash over him and the hands beneath.

His body is passed down to an empty sling in the opposite corner from where he came in. And who is there waiting by its side, naked, erect? Sebastian is there. Of course he is. Maybe he orchestrated it, spellbound the audience and encouraged them to deliver Ash to him. Settling in the sling, Ash reaches up to touch Sebastian's skin. It is rippled, sculpted in a way a man should be sculpted. Every edge is firm, every curve and angle hairless. He feels the ripples of Sebastian's stomach, sculpted like an artist would sculpt a man, like Michelangelo would. They move their hands slowly over each other's body. The surrounding crowd shrouds them, gives them their world, leaves a private sphere around Ash and Sebastian—though every move they make is watched.

Sebastian leans down to speaks to Ash. His face so close, yelling to be heard over the electronic beat, Ash can feel his spittle. "You are so white, so wanting to be corrupted." Sebastian examines Ash's cock, squeezing his shaft to get him hard. He snarls, "You corrupt me with your wanting."

"Corrupt me," pleads Ash, slipping his cock up and down in Sebastian's calloused paw. "I'm all imperfections, it just doesn't show."

Their tongues come together enticing more passion, rich in possibilities. Sebastian leads Ash deeper into the maze of passion. He stands naked before Ash, his body smooth except for the eagle's wings of dark hair above his long, succulent cock. The hairs are perfectly straight, look soft. Ash brushes the eagle wings ready to take flight. He brushes one side to the left, the mirrored side to the right He takes the beautifully sculpted crown into his mouth and excites the cock, first on the head, then draws down the shaft until its disappears down his throat. The soft hair brush against his lips.

His groin smells of man. It tastes of man. Ash's arm is being squeezed and lightly touched. Sebastian ties off his arm at the bicep. Ash is spiked and then, before he knows what happening, there is a chemical being flooded into his body.

***

You feel an orgasm coming. It takes over you body, the enormous rush of eroticism climaxes. But this particular climax stays in your body. Peaks like a high tide but does not recede. It keep you peaking on a wave of euphoric buoyancy. It does not stop. Wave after wave of orgasmic ebullience you ride like the unending surf, the longest wave stretching out before you, no end in sight. You leap in the air, taking off, spinning off the lip of the half-pipe, spinning past a 540, a 720. You flip, you curl. You're running along the beach, you jump a puddle, your soar never touches the ground until you decide to touch ground. You glide, you fly; gravity is a word made up by Newton but has nothing to do with you. Newton is dead and you are alive more than you've ever been. You are above the law of nature. You fly and soar above the clouds, above rules of nature herself. You are Zeus that commands all things. You fly and soar, straddle between heaven and earth. You ride an orgasm, ten times, a hundred times, more powerful than you've ever felt, like the waves you ride in Africa, a wave that takes you past several countries, continents, there are no borders here, there are only rich colors, blue-greens of earth that you stare into. The colors become you: It extends past watching, past anything you've ever known. The rush of heroin is ten times more than words, opens you to meaninglessness, words only hold you down. You body is indebted to Sebastian who owns you, who freed you from your body. He is out there somewhere in the blue-green, now red-yellow. Has pushed you through mirror. You are on the other side, looking at him through a barrier of glass. How can he not be you? You have tripped, tweaked, but never have you soared in flight like this. You never want to experience anything but this again. You will take anything, do anything, sacrifice anything to sustain this elevation, this mountain peak. Stars and comets surround you. You'll kill, maim, sell your soul to maintain this high.

Sebastian watches you, evaluates you. You want him inside you. He takes the meaning as you lift a leg to capture him. You're saying meaningless words, it's the motions, the urgency of getting fucked that make you understood. You take his ass and pull him into you, feel the perfection of his body as it slides where no man has been. Why have you waited this long? Nothing has ever felt as good, no food eaten nor wine drunk has ever satisfied a hunger you now feel. You are gods among men. Men watch envious of the passion you shower onto Sebastian. You show the mortals what a fuck is. You bellow out your passion over a drum beat that makes the men around you pulse, writhe, slither, mimic a tenth of what your feeling. Sebastian is stirring the organs inside you with his mammoth cockhead. Sebastian is the phallus you body prays to and preys on. Your body blazes, every nerve ending fires simultaneously, you feel each strand of pubic hair rub against your ass, you feel Sebastian's heavy balls slapping against you. He's grabbing your cock and guiding you to the same end as his. His skin glistens orange like a devil, now aqua like Neptune. You are underwater drowning in desire for him. You reach up and bring him to you. You merge with him, you become him, sees you as you see you, flawed, imperfect, and still fucks you anyway. Who could desires you as you are? He should destroy you, and he will. You're flooded with his cum as you discharge white lava over his chest. And still the orgasm doesn't end nor does the line of men emerging from the sea of men. Familiar but disconnected from context. A beautiful black man with a bandaged hand missing a finger is next in line, a man holding a horse dildo, a young black man in a harness with a strap that connects to his cockring, an old man with sagging tits holding yet another needle. At that point, with that point, because of that point, you, who you remember, will no longer exist.

***

"How are you feeling?" Sebastian asks. They are in a white tiled room, brightly lit. Ash still hears the dull thump of music beyond the door. "You stopped breathing." Mr. X has his back to him taking instruments out of a metal pan, placing them on blue paper. Ash has similar blue paper draped over his body, except for a cutout around his crotch. His right arm has an ivy drip going into a vein. Sebastian wears a surgical gown and has a surgical mask that's held on by one ear. A stethoscope dangles from his neck. Mr. X also wear a surgical gown.

Ash tells his body to move but it can't. It's not struggling, it just can't move. He attempts to raise a finger but the impulses that runs out of his brain are severed by something dripping into him. Even his eyes find it hard to move. It takes all his effort to move from Sebastian's face to look at his cock. He see Sebastian holding it with a blue latex glove. Ash doesn't feel it very much, just a warm throb. "We were concerned," he tells Ash, "but I think you are going to pull through magnificently." Ash commands his eyes to look up. He sees he's in an operating theater, men behind the glass watching entranced, sees in the glass himself reflected, laid out on a metal table.

Mr. X pulls over a tray with instruments on it. Sebastian takes up a scalpel. Mr. X says muffled behind his mask, "You will mostly not feel this, but we felt it important that you observe. Think of it not as punishment—"

"But a chance to be reborn," says Sebastian, pulling up his mask and putting the scalpel to the tip of his penis. "To rise again from the flames, como un fénix—like a phoenix."

 

American Mangina

Ashford Crenshaw, son of Dr. and Mrs., is buttfucking Conrad Wilson III, who's on all fours. They both have on leather harnesses. Ash, as he prefers to be called, wears scuffed leather boots, Conrad wears a leather cap and collar. No shoes. They are both watching a doctor fucking a nurse on Ash's big ass television.

The doctor is hot—Brazilian, with a huge, hairy chest, arm and shoulders as big as cannons. The only thing he wears is a stethoscope dangling around his neck. The boys mimic the couple on TV doing it doggy-style. The nurse is naked except for her starched white nurse’s cap. Her huge boobs swing in circles and bangs against the operating table while she's getting fuck. Both the boys are impressed by how the man is slapping the shit out of her ass. There's dialogue going on between the couple but it’s in Portuguese and the boys are not really listening anyway. Ash tries a couple of slaps on Conrad ass.

Conrad yelps.

Ash likes hearing Conrad yelp and slaps him and rides him harder, feels powerful smacking his old chum. He's about to nut, pulls out, quickly pulls off his condom, and spurts all over Conrad's fuzzy back.

Conrad immediately cries, "I haven't cum yet."

"You're the slave, so you don't count." Conrad is just about to get up in protest and lecture Ash about the rules, so Ash shuts him up by putting two fingers back in Conrad's fuckhole. He rocks them in and out a few times to stimulate Conrad. He's not heartless. Conrad starts beating off rapidly and cums quickly on the towel Ash earlier provided. Nothing gets on the white shag carpet. That's rule number 4. The Brazilian hunk spurts all over the woman's back around the same time.

Ash sits on his couch towel he also put down earlier. "Okay, slave. Channel seven." Conrad crawls over, switches the channel and plops down on his towel, then lays back to wipe of Ash's cum off. Dick Clark announces the final countdown of 1995, the Times Square ball drops, the numbers 1996 flash on the screen, and confetti falls all over Times Square. Debra Harry sings Auld Lang Syne and the thousands in Times Square, in funny hats and glasses, sway. The song ends and she breaks into one of her old hits, Call Me, and the hoards start jumping up and down.

Ash looks at his glass coffee table. He leans over, scrapes a long trail of coke for himself from a large pile on the table. He inhales half in one nostril, half in the other. His cell rings. "Yo," he says, listens for a while. "No, bro, I'm out.” He’s eye Conrad, motioning him to turn down the volume. “Last teener went to Harvey and Jasper at Tahoe. No, sorry dude. Resupplies come in next week.” Conrad’s not responding so he throws a Time magazine at him. Conrad complies but is miffed Ash is talking to someone else. “No can't, have a family thing tonight. Petey, gotta go. Have a friend here. Yeah. Later." The stash is piled high, the contents of one of his five remaining eightballs. He's chewing his lip. Next to the stash, the Daily Californian, the college’s paper, is folded to the back section listing several parties in the bay area. He looks at Conrad. Even though Conrad's cute with all his freckles and twenty year old furry chest, he wants to get rid of him. He and Conrad go way back to before they can remember. Their families were friends; both father's practice pediatric medicine, both monthers date back to Wellesley as sorority sisters. At six and five, respectively, Ash and Conrad played a game called King and slave, a game that Conrad made up. Ash was always the King, Conrad the slave. In junior high they parted ways—actually Ash ditched Conrad. Something had changed in puberty, actually Ash changed in puberty. He grew, not just grew taller, but grew gorgeous. He took note of how girls, boys, even adults looked at what he was becoming—a very handsome teenager. Compared to rock stars and GQ models he was passing them in strides. He liked what he saw. Strong jaw, straight hairline, dark brows over blue eyes that were almost fluorescent, a long straight nose, sensuous Cupid’s bow lips, a chin with a small cleft, deep dimples he exhibited sparingly; all together a striking face framed by golden hair that fell in fine wisps like blowing wheat. Throughout high school his body filled out even better. He played soccer and water polo. Each sport, supplemented with weight training, gave him a V-shaped torso, broad shoulders made wider by wing-like lats from swimming, strong legs, and a perfect bubble butt. With friends, he surfed weekends at home and spent winters perfecting his snowboarding skills at his parent’s chalet in Tahoe. He was fearless and agile, impressive, at times intimidating, in the half-pipe. Throughout his teens, slight modifications, the right haircut, the right clothes, the right attitude, he was sculpting himself into a modern day Adonis.

