asslikker

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. ***

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.

I hope the next part "Jagged Little Pill" will address some of the ambiguity. Sorry, it's a bit longer but there a couple of other characters you have to know about. But you guys are great!!! I'd want you for my editors

The Growl In Vinnie’s loft were JT’s clothes. He wanted them back. He wanted Vinnie to drive him there to fetch them. They didn’t talk on the ride back to the city. It was very late and the fog hadn't lifted. Out here on the bridge they heard the deep bass of the fog horn. Fluttering lights off the bridge flashed by in syncopation. Shadows like bars rolled over Jeremy's face. He looked out into the grayness. He didn’t want to go home and be alone, but he didn’t particularly want to stay at Vinnie’s. He shivered once, which Vinnie caught. As they came off the bridge, Vinnie asked how he was. He thought about it, didn't know. He thought for a moment longer. "Changed." "Listen—" Vinnie started. "No!" he said emphatically. Raised his hand without looking. "Can't listen to—." Broke off not being able to speak, continued staring in the middle distance, seeing no street signs passing, no houses, no cars, nothing but a mist of gray. Vinnie turned up the van heater. Jeremy felt warm pin-pricks stir along his zipper. He felt around the crotch. Three holes, still damp. He looked at his fingers. Small shreds of fabric stuck to red blood. Bullet holes, three, where Vinnie had unloaded after the first shot to the head. The rest of the ride was more colorless streets, lights of oncoming cars, reds of taillight, turning corners in the maze that was the city. They rode the elevator staring straight ahead. Vinnie unlocked and pulled open the noisy gate. He switched on the overhead lights. It was an ugly room, thought Jeremy, full of ugly thoughts and ugly actions. It was familiar. It had followed him from Tennessee. It followed him wherever he went. He always remembered it. Only now it manifested itself when he looked at Vinnie. "There's a hose in the shower, if you—" They couldn't find the end of sentences with each other. He went to the stall in the corner of the room. Toed off the heal of the right shoe. Held on to a pipe to pry off the other. Dropped trousers over the shoes. He put the green robe on the radiator. He spied in the reflection of the dark glass scratches on his shoulder. He twisted and looked at the other. Claw marks there too. He opened the rust-stained shower curtain. Dried orange trails were on the walls and made spider patterns to the center of the drain. Vinnie was right, there was a hose. A green garden hose with the end cut off. He remembered a hose like that he drank from at his house back home. The water was so even, smooth, cold, perfectly shaped. Why did the shape make it so good? It was the best water he'd ever had, wasn't it? He wished all water from then on could slake his thirst like that. Life was the left-on hose soaking in the weeds, going downhill from there. He turned on both valves. It was cold. He bent down and miraculously the water poured in the same smooth way it did in his memory. It was a memory only for him. He drank and drank the smooth water till the water ran warm. He saw Vinnie looking at him. He closed the curtain and blocked him out. He stuck the hose up his butt, held it for a moment and let it flush out. Clear. Some flex of white, some brown. He tried not to think about it. He flushed out several more times until it ran null of substance. He flipped the switch on the shower head and warm water unevenly spouted at him. There was soap in a dish. The screws were rusty. The soap wafer thin. It would do. His back stung when the water hit it. He liked that it stung. Felt it purge something ugly, something foul. He turned off the cold and stood like a statue as it built to a scald and set his back ablaze. Steam rose around him till he couldn't see the walls, only felt he body burning alive. Vinnie rushed over and turned off the water, scorching his arm where the water struck. He pulled Jeremy out, grabbed towels next to the stall. First one went over Jeremy's head, another over his shoulder, a third wiped his chest. Jeremy dripped in a puddle all over the floor. Vinnie knelt to wipe his feet, soaking up some of the puddle. He picked up the warm bathrobe and gave it to Jeremy. Jeremy looked at the robe strangely. An object that was familiar but meant something other than what it was. P-A-I-N means bread in French. Why did that pop into his mind. He couldn't remember what he was holding, where