He and Conrad still saw each other at annual events like Christmas and Fourth of July family picnics, but Ash remained aloof. But something again happened toward the end of their high school years. Even though Conrad was small he was hairy. Ash spotted him at the beach the summer he graduated. Conrad, who was then going into his senior year, was strolling down the beach with his little sister. Ash stopped him and they talked for a while. Once Conrad got his own apartment in Berkeley he called and invited Conrad over. They reminisced, Ash guiding the conversation, until one thing led to another, and King and slave resurrected with a much more adult rule book.

Throughout puberty life changed Ash. However, during his senior year, right after his birthday, an encounter in a Golden Gate Park toilet changed him altogether. Yes, that happened, but in his first year at Berkeley he radically changed even more. He not only did he plunge head first into drugs, he became a dealer. This brought about so many changes in him, even he couldn't keep up with who he was. He liked pussy, but he also liked the subversive elements of fucking boys his age and especially younger ones.

He would never admit this, but privately, if you pointed a gun to his head, Conrad was his favorite. His old chum always kept him amused, always creative, altered the themes of their King-slave game on a dime. Sometimes it was ship captain and cabin boy, sometime is was Scout Master and Cub Scout. But aside from the leather caps and navy hats and merit badges, it always boiled down to Ash buttfucking Conrad in front of the TV watching straight porn.

Conrad was the only full-on fuck boy of Ash's, but there were starting to become other one-offs. Even his frat buddies weren't immune. It was the thrill of getting busted, the high of pushing the envelope. He and a frat buddy shared a girl one drunken Tahoe weekend at his parent's chalet. They gave he G. By the end of the night the girl was passed out and they started double dicking her. It wasn't gay because of the girl lying there comatose. Didn't matter that it felt awesome rubbing his hot frat buddy's cock against his own big stick. Just a few weeks later he was involved with two girls—couldn't remember their names—and Kyle, one of his surf bros. They were all on ecstacy. Several times, first time accidentally, the remaining times not, the boys crossed swords changing partners. It got to be more fun than fucking the girls. The last round of jousting hanging over the girls, the prettier of the two girls said why didn’t they just get a room. The boys went back to fucking the girls but the fun was gone. Net-net, he was always the instigator of the scene. He produced the drugs, the nights got wild, everyone denied anything weird happened the day after. They always were just so out of it, stoned, tweaked, blacked out. He liked the power play, the "accidents," and "man, was I" blank, which led to further encounters where he was leading "straight boys" into not very straight behavior.

Being a dealer was changing him. Now a college junior, drinks with cute underage freshman, usually naive working class boys, would lead to offers of free samples of his wares, and to him giving them head or he getting it. He'd been cutting into his stash for the free samples, but also stepping on the product to hide the overhead costs. He'd been craving more thrills lately. Also he starting getting reckless with his late dead drop of cash. He was letting his id get him into the seedier venues, bathroom stalls at school, and twice now, filming tied up freshman twinks and blackmailing them for further encounters.

While Conrad wiggled on the towel, Ash watch the Times Square crowd dance to Heart of Glass. Getting rid of Conrad was never really hard. "Slave. Come here, slave. Lick my boot."

Conrad looks at him. "Those boots. They're disgusting." He jumps up and runs to the front door. "But I did bring you a Christmas present I couldn't just give you at Christmas in front of our families." He brings back a large Macy's shopping back. "I thought I'd give it to you now. I hope you like it, Your Majesty."

It's wrapped in black paper, odd for a Christmas present, thinks Ash. "Sorry, bro, I only have that snow globe I already gave you." He rips open the package and finds a large shoe box. He opens it and see two new shiny leather boots. "Pix!" he shouts, "These are awesome!" He admires them, then give Conrad a quick kiss on the mouth.

Conrad bristled at be called Pix, Ash's nickname for him—Pixie—since he was six. But also thrilled that his hero from forever, kissed him for the first time. Not passionate tongue kissing, but he'll always remember the feel of Ash's lips peck his.

Ash smells the boots. It kick-starts something in his groin, reminds him where he wants to be this evening. He holds them out to Conrad. "Go on. Give them a lick. You know you want to," he teases. Conrad holds out the tip of his tongue and gives it a quick lick. They both laugh. "Good slave. Wait!" Ash finds his socks on the pile with the rest of his clothes, puts them on and slips on the boots.

"Size eleven, right?" asks Conrad, concerned, while Ash struggles with his second boot hopping on one leg.

"You got it, bro. They need to be broken in, just, like, you!" And the second boot pops into place. He steps in front of Conrad and lifts his foot. "Now lick it, slave," he orders. He's thinking tonight he might find someone for real to play this role.

Conrad considers it. Raises one finger, says, "Just this time because they haven't left the building." He takes his tongue and licks the soul of the boot from arch to tip. Ash very much likes what he sees. He parades around his apartment only in boots, letting his dick slap back and forth, stopping at his full-length mirror, growing even more impatient for Conrad to leave. "Hey Pix, how about this once, just for New Year's, you do your first line of coke with me?" Conrad turn sad and serious. Ash knows Conrad is on so many pharmaceuticals prescribed by his father—for anxiety, for depression, for his ADHD, for the Star Wars battles that are constantly going on in his brain (his words)—that Ash knows he's frightened of actual getting led into a maze of drugs and never find his way out. And just like clockwork, as soon as drugs are brought into the picture, Conrad starts gathering his things, making excuses, saying he should get home before the holiday traffic, before his whiny mother starts worrying and calling him every fifteen seconds. Ash thanks him again, gives him a big bear hug, which Conrad pretends to hate, takes the little guy's coat out of the hall closet, thanks him for coming out to Berkeley. "Drive home safe. Later, Pix," he says, and closes the door.

He travels back to the mirror. He really does like the boots. He struggles to get them off but does. Slips on his leather pants, enjoys the feel of leather against his skin, debates whether to put a shirt on over the leather harness, decides against it. Puts on his leather biker jacket, pockets a brown vial of coke, goes downstairs, gets in his Bimmer and drives over the bridge to Bar X.

***

He's standing at the corner wondering why he's hesitant to go in. He looks the part, but he's not sure how much of this is costume pageantry and how much of this is real. Certainly some of the men passing him on their way to the bar are swishy queens so it's in drag to them, but most of the men passing by are serious, oozing sex like his rugby pals ooze sweat in August. He catches one or two in the eye. They cruise him back. Totally in it as contact sport.

He sees most of them hold passes. He's not sure if that means he'll have trouble getting in. The line’s thick and growing down the block. He takes out his brown vial and scoops a bump. Snorts. Wipes his nose. Of course he'll get in! He's come this far, and shit man, fuck you! he's Ashford Crenshaw; hot, buff, twenty-one, five-eleven, Caribbean eyes you could easily dive into and never come up for air; on a scale of ten he's a motherfucking twelve. He cuts his way up the line. He's in his full regalia. He unzips his jacket  displaying his smooth, cut chest, perfect six-pack abs, a treasure trail skanks and faggots have paid to lick, his new Scorpio tattoo over his heart beats with all the pride of a November-born Scorpion: sex, secretiveness, intelligence, power—did he mention sex? He brushes his blond chair back, parted perfectly down the center. They should all lick his boots, he believes. There's a tall Latino guy that he tries to cut in front of at the door. The guy blocks his way. "You in a hurry?" the guy says. There is small threat in his voice. "Nah, bro, you go ahead." "Muchas gracias." "De nada," Ash shoots right back. "Your invite?" says the security man—bald, very big, very threatening. The Latino guy looks back, sees Ash stymied, says, "Oak. S'okay, He's with me." Ash waits while Oak opens the black rope.

Ash takes off his jacket and checks it in at the door. There's a tall, skinny black guy at the coat check, naked in a harness whose center strap leads straight down to a cock ring sporting a very long cock. The coat checker hands Ash a token, says, "Don't lose that. Try finding a black leather jacket in this crowd at the end of the night." The man reaches out and grabs one of Ash's tits. Ash smiles his crooked smile, kind of friendly, but not that friendly. Puts a dollar in the coat check's tip cup. 

He wants to find the guy who let him in, maybe buy him a drink, try to make friendly-like. Better always to be talking to someone than standing alone. He thinks he sees the guy. Black hat and leather jacket he remembers at the door. He's as tall as he thought the guy was, six foot, six one. He catches up to the man, reaches out and puts an arm on the man's shoulder. The guy bolts around, ready to defend himself. Ash gives him a second to remember him, then leans in, yells, "Hey, thanks for back there," over the loud din of the bar. The guy flattens his lip, a non-committal You're welcome. The guy is pretty good looking, Ash judges, as his eyes adjust to the bar’s dim lights. Dark hair also parted in the middle, a thin mustache that he shouldn't like, but it looks good on him. Probably about thirty. The man's eyes squint while he evaluates Ash. His brows are full, wary, his chest and stomach smooth and ripped beneath the jacket. He has a long sideburns that accentuate his thin face, dark brown hair just over his ears. "Can I buy you a drink?" Ash shouts. The guy considers taking the offer, and nods once, yes. "What can I get you?" Ash asks. "Scotch." His voice is deep, serious, with just the touch of an accent. "Any kind in particular?" Ash is wondering now if this was a good idea. The guy keep emitting extremely intense vibes, not attentive to Ash's friendliness. He won't smile, this guy, so Ash denies his. Figures he's looking weak. For some reason he now wants to impress him. He's definitely not some muscle head but there is something about him that reeks strength. The guy still hasn't answered. Ash weaponizes his good looks, runs his hands through his sun-bleached hair, knows how it will fall back evenly over his ears, showing dark roots and sun-dappled tips. Ash shouts a little louder with a cupped hand above the noise, "What kind of scotch do you want?" "Expensive." Ash smiles just a little, no teeth.

He makes his way to the bar. It's packed. It's getting so congested there's soon going to be no more room to move. There's several bartenders busy behind the bar. Televisions on both ends of the bar show a fisting video that looks particularly cruel. The biggest, meanest looking bartender, wearing a very old leather vest, sprouting huge drooping tits with what's has to be 00 gauge tit jewelry, says not loudly but so deep Ash can feel the bass of his voice in his balls, "What will you have?" It's all Ash can do to not take a step back in intimidation. He runs his fingers through his hair. "You have Lagavulin?" "Eight or sixteen year?" "Sixteen," Ash replies, then holds up two fingers, "—two of them." "The magic word," says the man. Ash is taken aback. Thinks. "Uh, please?" He’s never been talked to by a bartender like this. "Not the word." Ash then considers where he is." "Two Lagavulins, Sir." "Much better."

The barkeep goes up to the top shelf, pours two good size glasses. The barkeep sets them down and inches the glasses in Ash's direction. "Thank you. Sir." The man nods. Ash puts down a hundred. A large hand covered by a snake tattoo lays over the bill. Ash sees that the snake tattoo's forked tongue ends where the fingernail should be. The barkeep crumples the bill. Ash shivers slightly as the man walks away with it.

"Hi!" A middle-aged man saddles up next to him, sets his drink on the bar. Ash wonders if he’ll get any change from his hundred, but this middle-aged guy’s suddenly in his face. He can't see where the barkeep went. "First time here? You're a new face. I'm Terry. Terry Brennan. But my friends call me Terr, like Holy Terr." He lets out a loud laugh. Ash looks around for the guy he wants to get back to. The bar is wall-to-wall men now. Lot of skin, lot of sweat. A clammy guy rubs up in back of him. Ash's half-annoyed, half-aroused, looks in back of him. The guy is cute. He looks at him not unfriendly. Wonders if the guy’s collar means he's owned. The middle-aged guy, Terr was it? isn't taking a hint. He's asking what his name is.

"Ash. Ash Phoenix." The man rings pearls of laughter into the room. "Like the Phoenix that rises from—. Love it! And what do you do, Mr. Phoenix?" "Berkeley. Student." He's opting for the one word answer route. He also looking around the bar, paying as little attention to the man as possible. "Oooh, a frat boy. Love it." Ash examines the man coolly. Leather jacket, leather pants, yellow kerchief tied around his neck, boots, cap. Boy did this place run the gamut. The man has a goatee, black. A little bit of black hair peeks from his cap. Ash suspected it's all died, it's too solid, makes him look like a cheap Halloween devil. His eyes are a little scary though. He suspects coke, maybe X. They're fairly bulging out his head admiring Ash. "So, frat boy, what are you studying?" the man peaks over his cocktail, like that’s supposed to be cute. He looks at Ash sideways with curiosity. Maybe also he's trying to focus. "Economics, English minor." The man downs the rest of his drink. He grabs across the bar, clutches one of the younger bartenders. "Another one, sweetheart." Definitely drunk and on something. He's too energetic just to be drunk. "Assemblyman Terrence Brenner at your service. Graduated many, many centuries ago from Cal Poly. Animal Husbandry." For some reason he finds this hysterical and slaps the bar multiple times. He tips back his leather cap. "Ever get down to Salinas, Mr. Phoenix? I'd love to host you." "Not really," Ash responds, now searching the room more vehemently. The Assemblyman continues, undaunted by Ash's cold shoulder. "I have a tremendous farm. Very private. Asparagus, lettuce, cauliflower. Lots of migrant workers who are charming but...but what I mostly love is my livestock. Love, love, love. Pigs, goats, cows, dogs of course, and some very, very special horses. Do you ride, Mr. Phoenix?" "Uh, ye-ah." Like it should be obvious. "I bet you do," the Assemblyman says, groping Ash's chest tattoo. "Ever let a horse ride you?" He thinks the man is serious the way he’s eyeing him, but the politician immediately sends out another peal of laughter. "Scorpion. I so envy boys like you. So young, so proud of your status. How long have you had it? The tattoo." "What?" Ash is this close to shoving this pervert away. He opts, instead, for disinterest, giving his full attention to scanning the room. "I got this last month on my birthday." "Oh, dear. The horoscope. Hah. My bad. So you're not—? You should be careful. Not give people the wrong impression."

The young bartender's back and set Brenner's drink down. His barkeep's right behind him and slams down two quarters as change for the drinks. Under the coins is a pass with a St. Andrews Cross—Bar X's logo—stamped on it. He eyes Ash and leaves. The politician sets down a ten. He also notices the invite.

"Oooh, VIP lounge. I would agree that you're pretty special too. Mr. X never gives first timers VIP treatment." Brenner turns to look out into the crowd almost hurt, pouts. "I heard they made the meatrack room into a disco just for tonight. I bet it's pretty." He closes his eyes. "Lights, slings, fuck benches, racks, crosses. Looks like you're one lucky boy.” He’s back to groping Ash with his blurry gaze. “Don't know who you have to fuck to get one of these but I bet you'll find out."

There is a strong, forceful slap on Ash's shoulder. The man Ash has been searching for finds him. There is something possessive in the hand that stays on Ash's shoulder that he likes. He leans over Ash and says to Brenner, "Why don't you go fuck a dog." Brenner stares at Ash, says, "Now that's a knot I'd advise you to take." He takes his drinks, spins around and melds into the crowd. "Besa mi culo, puto! Stay away from him, hear me?" Ash turns around to look at him. He's more handsome than he remembered. His piercing brown eyes still squint suspiciously at him and then around the room. The guy lights an unfiltered cigarette and pinches it hard between his slim fingers. He takes a long drag and exhales it at the ceiling. He offers Ash one. Ash never smokes but takes one anyway. The man lights it. Their faces are close. Ash smell strong body odor coming off him. Anyone else he'd be repelled by, but it's the opposite. Ash pulls up a little closer to him, ostensibly from the crushing crowd, but they both know that's not it. Ash takes a tiny toke so he doesn't choke and blow his coolness. The cigarette is mellower than he imagined, and he takes another draw. He reaches back and hands over one of the drinks, then reaches back and gets his. "Sketchy guy," says Ash. "I'll stay away.” He salutes him. “Yes, sir!" Ash thinks he being ironic, but quickly realizes this is a man who takes words like that seriously. Ash brings down his salutes and takes a sip. The scotch burns going down. He breaks into his winning smile, the one that slays. "To 1996," Ash salutes the man again, more or less to change the mood. "Cheers," the man salutes him back and downs the glass in a single gulp. His Latin accent seems to have a slightly British tinge to it. Funny. "Cheers," returns Ash and, feeling challenged by the one gulp maneuver, finishes the rest of his in one gulp. Both slam down their glasses at the same time. Mr. X is suddenly there with two more full glasses.

"You’ve met Mr. X?" asks the man. "Not officially. A pleasure," says Ash, then remembering his protocol, "Sir," and reaches out a hand. Mr. X swallows his hand with a meaty paw. Ash tries to avoid looking at his missing teeth. The grip is close to painful. Mr. X examines the boy while he's in his grip. Ash straighten up like he’s back in boarding school. "Ashford, Ash Crenshaw," he says as he’s been conditioned to say, forcefully, confidence dialed up to eleven. Mr. X lets go of his hand. Ash falls back to running his fingers through his hair. "Allow me to present," says Mr. X, "Senior Sebastian Romero." Sebastian tips his head slightly. "Ash Crenshaw," says Ash Crenshaw in full peacock mode. His burning belly is getting him to relax. They shake hands. Sebastian's hands are rough, callused. Ash feels like a kid suddenly thrown into a room of adults. These two men both feel intimidating, worldly. As the drink burns in his belly, he's feeling how he kind of likes how his feeling, triangulated by these dominating men. There is an awkward pause as Ash thinks of something interesting to say. He puffs on his cigarette, and puffs up his armor, saying, "I just got back from Peru. Mancora. Ever been there, Sebastian?" Mr. X kicks his head back a little, says, "I thought I hear you say you were Ash Phoenix?" Ash is surprised. He thought it was just him and the Assemblyman at the bar. "You heard that? I didn't think—." Sebastian interjects, "Mr. X hears everything, don't you Mr. X?" Mr. X considers for a second, "Better is Ash Phoenix, the bird that rises from the ashes of death. We should all be so lucky." Sebastian and Mr. X nod. Mr. X pours himself a glass, clinks the other two. The three of them drink. Sebastian and Mr. X finish theirs, Ash has a little left.

"Yes, I know Mancora. Hermosa. I travel a lot around South America." Mr. X looks at Sebastian with caution. Ash tries to maintain coolness, but his passions for his recent trip betrays him. "Muy hermosa! My buddies and I were in Arica, Chile, surfing on winter break, then Mancora, then Nuqui. You know Columbia?" "I am Colombian. We kidnap boys like you there for ransom." Ash keeps his face neutral scanning Sebastian's face to see if he's serious. Mr. X breaks into a deep, rolling laugh, then Sebastian smiles for the first time since they've met. His teeth are uneven, tobacco stained. He displays a gold canine tooth. Ash laughs to catch up with the men. Suddenly becoming aware of the situation, Ash asks, "What brings you up north?" He looks intently at Sebastian, then follow’s Sebastian’s eyes scanning the room. Ash is beginning to think how he might gently extricate himself from this scene. "Import and export," says Sebastian. It's as much as if he's rubbing Ash's nose in the obvious. "Interesting," says Ash. He's carefully considering his next words. "At Berkeley, I have a course right now in the macro-economics. It's about trading partnerships.” “Oh, yes?” Sebastian has stopped scanning the room and is focused only on Ash. ”What goes in, must come out, right? If a country gets behind, for example, certain levies must be laid. If a country gets too far behind there are most likely penalties. Right? If there is a relationship built on trust, consignment can be leveraged on the defaulting party, giving them the opportunity to deliver on what was previously agreed to." "I deeply take to heart economics," says Sebastian. Mr. X breaks in, cutting to the chase: "How much time is needed for a restitution, this being the third occurrence, and as the principal lender must now get involved?" Mr. X looks at Sebastian.  "Banks open Tuesday, day after tomorrow," Ash says, feeling the scotch and heat of the room. "I'm sure payment could be easily be arranged to get up-to-date." Ash sees the two men staring at him in dead earnest. He continues, now becoming frightened even though the room is full of bystanders, "twenty thousand with perhaps a ten percent," he pauses, searches their faces, "twenty percent penalty attached." There is a long pause. Sebastian finally breaks it. "I'm afraid examples must be made or the system, the vast network, breaks down." His eyes are now barely closed slits as he looks into Ash's eyes.