it was from, where he saw it before. He declined to remember. In French, P-A-I-N was bread. The only thing from the three months from the required French class his junior year, December, before he was put in to rehab for six month, The first time.. Put it on, he told himself, and walked over to the couch in this strange room without walls. TV, couch, monitors, kitchen table, bed, handcuffs on chains hanging on a black brick wall, the screws in the walls that wouldn't pull out no matter how hard you struggled. He laid down sideways. Why didn't the room look sideways if he was? He grabbed a cushion and in a few minutes fell asleep. He woke in the middle of the night frightened, didn't know where he was. He looked around the room of blue static-filled light. Images on the monitors of men fisted, men being whipped, men in cuffs getting fucked. Not everything came back at once, but enough. Vinnie was in the leopard bed, facing away, snoring lightly. Jeremy had a blanket over him that wasn't there before. The Lion King, the plush blanket read. Gold silk fringe. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. Not a memory but a sensation before he knew words. It felt good, comforting. He wanted desperate to feel good but forgot how you did that. A picture of the cub and the words, Hakuna Matata. From the swahili, hakuna (there is not here) and matata (plural form of problem). Tarzan wasn't in the movie, was he? No, that was another time in another Africa. It was singing animals. Some of the animals screamed, though. He pounded his head several times to stop it from thinking. He carried the No Worries blanket on his back. A cape that hid and protected him. The tattered robe underneath. The floor was warm. Swept. Vinnie was facing away toward the black windows, snoring lightly. Next to the bed he dropped the cape, dropped the robe, saw himself naked in the black windows, an unchanged reflection of highlights of blues and darker blues. He crawled into bed and spooned Vinnie. Vinnie flinched to the touch, then recognizing who it was and instantly calmed. He remained like that, awake, for a very long time. Minutes? An hour? Time: there is no etiquette. Jeremy's skin was cold, his breath warm on his neck. Jeremy had his hands clutched like he was praying in front of his face. He felt the clutched hands behind his head. He reached over and put his palm over Jeremy's hands. He felt he held him, one palm warming cold fists. Jeremy didn't move—minutes, hours—but something did move. Vinnie felt something rare and warm and excited rising at his back, hardening against his tailbone. Jeremy's upper body didn't move, but Vinnie felt his lower body, in the slowest of motions, geologically slow, grass-growing slow, a snail rising out of its shell, tilt then prod his hole. There weren't any words, not even thoughts in the time that passed. Only honest flesh. What flesh was trying to tell for the very last time. He reach under the bed and took out the KY he had used before. For the very first time he lubed his hole. Then he swathed Jeremy's over-sized weapon. Jeremy let out not a sound but an ecstatic guttural breath. Not a word but direct expression of sensation. A growl, not canine but ancient, neolithic. Vinnie never had been taken captive by a sound like this, willingly, wantingly. He wrapped Jeremy's mammoth erection in his fist and guided him in. It hurt as he mounted it. His entire life he'd only topped, not played with his hole, never tempted. But he wanted to keep Jeremy, his boy, JT, Tarzan, midnight cowboy, he wanted him, whatever he could find to keep him his. He opened himself up to a second inch. The first was devastating in its girth. He paused till he got used to it. The second, when it went in, was just as painful. He couldn't keep from squeezing it out, but by squeezing it he also greased the head again and made it more rigid, easier to push back in, which created a gasp from them both. Jeremy's tool was big enough for two hands, with three really, so Vinnie easily grabbed him at the base, with eight inches to spare. Feeling the boy's sparse light bush he kept impaling himself deeper till he accepted half of it. He didn't know how he'd take anymore. But Jeremy, asleep and awake, growling softly with every inch, feeling what Vinnie was doing but not cognizant of Vinnie's ultimate intentions, or confident in his determination to pursue Vinnie's parole, still instinctively felt a need to push his cock along where it was already going. He rocked a bit to get further inside, where it was warm, where he was in control. He felt Vinnie resist, so he eased up. And