“Do you like poetry, Ashford? Of course, you do,” says Sebastian. "It is your minor at Berkeley. I'm sure you know this one.” Sebastian places his hand on Ash's hand, resting on the bar, holding Ash captive. "Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; mera anarquía--mere anarchy is loosed upon the world." Sebastian turns his body against Ash, trapping him to the bar rail. Sebastian's other hand is now scaling over Ash's shoulder, clutching him, sex mixed with menace. "The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere--La ceremonia de la inocencia es ahogada;--the ceremony of innocence is drowned;" Sebastian runs his fingers through Ash's fine blond hair. The hair falls back, as it always does, perfectly in place. "The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of--apasionada intensidad--passionate intensity."

Ash is to the point of fight or flee. He opts for neither. His heart races. He’s feeling so many confusing things at once. Fear? Liquor? Something in the liquor? A hardon? They have slipped him something. If it’s G he might be headed to the hospital. He simmers down a bit identifying what the feeling is. He's never passed out on G, he know how aggressive it makes him. He feels he's got a handle on it now and gets more of his confidence back. He plants himself on familiar ground, reciting back to Sebastian, "And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?" While he’s reciting the familiar verse, his mind spins. He’s plotting wildly, though he knows his brain will be slowing down to a crawl soon. "Yeats," he says. "Does he fuck with your mind like he does mine? Right now I’m feeling pretty fucked. It always seems Yeats could be talking about today, this second. Would you like—?" He takes out his vial of coke, offers some to Sebastian who accepts. Mr. X declines. Sebastian snorts a bump, then Ash does his. That’ll keep him from passing out. He’s played chemistry set with his body before, knows what counterbalances he needs. What he doesn't know is what their endgame, so he's looking for options. He eye the front door as a means of escape and sees Daryl taking passes. As the cocaine hits, his brain has a vivid flash of Daryl, his first connection to the drug trade. Teenage Ash sucking off his first black cock in Golden Gate Park during his last year in high school. Daryl who gave him his first taste of blow; who soon arranged blind drops between drugs and money, and money and drugs. Suddenly the strings of father’s money cut him loose in independence. Daryl smoking at the door, opening up the black rope with a bandaged hand, his little finger missing.

Sebastian places a cold hand on Ash's shoulder. "You signed on to help things fall apart. You are a very smart young man. I ask you, if you falter, what does mere anarchy have to fall back on?"

He's fucked. Ash knows the G that makes him lose focus is battling with the blow, which makes him focus. The combo is also making him aroused. If he's fucked, he might as well get fucked—that’s G talking, he realizes. His mind’s fracturing, clouding up with a sexual fog. Sebastian might be the perfect partner in this state. Delaying tactics—yes, delay. Two hours tops and then he'll come down; dance, make out, a hand job, suck him off. Whatever it takes. He;s got about a gram in his vial. The rational side of his brain, the one he'll lose in a couple of minutes, tells him to stall, wait as the G fully kicks in and then tapers off. He can barter, trade his way out of this. G tells him what he already knows, he would love to get fucked by this Colombian stud staring into him. Sebastian is reading his mind—now it’s the nose candy's paranoia talking. Did he remember condemns? His mind is kicking thoughts around like a pill ball machine. He was hoping something like this, well, not exactly this, might happened. Yes, he has condoms in his pocket. His brain is a hundred disparate jumbotrons flashing over Times Square. The west coast countdown has begun on the televisions. This could all be cleared up, he assures himself, if he can make it through the next couple of hours. The drugs are short-term. He's got the money, and he can get more. He needs to get the plan going— 

He speaks over his shoulder. "Mr. X, Sir. Thank you for your invitation. Would I have your permission to take Sebastian with me as my plus one?" He hears Mr. X's deep voice behind him, "Sebastian is welcome anytime. No reason this can't be pleasant." Sebastian cracks the smallest of smiles, a gold tooth glinting. Ash speaks to Sebasian. "Should we slouch then toward Bethlehem, my friend?" It's not acting anymore. He really wants to get fucked by Sebastian, the first man he's ever met that he'd consider it. Sebastian smiles genuinely. "Sí, mi amigo hermoso." "Enjoy," says Mr. X, "I join you later." He takes his and Sebastian’s glasses to the sink. 

Ash is about to finish the last of his scotch, when the Colombian puts his finger on Ash's lips, shows him a white pill on his tongue. He pulls Ash to his mouth. Against all better judgment, knowing this will fuck up everything, knowing too late that this is not the plan, he’s overruled by desire. Ash meets him open-mouthed like he's wanted to all night. Their tongues interweave, and the pill is taken into Ash's mouth. He will never forget this kiss at midnight, when leather men all around him cheer and exchange their own kisses. All the sirens and horns screech around him, warning Ash Don’t! Ash parts from the most tender and deadliest kiss he's ever had, downs his scotch and slugs backs the pill.

***

9 hours ago, bareall77 said:

lucid darkness

That's it! You and ponyboy are writing upcoming chapters. I'll keep us honest as to what went down in '96, but very much appreciate the close reads and comments. Don't know if the next enstallment, American Mangina, will be anyone's cup of tea (or weak coffee), but it does bring in Sebastian, one of the more, er, memorable guys who, like a black cat, crossed my path. (Like many others, I have a thing for bad boys.) So I dedicate it to you and ponyboy. Hope you enjoy, if enjoy is the right word. 

For Ponyboy.

Vinnie in his robe. We'll keep in closed for now.

 

"Jagged Little Pill"

You live you learn, you love you learn
You cry you learn, you lose you learn
You bleed you learn, you scream you learn

— Alanis Morissette, 1996

 

As much hair that covered that small body of his, Conrad Wilson III had trouble with facial hair. His beard was incredibly sparse which, you could see with him standing there hairy and naked after his shower, the rest of his body was not. This was why he was excited to see he could start shaping the minimum facial hair to form what he imagined as a wispy Dartanian beard. A soul patch and a little chin scruff and a thin growth above the lip—something an unshaven seventeen-year-old might have. He held small scissors in his hand, clipping one, two nose hairs from a nostril. In his other hand he held a cell phone. His mother continued to prattle on.

“Did you see the front page of the Chronicle?” He glanced at Monday's finished crossword puzzle sitting on the hamper next to the toilet. “Of course you did. Look who I’m asking? I called Kitty right away. Reporters were in her drive way all morning. No word from Dr. Dean, the bastard—sipping martinis on his new houseboat in Sausalito with that horrible Nurse Wretched or what have you. Too drunk or hungover to answer. Kitty didn’t know what to do or say to the police. Of course, she hasn’t gone back to the house. I wouldn't either. The police wanted her to see if anything was missing. They think nothing was taken, just a smashed mirror. It was all the furniture that wouldn’t fit in her condo. The kids' stuff went with, but not theirs, not surprisingly. And she was responsible for the clean it up! Think of it. And insurance won’t pay nearly enough. Naturally they’ll need new carpet. If you ask me I would just give the bed to charity but they probably wouldn’t take it, well, not the mattress most likely. But the poor thing was frantic, not being able to get a hold of Dean, the bloody prick. Sorry, dear." Did his mother have a bigger grievance against Dr. Crenshaw than just sticking up for her best girl friend? He saw a blemish on his cheek and banished the thought of his mother and Dr. Crenshaw. "She fired the real estate agent, of course. I'm certain she wasn't involved. She wasn't bright enough. A set of keys were missing in the middle of the week, but did she think to notify anyone? No. Can you imagine she was going to have an open house on Sunday? I suppose for her sake it was a blessing that she had a private showing the day before. Just she and an Indian couple were there. Casino people from that place up on Highway 5?”

"Native American," he corrected.

"And if she hadn't walked in and found those bodies? Can you imagine discovering them at an open house? With all those people?"

“Mother, if I chit-chat any longer I’ll be late.”

“Oh, I know you’re busy, dear. I do hope you’re safe with all those criminals running around—be safe, won’t you?" She sighed. "Pacific Heights is so picturesque, isn't it, and your apartment is so lovely. It's where your father and I lived when we first were married. Does the landlady still sit by the window with her cat? Silvia—what was her last name? We still send her Christmas cards with our family newsletter.”

"She’s pretty much blind and bedridden, and there is no cat."

“I do just wish you would have gotten the floor above. It has the loveliest view of the bridge. Foggy nights, roaring fire, wine, your father would bring home Chinese. Ah. Oh well, I should drop by and see if you are stocked up, so you and—oh, what’s his name, dear, the Mormon boy?

“Carson.”

“Carson (laughs), like the city. And that funny last name. How is he, dear?" Her disinterest in asking the question even poured through the phone, as did the glug-glub of her wine decanter. The clink of the crystal stopper going back in its neck. What time was it? 9:45 in the morning. My god!

“Funny enough, I haven’t seen him.” It was a curiosity. Carson, who made the dining room his bedroom—he, Conrad had the only real bedroom—hadn't been home all weekend. That most certainly was not like him. He picked at the blemish.

She paused for a moment. “A dead dog and a man without pants. Oh sweet Jesus! Can you imagine? The papers are having a field day!”

“Mother, I’ll call you when I get home tonight.”

“Please do, sweetheart. I so worry about you in that horrid city."

"It happened in Belvedere, mother. Closer to you than me."

"You're telling me! I'm frightened to death. Riff-raff everywhere you turn.”

"I really am going to be late. Kisses."

Double kiss-kiss sounded from the ear piece. He hung up and snipped two more hairs from his other nostril. Perfect, but why couldn't he have as much hair on his face as he did in his nose. And why did he have to have a hairy back? He just a week away from turning twenty-one. He should ask for laser surgery for his birthday.

He scrutinized his face a final time. The blemish was hardly noticeable. He dabbed it with Clearasil just to be sure. He was ready for Monday’s make-up class. He was excited. They were to learn about prosthetic noses today. He wanted to try on a long one over his little pug nose. Sharp. Pointed. Something French to go with his beard.

***

So this happened.