each time he felt Vinnie accept he took quick advantage to gain more ground. Vinnie internally sensed the stakes, felt the challenge. Relinquishing was the goal, and, man, wasn't it the most human thing he did in his life. Pain? He endured torture aplenty. Giving ground was giving up, but this relinquishing was as emotional difficult as it was physical. In fact, it was dawning, something he never knew because he never experienced, the combination of emotions and the basic physicality of it gave way to pleasure. One plus two is five. He started wanting Jeremy to hurt him, stretch him, make him feel something in his gut. He wanted it deep in every way. That something was real, was another person touching him, entering him. He kept taking, finally not resisting as the twelfth inch reached it mark. He pulled and pushed against it, wanted to continue feeling it. It could have been five inches or twelve: he had no reverence for this. A man was inside him. Someone he cared about, risked everything for. He felt the boy's smooth long body bang against his cheeks. There was something complete in this. This, the first time. Jeremy rubbed Vinnie's furry cheeks. Cherished them, fondled them, put his hand between Vinnie's legs. He raise a leg so he could get deeper inside Vinnie. He wanted all of Vinnie, nothing left on the table. He dipped and scooped till Vinnie really felt him inside, giving out a growl and moan. Sounds of hurt and pleasure. Prehistoric sounds. Sounds that kept other animals away in the jungle dark. Jeremy wanted him to know it was he, Jeremy, fucking him. He was in him. Inside him. Now would always be. Not soft and smooth—Jeremy was hard and awake. Not a dream, but real and wanting something out of him that he knew would be the last thing Vinnie would give up. He pushed Vinnie on his stomach and then pulled his pelvis up till he was on all fours. He rocked slowly at first, instinctively aware of Vinnie's vulnerable virginity. He looked in the reflective windows and liked what he saw. A beast with many legs and two torsos, a Centaur rearing and majestic. He slowly began to fuck waiting for Vinnie to catch up. If he didn't catch up to his pace soon he would make him, whip him till he caught up. And he did grow impatient. He squeezed his ass and felt his cock get harder and he smacked Vinnie's ass and it made him harder still. Vinnie bucked rebelliously, bucked back against him as a steed in defiance. Vinnie shook his head, ceding and rebelling to his rider at the same time, keeping Jeremy in check yet encouraging him to not quit pushing him. The roll of saddled and saddling was new to them both; there were no rules except what felt natural and good. Jeremy smacked Vinnie's ass again and Vinnie slammed back onto Jeremy's magnificent member. He felt the crown growing in size since it first went it, and the length taking over his entire entrails. It was growing like a second spine, taking over. He felt half his body being pulled out through his ass and then violently pushed back in. It felt so good he bucked and Jeremy plundered his captive, he grabbed Vinnie's muscular shoulders, feeling him under him, rapidly coming to a climax that he wanted more than anything. Sweat dripped off his forehead, ran down his chest into Vinnie crack, mixing with the lube and juice and now, thankfully, cum. Jeremy grabbed Vinnie's hips tight against him, filled him with all the rage and potency and desire that was in him. He pulled him tight against him again in lust and gratitude. He slammed against him with all his force in hatred and fear and repudiation and, finally, at the very last moment, love. He spewed in Vinnie as smooth as the stream from a garden hose. Running over into the brier patch, through dogwood grove, down the hill to the meadow where the Hemlock grew. Home. *** Vinnie was hard as a rock. Jeremy, breathless, rubbed Vinnie's slippery back. He laid over him and loved how they slipped like seals over each other. That slather elicited the remaining spurts of cum that remained deep in his bowels. He pumped his ass, squeezed his balls, pumped whatever was left in his sack, emptying into Vinnie so far inside, his seed would always remain there. He could've stayed like this if their legs permitted the rest of the night. But Vinnie had other thoughts. Vinnie pushed back, impaling himself on Jeremy. He sat on his haunches looking in back of him, and found Jeremy's face. He reach a hand around pulled him to his lips. Jeremy's went into the kiss open mouthed, and now, with a partially healed heart, he reached around to graze across Vinnie's chest, the midnight