I'm driving my jeep back from a matinee where I'm ushering the balcony. A rare production: a well done classic in these hinterlands. Not fully attended so I wasn't too busy. I leave the lot and it's spewing bits of icy rain. I hear a boom! Halfway down the block my entire drive shaft falls out. It makes a hell of a racket and I think, Shit, there goes the jeep. I look under and pull out the drive shaft and the U-joint. This guy passes me on the sidewalk, beeping his keys to unlock the Prius next to me.

"Well, fuck me Judge Judy," I say, not to him, just out loud. I'm standing there wet, soggy, despairingly holding the drive shaft and the U-joint in the street like some sad clown.

He's getting into his car. Looks at me, looks at the jeep. "It's a jeep," he says. "You have another drive shaft. Take it over Eddie's Transmission, ‘bout a mile down."

I recognize him from up in the balcony, before each show, talking to the actors. He’s the play's director. "That so. What do I know, I've had two cars my entire life, my daddy's Caddy and this old jalopy."

He looks me over again. Says, "Don't I know you?"

On that subject my answer is always: Nope, and move on. But this time I say, "Well, I'm a volunteer usher. I do the balcony. Nasty weather. Small house, but the actors were great. The girl who played Nina was especially good. Stayed for the whole show." I talk too much. Sometimes when I've been isolated a little too long and the cats aren't holding up their end of the conversation (as cats are wont to do), I'll go in to Walmart or some such, buy something I don't need, and just start talking to store clerks, or women who have interesting neck tattoos, or people sitting in the pharmacy waiting for their fulfillment, and just start making up all kinds of stuff.

"Mighty kind of you to say. I directed it," he says. Something passes between us. Can't pin it down. I see him searching files in his brain, too, but he keeps talking. "Kind of you to stay. Not much for the actors playing to an empty house.” He switches mid-beat. “But, I tell you what. It's the dog-gonedest thing. You're the spitin' image of someone I used to know."

I look at him. He, too, looks familiar. I see it before he does. It's Carson, the Montana Mormon kid from years ago. Same round face, same receptive eyes. Bald now. I have a flashback of more than twenty years of my back alley bedroom, of unbuttoning his jeans and discovering his prickly cactus and tumbleweeds. I have to look down and compose myself. Not smiling, I respond, "Don't see how. Never got out much from this area."

He then snaps his fingers. "David Kennedy!" He looks around pointing at me, looking to tell someone on the street who he's discovered. Truth was, years ago, right after I left the city, I was pretty paranoid. I used to wear a prosthetic nose and brown contact lenses in public to keep things like this at bay. But that got old after so many years, when I stopped thinking a certain group of people were looking. And now who'd know me in these small towns. But theatre is catnip to me and keeps me dropping in to watch actors from up in the dark. Mostly small houses, run down theatres doing bad Shakespeare, painful Moliere, some recent plays from New York, the ones with older actors in them. It's mostly older people that attend, so plays with older actors usually do well. Nostalgia. Reflections of themselves. But I confess, for me, it's also the lights, the calm, the anonymity, the smell. Did you know that smell is the strongest memory trigger? It always brings back that year and the boys that made it— as I look at Carson—and them's that didn't, JT's voice says in my head.

"Hmm, interesting," I say shaking my head, looking at him blankly. We both know I'm lying. Carson's greatest talented was reading people, reading actors especially he was playing against. Would drop out of character to say, without accusation, that he just was feeling it. He'd purse his lips like he was doing right then. I can see why he directs. Not many people can pull the drollness out of The Seagull, make it just a melodramatic tragedy; he got more than a few chuckles from a house of ten patrons and an usher. He tests me, skeptically, "You weren't ever in the theatre, movies? TV?" I bite down hard on my oft-played Walmart role, against a very tough scene partner I might add. "Nope. Love to have. Just a fan. Did one play in high school but was so nervous forgot my lines. One play and that was that. Still, I try to help out, fills up the time. Name's Keith Reilly, next town over." I look at my hand to see if I have grease on it. I don't and extend my palm. He still has the same firm rancher's son handshake. "Retired school principal. Yup.” I look up at the swirling gray sky. “Appreciate the info about Eddie's though. Your name was?"

"Carson Littlebear." The prick is smiling appreciatively and ironically.

"Well, Carson Littlebear, sure was a pleasure meeting you and I really did like your play. I'll be back in the balcony this weekend and playing all week."

He gives me a final look. "And play it well, you do, Keith Reilly, retired principal from the next town over.” He says quietly so the rest of the imaginary cast doesn’t hear: “Maybe a little less on the accent."

I give him, for old time’s sake, my best blank, uncomprehending, not breaking character, don't know what you’re getting at, look. He gets in his car, waits a moment, and rolls down the window. There's a pause as he's looking out at me standing there in the street holding my drive shaft and U-joint. I'm not sure what he wants at this point. "Can't get out if you don't—" he breaks off pointing at the car in front and back and at my jeep blocking him in. I nod friendly-like and throw the parts in the passenger side and go around to my door. Just before I get in he calls out, "Man who'd have a jeep long as you had in these parts probably would've known there was a second drive shaft—and before you say anything that you got to say to that, I seem to recall a white Caddy that my friend got from his daddy. Strange, in'it?"

"World's a strange place, Carson Littlebear," I say and get in.

"Reckon it is!" he yells as a last reach. I shift my clutch into four-wheel drive and ramble off to Eddie's.

***

He put a blanket over the sleep boy. His cursed responsibility. He sat up most of the night contemplating his next move. He gathered together a Go Bag with Shaftow's gun, both of his, the fifty-K he had in the safe, a passport and other IDs of one "Steven Jackson," two toothbrushes—one for himself and one for JT. Right. That's where his plan broke down. JT would never go with him. Should he just let him leave in the morning? Mr. X would easily find him and he'd be dead in a day. Could a day's head start make a difference to him? He shook his head in disgust at his ruthlessness. And B) he never seen or heard of anyone ever getting away from Mr. X. He had sealed that fate back in Oakland years ago.

So what did he want, he asked himself? He wanted to survive, he wanted JT to survive. He wanted to take care of JT. He wanted JT to care about him. But that ship had also sailed. That was never going to happen. He was delusional if he thought that. Then he settled for at least JT and him simply surviving. How? Coming on four in the morning he realized the question wasn't what he wanted, but what Mr. X would want. Every way he looked at it he accepted Jeremy wasn't leaving unscathed, dead maybe, but Mr. X would want a sacrifice and Jeremy would be the lamb.

He hated himself. He contemplated getting up and shooting Jeremy then himself. It might be better for them both. He didn't though. Couldn't. He let Plan B percolate. It was passive of him, cowardly, not who he was. Ultimately, they both probably would be killed anyway. See, this is what happens when go give in. He stripped, got into bed, pulled the leopard spread over his shoulder. He lay, looking at the dark windows. Failed plans floated through his cursed brain. He melted into a cold, troubled sleep, until a warm body came up behind him. JT's body.

***

I came back to the Academy on Friday. Made the drive stretch out for two days. Spent the night in Morrow Bay outside Hearst Castle, watching the seals on the beach. Next day I strolled through the Redwood Forest. Stopped at that ancient sliced tree that shows the yearly rings that marked important dates: World War I and II scores of rings in, Christopher Columbus coming to America about a half a foot, the year Jesus was born another foot, when Greece sailed to Troy to fetch back Helen. Didn't have a marker for 1996, though. Maybe we were the living moss desperately clinging to the dead bark.

As soon as I was back, Riggs buttonholed me and said Mr. X wanted to see me. Could I come over after dinner tonight? Sevenish? Not another blood oranges-rosemary chicken kind of night? I asked. We're far beyond that, he confided. Mr. X want to get down to business. He has a proposition. Please, he begged, come over. I said I would and knew instantly I’d regret it.

Joey was okay in speech class, but different somehow. Reserved, which really wasn't his style. I saw he was affectionate with Duncan on the common room couch, that Duncan was attentive to him between classes. They weren't trying to hide it either. Why should they, if Conrad had the scoop that they were an item? But in fight class Duncan was completely different. Ordering Joey around worse than he usually ordered us boys.

We were doing long poles with four foot sticks you hold at each end. We learned a routine where we'd clash in the middle at one angle, then clash again at another angle. Back and forth in the middle, a pair of us at a time. We were adding a part where the A group (my side) slid a hand down and held the pole like a baseball bat and the B side rose the pole over there head to block getting clobbered. Joey was in the B group and kept messing up. Duncan, true to form, called him out in front of the class. He repeatedly went over the routine playing the A part, bringing the pole down at Joey's head. Duncan was doing it at real-time speed. Joey would have the pole most of the way up and Duncan would smash his right hand because he wasn't quick enough. They'd do it again and Duncan would smash his left hand because he was anticipating and made the routine look fake. Joey quickly learned to get the pole up but by then you could tell Duncan was already pissed. He did a 360 with his pole and the velocity and force of the pole cracked Joey's pole in two. Duncan was about to continue another round of humiliation when Jeremy stepped forward.

"I think he's got it, coach."

Duncan dismissed him, telling Joey, “First position!”

Jeremy challenged Duncan. “Lemme see if I got it right, coach.” He stood in front of Joey in first position. That took guts and I'd ever turn of mind and admired someone so much as Jeremy at that moment. Carson went over, too, and also protecting Joey. “See if I got it too,” he said. Then Leah and I stood on either side of them and readied our poles.

Duncan really seemed off, paranoid, not at all fun. He kept tapping Jeremy's stick, and Jeremy kept tapping it away. We each got a turn tapping him away as he tested our resolve. "You mutineers taking over this class?"

Jeremy spoke calmly, "Not if you don't—"

"Hey guys," Joey broke in. "I'm the fuck up. Mr. McCain's right. I'm sorry, Sir. I'll try harder."

Duncan's face reddened. He barked, "Alright, end of class!" There were audible sighs from a few people. Nothing from us standing by Joey. "Next week back to short swords and we'll add tumbling. Be ready people. No more of this namby-pamby shite." He left by the front door without looking back.

Leah spoke first. "Duncan's an ass, Joey. How's your hands?" She made Joey show her. Luckily she didn't make him lift up his shirt, I thought. "Your knuckles are goddamn black and blue. I'm going to Mr. Riggs."

Joey pleaded with her, no, forget it. He was fine and didn't want to make a big deal about it. Mr. McCain was always like this. Jeremy said he still thought Mr. Riggs should know about it. I offered (too hastily) that I was sure Mr. Riggs was aware. All except Joey looked at me quizzically. Well, I tried backtracking, it was his school and he knows Mr. McCain's temperament. The group accepted the thought. But I now wondered how healed Joey’s back was and if there were any new marks. If something like this was going on every night, I wanted to know. I saw first hand how Duncan easily lost control.

"Well, fuck him and the ass he rode in on,” Leah concluded. “Hey, how 'bout supper! Why don’t y’all come over? Jeremy's cooking, right stud?" She brushed up against him warmly. Kissed him on the cheek. His face flushed and his cheeks turned bright red.

"I'm in," I said. Carson and Joey looked at each other uncertainly. We’d really never had a dinner together. “Dude! Of course you’re coming.”

Carson and Joey nodded. Carson asked what he could bring. Leah said, “Just an enormous appetite. Jeremy's not shy about roasting a whole pig if he's got an audience, are you sweetcheeks?

"All I got time for is spaghetti tonight, buttercup. ‘Member I have that thing at seven?" Jeremy tried to play ‘thing’ down, which only excited Leah more.

"Oh, that right! Jeremy's got a hot date with some mystery man."

Joey came alive with the revelation, blurting out an enormous, "Hah! And all this time, I thought you were a big 'ol, good 'ol boy, closet case." This was the Joey I remembered. We all laughed. Not so much Jeremy. He seemed a little embarrassed and mad at Leah.

"He ain't no mystery man. Just someone I met is all." Jeremy hit Leah, but like you'd hit your kid sister. A little more than light, but a bit less than hard.

"And I gotta mystery man to meet too,” I said. "But spaghetti sounds awesome after three weeks of pizza and salad."

"What’ya got against pizza, dude," Joey said, fake kneeing me in the balls. "Let’s get the fuck outta here. Skip the shower. Who knows what Jeremy might do if I drop the soap."

"Whatever you say, Ratso," snorted Jeremy tilting an imaginary cowboy hat, leading us down the stairs.

Joey started singing, Everybody's talkin' at me, then Leah joined in, I don't hear a word they’re sayin', and finally Carson and me joined, only the echoes of my mind. Jeremy abruptly stopped on the stairs making us all crash into each other. He turned around taking center stage, and proudly recited, "Well, sir, I ain't a f'real cowboy. But I'm one helluva stud!" Joey jumped on Jeremy's shoulders, Leah pinched Joey’s butt and I kneed Carson to keep moving.

***

Freeze frame.

That's why we like photographs. They're our mental periods. Nothing exists before them, nothing after. We’ll only forever remain in the moment. Susan Sontag argues that photography levels every event, makes all events equal, creates in us a "chronic voyeuristic relation" to the world around us. Takes us outside the world, the moment, not in it. Don DeLillo makes the argument from the flip side of the coin, as voiced by his characters in White Noise. (Yeah, yeah, I read a lot in the mountains.) His characters go to a tourist attraction called The Most Photographed Barn in America. There, every day tourist stand on the same mound to photograph the barn. The same image repeated endlessly by thousands of tourist. There's a stand to the side that also sells postcards and slides of the barn. One character watches the tourist with their tripods, and filters, and telephoto lenses. He observes:

"Being here is a kind of spiritual surrender. We see only what the others see. The thousands who were here in the past, those who will come in the future. We've agreed to be part of a collective perception."

I have that image in my mind right now of us descending the stairs. I also have one of those physical pictures at my house. Not of the barn but from Disneyland with my family. In the photo I'm eight. My mom's is in a scarf and my dad's in a Jungle Cruise captain's hat. We must have been happy at that moment when a friendly stranger photographed us standing under the Kodak Photo Spot sign, overlooking the submarine lagoon. How many other families stood in that exact spot, happy at the moment, wearing the same expression. The moment stops there. Frozen. We can now shed the moment and get on with our lives. As with The Most Photograph Barn in America, we no longer see the barn. It’s captured. I no longer see my family. I don't have to. The family, a perfect replica, hangs on my cabin wall. I don’t even see it. I don’t need to. I know it’s there if only as an illusion. The five of us are frozen in my mind on that staircase. None of us will ever be unhappy.

***

Vinnie’s robe’s open and he still sports a very hairy, very hard erection. He lays on the floor clutching his shoulder moaning.

“Shut the fuck up! If I wanted to kill you I would have killed you. Get up,” Mr. X waves the gun at the wounded man. “Sit in chair so I can see you. Move! I might change my mind.”

Vinnie rolled to his knees holding his shoulder, checking how much blood, forehead to the floor for balance. Then rose just to his knees, feet, and hobbled to a kitchen chair where he could see JT. On the chair next to the chair holding his Go Bag.

“Vincenzo, how you disappoint me. I’m most disappointed that you didn’t even try to run. Make me chase you down.”

He was in extreme pain, but calm and lucid. The bullet had passed through cleanly. He needed to disinfect the wound and make sure the bleeding stopped, but he'd survived. To this point. “Where would I run?” he said. “We know all the same people. You'd've found me eventually.” He contemplated this delay. He had to confront Mr. X and find out what would appease him. All for letting his guard down for Jeremy. And, ironically, thinking the kid would never trust him again. Not till last night's turnaround. A gun wouldn't protect him and Jeremy. Now all he had was his reliance on words, and Plan B's off-chance getting close Shaftow's gun.

Mr. X wandered over to Jeremy, hands handcuffed above him. Frightened. To Mr. X that fear made him even more alluring. He stroked the boys wilting erection with his gun’s hot muzzle. Jeremy flinched. “You did find most handsome boy, I give you that.” He laughed, “How much you want for him?”

Vinnie looked around the room, assessing how mobile his shoulder was, exactly where the bullet had passed through, feeling what strength and flexibility remained. Daryl, the large black muscle, was next to JT, left of the bed, eyeing the kid in a way he did not like at all. Oak, the bald white muscle was by the elevator, impassive like always, looking over at him occasionally. Oak, mostly stared straight ahead, mesmerized by the porn bouncing around the monitors. He’d might zone out and be the last to react. It was getting to the Go Bag and Shaftow’s gun, taking down an already armed Mr. X and a quick drawing Daryl, which was the problem. If Mr. X didn’t outright kill him, he calculated, he could take him out first, dispatch Daryl second, and eliminate Oak third. It was a gamble and a extremely naive one. The very second he sprang he knew the plan would be obvious to Mr. X. From the moment the Go Bag became Vinnie’s target, Mr. X would instinctive know a gun was inside. That’s what Mr. X would have done. And since he still was holding his gun, running it up and down JT’s shaft, trying to elicit an erection—and starting to succeed (he knew how erotic fear could be)—he was certain he’d never get within a foot of the bag. Be dead getting off the chair. Jeremy raped, tortured and killed. Bad Plan B.

“Fifty percent of what I make off him,” he said coldly. “That’s what I’ll give you.”

“Hmm. And why not just kill you and take one hundred percent?”

“Because you can’t get out of him what I can.”

“Bullshit,” spat Mr. X, “You couldn’t even get footage for Doggy Daddy website. And now I have major cash outflow to take care of. You’re so sloppy,” Mr. X took the warm barrel and started poking JT’s balls, lifting them, parting his butt to see his boyhole. Jeremy kicked him away. “The detective to pay off to wipe tripods and doorknobs and whatever else you carelessly touched. And don’t ask how Assemblyman is taking it." He played the muzzle over Jeremy thinly trimmed pubes, seductively telling Jeremy, "Maybe I give you nice tight vagina, boy. I'm very good with vaginoplasty. Sex change is very popular." He poked the weapon again into JT's groin. "Have made many successful operations. Assemblyman fuck you after that and calls it even. You will like having big pussy. Or maybe sloppy, hanging pussy is more what you like." He ran the barrel under his balls and poked into his butthole. "Have many boys like that back home. They make good money.”

Whether he was joking, threatening or actually offering, Jeremy continued shaking his head vehemently. He was so shit-shrieking scared he found it hard to form word. He finally sputtered out n-n-no.

“Put gag in him,” he said to Daryl. “Who asks his opinion anyway?”

Vinnie was within seconds of jumping to the the bag, but Mr. X turned back his attention on him. His mind raced. What did he have and what could he offer. “A hundred large. I can give you that, too." Mr. X looked over at him. "But why, Mr. X? Why the hell would you ever waste a golden goose like that! He’s no bottom. He’ll take it in the ass if I want him to, but he’s a fuckin’ stud in bed.” He looked at Mr. X and with lurid emphasis that he knew Mr. X would understand, said, “I know. Personally.” He let that sink in and saw Mr. X’s eyes widen.

“He take fist?” Mr. was X intrigued, walked over to the kitchen table.

“No, but I can train him to be a mean fisting Top. Mind if I clean this up?"

“Go clean. No, he has to take fist too. And double dick. And scat.”

Vinnie looked at JT’s worried face. He turned away and went to the medicine chest next to the rack of towels. The dumb-ass kid probably didn’t even know what scat was. He was sure fisting to him was obvious, though. “Double dick okay, But no scat and no more animals.” He found the alcohol and roll of cotton pads and tape. Brought them back to the table, sat and let the robe fall off him to the back of the chair.

“Raunch then. He must do raunch or what else would a pretty face be good for except to be dirty." Vinnie nodded, then let out a hiss as he dabbed the wound. Mr. X continued excitedly, "Okay, we’ll put in standard contract. Fifteen gross minus my fifty percent on first three videos—co-star, not starring—then we renegotiate according to audience interest. U.S. rights only.”

Vinnie applied the pad and started wrapping his shoulder. "We'll agree to that." He did not look at Jeremy but certainly heard his protestations.

“One more thing. My pound of flesh. Assemblyman will not be happy just with money. He says he wants boy's balls too. He talked literal." Vinnie was about to protest, but Mr. X continued soothingly, "Stop your worry. I give him nice big prosthetic balls. We make hardon with implant or drugs. We can decide later. But it has to be or this escalates unattractively.”