hair, the billowing abdomen, the black wilderness around his cock, the full throbbing member that greeted his hand. The member he could barely get his fist around. "Yeah, about that," Vinnie grinned, pulling himself off Jeremy with quite a bit of resistance on his and Jeremy's part, emptying Jeremy out with a regret of separation he soon hoped to replace and remedy ten fold. "Lie back, Jeremiah Tiberius. Time you rode in my saddle." He looked at him dead serious. "But only if you say so, partner." If it was no, that was it, he'd accept it. But Jeremy's face grinned a mile-wide yes, so he threw him down, grabbed the lube and ran the liquid freely over Jeremy's hole and his cock. He was attentive to the expression on the kid's face. Point of fact, in the last hour he knew first hand it would hurt—at first. But over the hump and he knew the pleasure he could give him—and the pleasure he would take. He slowly rested his cock atop the boy's hole. He wanted to erase what the boy's sense memory would project. "Stay with me," he said, holding Jeremy's head. He saw the boy was about to panic; that the memory of Friday night was creeping back in. "Look at me." His rigid cock penetrated the first hurdle, was gliding slowly, evenly into the boy's fuckhole, not being rejected while the boy kept his eyes on Vinnie. The moment his eyes started fluttering, he stopped, brought the boy back, letting him know he was there, right then, right now, with him. "I won't let you go, partner. I'm right here, okay?" Jeremy said yeah, then squeezed his hole to put a grip on Vinnie's large mushroom head, to assure himself that it was really him that was slipping into his body. He said oh yeah again, changing the affirmation as a praise to heaven. Looking up into Vinnie, seeing him for the first time really smiling. The warmth radiated from smile of Vinnie's imperfect teeth, seeing him, stroking his face. The imperfections in his handsome features. Jeremy saw a slightly off-set nose, the fight it came from, an aggressiveness, a don't-give-a-fuck, a small fleck of green in his brown eyes, on his cheek a small mole he never noticed. He kissed it, then the man, pushing his butt further onto his exquisite growing rod. He was taken by him, the subtle wave of his hair—the swollen eye and cut brow that he'd inflicted. He turned away clenching his hole, trying to push Vinnie out. "You're with me. It's okay. You wanted a who, remember?" Vinnie stayed in place. "I'm your who. I'll always be your who." Vinnie kissed him on the mouth passionately, and pressed the rest of himself inside until his heavy bush contacted Jeremy's receptive hole. Jeremy came in that instant all over the forest of his chest. Vinnie was pleased and took his time as the minutes, hours went by. *** They made love like that all through night, slept two hours and began again before dawn. As the light came up, on Jeremy's prodding, they took out the cuffs, but only if Vinnie agreed to be cuffed too. And first. Vinnie erupted probably the hardest he'd ever nutted when Jeremy had him chained with his face to the black wall buttfucking him from behind. Vinnie got them to be dirty boys, peeing on each other in the shower. Vinnie got Jeremy to drink his pee. Vinnie wouldn't reciprocate and Jeremy got mad, so they went and had breakfast at the coffee shop on the corner. Vinnie paid. Then Jeremy threw Vinnie on the bed, made Vinnie suck him off, gagged him a couple of times. Peed some in his mouth in the middle of getting head, which made Vinnie mad, dammit, got pee on the leopard spread. Jeremy replaced it with the Lion King blanket Vinnie had put on him in the night. Vinnie wasn't satisfied, so he let Vinnie spank the fuckin' goddamn shit out of his ass, just like his daddy would do back in the wood shed like when he found his two older boys play-diddling each other in the garage. Jeremy's ass was bright red. Not the first time; not the last. He hollered like heck but pulled Vinnie off which he was doing it. Then Vinnie put lotion to soothe his butt, then fucked him with his fingers in the middle of it with the lotion. Then Jeremy played with Vinnie's ass while Vinnie played with his. At nighttime they ate sandwich ordered from the deli. Vinnie embarrassed Jeremy receiving the order naked at the elevator from the delivery boy. With a humongous hardon! Jeremy hid under the blanket. Then they bit and licked and chewed each other under the covers, flipped twice: once playing Centurion and slaveboy with chains on top of the tiger pillows in Vinnie's harem, and cowboys and Indians with the Indian—Vinnie with pigeon feather stuck in his