Vinnie heard JT yelling through his gag, and saw he was shaking his head emphatically. He made out a muffled fuck you before Daryl slapped him hard. “I agree with the kid. That’s short-sighted, Mr. X. You know from your own pussy-boys back home. It’s not sustainable. Hormone therapy, the suicides, increased ED over time, permanent impotence. You'll get three years tops out of him.”

“This is not negotiable point. Assemblyman, he wants his nutsack. Nothing I can do. Wants to cook and eat testicles, preferably in front of boy. Myself? I think that is a too—uh, much. But with deal, no feds get involved. No to deal, I shoot you both and chop off his balls anyway.”

Vinnie looked at the boy who was trembling. His penis had shrunk down to an Oscar Meyer weiner size, the smallest Vinnie'd ever seen it. “Okay, final offer. One of his balls and one of mine. I choose the method,” Vinnie offered dispassionately.

“Okay," he said. "Deal. But first, I take bag and gun you look at too much.” He opened the Go Bag and waved a finger. He put Saftow's gun in his overcoat pocket and tossed the other two to his men. “You too," he said to his men. "Your job to make sure boy can take double fuck. You, Vincenzo, make sure he can take fist, next week  latest, or he gets vag and your end up in bay. I write outline of contract, you get single point ready for me and boy to bond. One dart, split gram between us. Use bag I have. Czech glass. None of your Mexican shit. Boy and I have bond. We have good bonding time, maybe I let him fuck me, I am kind. I take one ball from each of you. Assemblyman get your ball, his ball. Assemblyman never know the difference. Shhh, our secret. All balls look alike on dinner plate. Everyone is happy."

Mr. X took out a small bag of solid, clear shreds of crystal, and laid it on the table. Vinnie pulled his robe carefully over his shoulder, got up and took a spoon from a kitchen drawer, a plate from the cabinet. Mr. X put a razor blade next to the bag, eyeing Vinnie carefully. Vinnie got to work. "Hey! Salt ‘n Pepa," Mr. X called over his shoulder. "What you wait for. Get busy. We have much business tonight.”

JT eyes grew wide as saucers, as Mr. X’s two muscles rapidly stripped, displaying monster cocks to rival his.

***

It took over an hour for Mr. X and Vinnie to work out the contract until both were satisfied. While Mr. X wrote out the first version, Vinnie chopped, cooked, and cooled the clear vial. Shortly into the negotiation Vinnie saw JT was resisting, consciously or not. The two men frustratingly took turns trying to get their dicks into him. Vinnie asked Mr. X if he could give the boy a booty bump out of his own stash. Generously Mr. X pointed to his own baggie and Vinnie pinched the bottom debris and flicked it into a shot glass. With one of his plungers he added water, mixed it up and, once dissolved, sucked it back up. He came over to the boy whose legs were being held and spread in the air by the two muscles. Mr. X put down the contract and came over to watch. Vinnie put some lube on his finger, greased the boy's hole and slid in the plunger, pushing in the contents.

"Trust me, cowboy. You can hate me for the rest of your life, but you'll have a rest of your life." The kid stared at him the whole time, unnerving Vinnie, made him regret every second of their future.

Fear broke over the kid's face. Quickly the boy began rapid breathing and then an unnatural calm came over him. His small hole clutched in and pulsed out. His pursed asslips puckered in, while the drug absorbed into his porous ass walls. He was trying to push it out but he could feel the cold liquid dripping deeper inside.

To Mr. X the transformation was always remarkable. The boy's face transformed slowly from fear to lust. He could see his hole pushing out for someone, anyone, to enter him. A little cum, probably Vincenzo's bubbled up. Irresistible as honey, he bent down and lick JT's hole. The youth was startled by his forked tongue, but he soon offered his butt again to the freakish old man. Mr. X stuck in his tongue sending a wave of gooseflesh over the boy. Even the muscle men couldn't help but get a little hard over the boy's change. "Back to work," declared Mr. X and got off the bed.

It took slightly less than an hour for Oak and Daryl to both get inside JT and satisfy themselves. Oak, true to his name, had a solid piece of wood. As soon as Vinnie and Mr. X resumed their negotiations at the kitchen table, he did his duty vigilantly. He was very hairy, not in a clipped porn star way, but as man who drank, worked out seldom, and never watched his diet. He was thick around the middle and had very broad, dock worker shoulders. Jeremy felt the man's buried muscles under the very fleshy and hairy chest. JT's hole was tight in fear but now relaxing. Either way, Oak couldn't have cared less. He actually preferred a fight, overcoming an assailant who didn't want him in him. Rape turned him on. But the kid tightness without the bump was impossible to penetrate. Not as satisfying as it would have been to break into him over the long haul, the kid was compliant, didn't fight him as he slipped his hard and dripping cock into his body.

Jeremy flinched when the bald man's knob first when in, not mentally, but from the physical size of it. His mind was shifting; now he desired his hole to be stretched to take whatever was offered. He felt Oak's head and shaft sliding down into him. He bucked to take the man in faster even though it hurt. Hurt is what he wanted. That and degradation. He nudged the black man, Daryl, who knelt next to his head, pushing the gag ball against his cock. Daryl took off the gag and stuffed his cock in the kid's mouth. While Oak was fucking in his last few inches, Jeremy swallowed the veiny black cock.

Oak pumped away in him while Daryl grabbed his head and skull fucked him. Jeremy choked several times when Daryl rammed his cock in deep, which only made the man harder. Daryl was the opposite in every way from Oak. Muscles covered with jet black tattoos. Hairless, even on his crotch. If he weren't going through his initial rush, Jeremy would never have been able to even get beyond the uncut dark knob. But Daryl was slowly feeding him, slowly getting himself aroused. Jeremy slathered his cock up and down the shaft. Went under him to lick his balls, nudged him to get to his ass crack. Daryl straddled over him, letting  the boy's tongue journey into his ass. His cock bobbed up and down with every stroke of the kid's tongue. Jeremy tasted the funk that lined the man's smooth ass, felt the stubble of shaved hair around his hole. He knew what he was tasting was an unwashed hole and recognizing that, dug in deeper.

Daryl tapped Oak and they traded places. Daryl was even larger and went further up Jeremy's shithole than Oak. His cock was fatter too. Jeremy tried to reach out to touch his black skin. He'd never been this closer to a black man before and was curious and lustful to stroke the skin of the man on top of him. Daryl told Oak to uncuff him, and once freed, Jeremy ran his hands up and down the man's broad back. Daryl started fucking him harder, pinching his own tits, while Jeremy pushed his hole up to meet the man's every plunge. Jeremy's tongue explored Oak's ass and balls. Oak's hole tasted like soap but there were burrs wrapped up in all that hair between his buttcheeks. Jeremy sucked at them swallowing the bits of dried shit, while thrusting his hips up to meet the black man's meat.

Before Daryl could explode in the boy's compliant hole, he withdrew and flipped on his back. Oak guided the boy's horny wet hole to sit on Daryl's upright monster. "Yeah, fuck yourself on him, boy, get him to gape your cunt." Jeremy, excited by Oaks' words, started bouncing on Daryl's engorged member with abandoned. It got the attention of Mr. X and Vinnie. JT saw them looking and liked being watched. He bit his lip and started sucking Oak's dripping cock in front of them. Daryl grabbed the boy's muscular arms and drew him back to rest on his chest and kept fucking him from behind. Jeremy put his arms on Oak's torso and pulled him down as he went down. He wanted them both. Oak fell on him causing Daryl to let out a grunt under the weight of both men, but continued plunging into Jeremy's receptive hole. He thrust harder knowing what was coming. He loved feeling another strong cock rubbing against his, deep inside a pussy hole like the boy's. Oak took his member and aimed it at the black cock pistoning in the smooth pink hole. Fully lubed, he pushed his cockhead against the gliding black cock and joined in the penetration of the receptive hole. Jeremy initially let out a cry of pain, but enjoyed the sensation of having his hole shared by two such muscular and criminal assailants. He awoke to what he was, a whore that would take on anyone who would have him. He loved that his ass was providing his attackers such pleasure. Daryl grunted in his ear but it was Oak telling him to give up his pussy. A deep masculine voice telling him to let them destroy his cunt, that they'd fuck till they split him open, only encouraged Jeremy to abandon himself to pleasure. Jeremy joined in the self-abuse, begging them to stretch him apart, give him a sloppy pig hole. He felt it turning the men on, verbally debasing himself this way, feeling them grow harder, impaling him faster. His hand scaled Oak's back running his hand over thick back hair, and running his other hand under the black man's ass, assisting him, feeling the muscle tense with every thrusts. He never felt so open and desirous of cock in his life. They tore his ass wide and deep and he loved every second of it. He felt his ass lips stretched out and pushed back, and lips loose and extremely free against these men inside him, felt their penetration deep, felt something slither inside when one of the men came. It was Daryl who let out the first shit, felt him fuck him deep, hold himself in, then impale him again. It triggered the bald man on top of him to nut too. Daryl grabbed his arms tightly, pinning him down, while Oak punished the hole with his full weight. JT cried out with the mass and depth and in intense pleasure as his own cock, under the weight of Oak's large and hairy gut rubbed his cock to orgasm.

He found his chest covered in sweat and cum when Oak pulled out. The man stood up stoically, like nothing had occurred, pulled Jeremy off his partner and tossed him aside. Daryl, equally indifferent, got up to his knees, put his cock next to Jeremy's mouth and demanded him to clean it off. Jeremy wanted to continue to play with Daryl's swaying balls, but all Daryl wanted was to have the lube and cum cleaned off him before he got back into his clothes. Satisfied, he got up and dress into his black business suit, as did Oak. They stood on both sides of the kitchen table as Vinnie and Mr. X finished signing the document.

***

"Tie him," ordered Mr. X as soon as Vinnie put down the pen. "Legs apart." Vinnie's robe hung open, his dick flaccid, his heart scabbed over. The price he paid for feeling a moment, an hour, a day of tenderness, of weakness, letting his guard down, not thinking clearly, was paying him back with ice now running through his veins. He knew what he had just signed away: any hope of happiness or forgiveness. Perhaps he deserved this sentence but he knew Jeremy didn't. This was his punishment now, his sentence was to watch his boy writhed in the wet blanket, sticking his hand in his ass, pulling out webs of cum from between his legs, licking his hand and swallowing the two indifferent men's spooge.

Mr. X slowly stripped in front of Jeremy. The kid licking his fingertips watched the man before him. Mr. X motioned to his two men and whispered something to them. They nodded. Jeremy lay fascinated at what Mr. X was revealing. The overcoat draped on a chair, shoes, tie, shirt. Mr. X, who he thought as just the boss of thugs, out of his clothes was an old, withered man, a hag with sagging pierced tits. Maybe at one time he thought he appeared stark, shockingly compelling, now he was simply repulsive. His tattoos laughably cliche. A hula girl, a ship on his chest? Jeremy almost laughed, Where was Popeye? This guy's muscles were old man muscles. Stringy, veining and bruised, a junkie's body. He'd seen men like this before, the father's of the junkie's his brother hung out with. The dude would be dead soon, thought Jeremy. If not this year then the next. His pants off, hung over the rest of his clothes, Jeremy was impressed and disgusted by the anaconda hanging between the old man's legs. He withdrew another slop from his hole and sucked it down. Mr. X found a vein, stuck himself with his point, registered, plunged half the vile in his vein, sucked air through his mouth, and lay back with the point in his arm. Eyes closed, lying at Jeremy's feet, he said to him off in a distant place, "Lie back and show me your neck."

Jeremy laid down on his side, hands folded by his face, as if he was preparing for death. Mr. X rose, the needle dangling till he pulled it out. He crawled up to the boy. Opened his eyes, steadied himself on the boy's shoulder, feeling it, groped down till he found the boy's small nipple and squeezed. He felt the boy twitch. "No, no. I do anything I want. You take it. Understood?" Jeremy nodded. "Brush hair from your neck." Jeremy brushed it back. "Don't move." Mr. X bent down close enough for Jeremy to feel his foul breath. The needle pricked, he felt the gush of red liquid enter his neck, go straight to the brain. He twitched uncontrollably, 10 trillion synaptic connection, one percent of his brain fired at once, electrifying throughout his core. Dopamine flooded his system, millions of dentrites fluttered and gave out simultaneous jolts of white hot euphoria. The needle left his neck, replaced with the forked tongue of the incubus slathering the trail of blood left behind.

He was back in his hometown, back in his junkie high, broken into again like the abandoned house he went to with his brother, the shooting gallery wandering the hallways, house of boarded window. There, in a corner, a couple fucked anonymously, it was a toss up if they knew each other, in the broken tile bathroom his brother pushed his head down for him to suck him off, an old derelict lay nodding naked on horse. Creeping in blindly to the old man's room, his brother's cum dripping down his face, crawling to where the old man lay, fondling his body in the dark, sucked on his huge metal-filled eel. He ran his hands like braille over the studded cock. It was the merger of maleness and madness and he wanted it in him. He pressed himself back on it and its rigidity overtook him without a fight. The old man twisted his consenting body till he towered above him. He looked up through black eyes and saw the old man above him. The old man's eyes blazed like coals. The demon's bone impaled his core, controlled him from within. "Fuck me, Sarah Palin," he whispered. The man whispered back to him, "I am not your Sarah Palin, I am your God." He saw his brother standing over him, urging him on. "Give him your soul, little brother. He has mine." There were others standing around the room, silently nodding. The demon spoke to one of them to get the lights. The room faded to the dimmest flames of yellow and glowing embers of red, where shapes became shadows and shadows shape. He felt these wisps of darkest run their hands over his body. Fingers and cocks entered his mouth, fingers were added in his ass accompanying the pumping shaft with its beads and painful ring. How shitting felt like, with its peristaltic motion usually crawling waste out like a undulating caterpillar, but the world was upside down, inside out. Things were going in the usual went out. "Stick in your hand," ordered the figure overhanging him. He felt a hand forcing its way in, smothering the sliding cobra within his colon. Without objection, took adsorbed everything into his body the monsters provided. The hand smothered the snake in his ass. It stretched and plied him open until he felt his ass ring close and capture both snake and wrist. He heard himself scream outside himself as he rocked on it while the stroking hand perused the snake. The snake hissed, slithering and bit him inside. The hand travel deeper breaking every barrier he thought he had. The were no longer barriers to anything, physically or mentally. A mouth covered his, breathed in him air as foul as hell, as fetid as a cesspool. Something snapped under his nose and the odor caused him to bare down harder, to take as much of the arm slithering, pulling in the snake farther within.

In the half-light everything halted as a new hand went to his throat. Whispers of foreign tongues exchanged above him. Nyet. The hand left his neck and crawled to his scrotum. It pinched, grabbed, rubbed his nuts. He understood the foreign tongue, my jewels, it said.

He felt a slow stinging in his bowels as the snake spewed venom, and then a rush of liquid filled him, bloating inside, blocked at his entrance so not a drop escaped. He thought he would explode as the mass of liquid had no route out, only up, in. The coil of metal and flesh withdrew, but another hand immediately replaced it. Long, bony fingers broke through first, but then a fleshy palm began ripping him apart. He yelled for it, for them to stop, but a black cock invaded his throat. He wanted that too, and the suffering. So many things held him down, covered his flesh. He felt the swirl of a wet worm enter his cock slit and lips cover his penis. He was feeling too many things that were unreal and impossibly pleasurable. His hole caved into a cunt. Two hands rode inside him. He felt altered. Emasculated. Blazing fire ran over his skin. He was feverish, his skin covered in a sheen. His enormous cock shrank to a clit. Someone was fingering it, sucking it. The black cock spit in his mouth and he swallowed the salty phlegm down again and again as it erupted. Then a black face spit in his mouth. He heard the old man say move and, like a six legged crab, the old man crawled over his face, still sucking his cock and clit. Whatever dim light that shown, dimmed even more, two black moons fell over his face, landing a moist wet stain on his lips. The stain listed back and forth like a tide of filth. He stuck out his tongue and absorb the taste. It changed him to a helpless heap, a slave to his senses, the pleasure of confirming his worthlessness. A hot slug swam into his mouth and he swallowed it before he could think. Then he thought no more and succumbed to senses that smothered his brain, till darkness engulfed him while his body played on and on.

***

Vinnie hung his head ashamed. The kid was gone. Who would emerge as the sun came up? He watched as Mr. X hung his ass over Jeremy's face. He watched transfixed as the old fucker's prolapse fell out from his hanging asslips. Jeremy lapped at it like a trained dog. Spread the scum's cheeks apart to slather as much as he could find. He couldn't watch but he couldn't stop watching. JT'a full erection bobbed excitedly up and down as he got into the writhing he was inciting on Mr. X. Vinnie's hands flexed, testing his binds. His shoulder tore against his bandage. Mr. X was impossible to defeat. The barrier of evil was insurmountable. He could watch then couldn't stop watching. The degenerate mobster wasn't satisfied defiling his victim, he was corrupting it, climbing over the boy's body, dragging his enormous entrails over JT's chest, rubbing on the boy's smooth skin obscenely, and now mounted the boy's erection, scaling it, plunging himself down deliberately, repeatedly, masturbating until both he and boy erupted. He shot across the room, spewing ropes flew across the room. The leopard spread was wet and defiled with artifacts. Mr. X rocked in the aftermath, pleasuring himself with the boy. He sat for the longest time, slowly squeezing the youth. In a trance of satisfaction.

***

Time could not permanently keep Vinnie in this hellish purgatory. That was left to his eternal conscience. But the sun did break through the windows. The boy's dick flopped out and Mr. X got up on spindly legs. "The boy is adequate," he said cracking his back. "One last thing and we call it a day."

Vinnie voice was horse and deadened. "It's in the bed drawer, at the end."

The old man wheezed, "What a noble man you are, sacrificing part of yourself for part of him." Mr. X pulled out the pliers-like device. The emasculatome. "Untie him," he said to his two men. "I'm too tired. I want you to do the boy. I will do you. Then we leave you to play house again." He dropped the heavy device on the table. Went back to the boy to wipe the slime from his ass and crotch into the boy's long brown hair. Only then did he proceed to dress.

Vinnie rubbed his freed wrists, then sat his elbows on the table and hung his head. Mr. X fully dressed, clapped his hands. "Chop, chop."

The boy was dazed. Most likely didn't know what was going on, had no idea of the conversation that took place hours ago. Still, Mr. X's men each grabbed one of Jeremy's  arms and legs, readying for the upcoming struggle. Vinnie approached with the heavy instrument and knelt at the foot of the bed looking at Jeremy's beautiful hairless sack hanging there. "Jeremy," he started, then fell forward with only his fist to prop him up. In back of him Mr. X tapped the table twice. "Cowboy, I am so sorry." Mr. X tapped once more, emphatically. The boy looked up at Vinnie confused, his face tarnished and streaked unforgivably.

"Vinnie? What's happenin'?"

Vinnie looked away, said, "Sport, we've played much rougher than this. And you and I are going to make it through. Okay? Understand me?"

The kid's eyes were tweaked, spinning but he was smiling. His large, brilliant, shark-teeth smile. "What's this game we're playin, Vinnie'? Is this where we squeeze each other's balls and you say, look at my dick, look at my dick?"

He decided to tell him straight. He showed JT the emasculatome. "This is used to castrate sheep. It crushes the sperm cord, cutting off the blood vessels, and kills the ball. It don't cut you, but testicle can't get blood no more, and it shrinks up and dies." However far back JT's brain had settled inside, he came crashing back fully awake, holy terror in his eyes. The two strongmen pinned down his strong, rebellious body. Jeremy banged his head back several times against the pillows, pleading, heaving for Vinnie have mercy, to not to do it. Vinnie crawled forward on his knees. He held the instrument in his good hand, cherished one of Jeremy treasures one last time, feeling for the internal cord. He placed a thumb on the lock, the jaws snapped open. He looked JT in the eyes, took a deep breath, brought the jagged claws down hard and severed the cord. Jeremy wailed all the breath in his lungs into the pillow's tiger face. His body went into seizure. His head bounced side to side, erupting into a second long, bitter, agonizing hate-filled scream. He screamed once more that shattered and choked in his throat from the horror of what was happening was true, that Vinnie had done it to him, and ended in a broken cry of utter, final betrayal. He glared through tears and cursed Vinnie. The men released him and he rolled up into a tight ball, weeping endlessly on the bed, clutching his dying stone.

"Next," said Mr. X to Vinnie, who walked back to the chair, opened his robe, and welcomed the punishment.