hair—getting head on a kitchen chair tied up by Jeremy in cowboy boots and hat and nothing else. They had a few beers and put on some straight porn and jacked off, especially with the nurse and the hunky doctor. At midnight they were hungry again and ordered a chicken parm, which they agreed to split. At twelve thirty they heard the elevator buzz and Vinnie said into the intercom, "About time! We're starvin' here." This time Vinnie wore his green bathrobe and Jeremy was draped in the Lion King blanket. They still, however, were sporting hardons underneath. The elevator door opened and Vinnie pulled back the gate with the usual crash. Mr. X stepped in followed by two extremely large men. "Vincenzo," Mr. X growled, "you cost me much money. You and boy." He took a pistol out of his long coat and shot him. He looked at JT. "You two play house?" Jeremy had no answer. "Get on bed," he said, waving the gun at the stunned boy. "You," he said to one of his men, "take blanket. You," he said to the other, "cuff him to bed. Much to pay for. Lots to talk about." ***

The Knot There wasn't a lot of talking. Vinnie rode his palm down Jeremy's tense body. It was dark but Jeremy could see Vinnie's eyes. He was learning to trust those eyes, to know when they turned dark what to expect; when they softened, like they did just now, what might occur. But tonight he wasn't a passive actor, a captive to Vinnie's whims, he also got to call the shots. He detoured Vinnie's hand and raised it to his mouth. He licked his fingers. They were salty and rough. The palm ran across Jeremy's face. It traced his hairline, its contours, fingers ran through his long hair, one finger extended, came up and rode across his eyebrow, feeling the caterpillar breadth and length. Jeremy smiled. The finger ran down to his teeth, his perfect star-lit teeth. They almost glowed in the dark to Vinnie. Jeremy moved in closer, so close their erections touched. He sword fought his member against Vinnie's. Both laughed and both won. Vinnie inhaled deeply and drew the young man closer to his body. Jeremy like the feeling of strength and suddenness that defined Vinnie. Vinnie's clenching jaw, the half growth of beard and how manly he looked. Jeremy was smooth, almost hairless. Still beef and brawn. He was discovering Vinnie was like him but in a minor key. They were starting to pick up on each other's music, their rhythms. Trying to smooth out their discord. Vinnie had the most beautiful hairy chest, strands of grey were coming in. He sported hair along his lats, his delts, his traps; not heavy but a trace. He even had a fine growth of hair over his glutes. Vinnie flexed his butt and Jeremy praised it, grabbing hold, appreciating the deep musculature, how rigid and tight he could control his form; hide his visage, what he was thinking behind the bones and muscles of his placid face. When Vinnie suddenly relaxed his butt, he felt invited to run a hand down between his cheeks and explore a terrain that was rarely visited. Earlier, Vinnie had introduced him to rimming. It was a new world of sensations, a vocabulary he want to quickly learn and practice. Now was his turn and he was anxious to give the same pleasure he had taken. He snuck up on Vinnie's pit and took in a deep whiff of his odor. He stuck a tongue into the bush and suck the salt of the hairs. Vinnie's masculinity was dangerous and turned him incredibly impulsive, made him take chances, leaps he'd never take with another man. He ran his tongue down Vinnie's side, tasting the hard ripples of his ribs, the mound of his pelvis that could easily distract him, change his course to the fur that ran to it center and get caught in the snare of groin. But he was on a mission. Slowly he turned the man he had come this evening, not to get abused by but make love to, and that meant getting to know new parts of him that were alien. So he turned till Vinnie lay on his stomach. He snuck between Vinnie legs, knelt before him, laid on his own stomach to be close to the two muscular mounds of flesh. At the top of Vinnie's crack, running a tongue over his coccyx, he followed the trail to a hidden canyon. It was hairy and dark, flooded with swirling hair. He lapped at it, instinctively started parting it to explore a never-ending cascade of bush. There seemed to be no end to the depth of this valley, nowhere would the cliffs tapered off. The smell was all he had to go on. Sight was of no use to him here. He was surprised how clean Vinnie smelled. Not soapy or full of fragrant herbs, but the rich smell of skin after it comes out of a river. Fresh of salt and brine, fresh of grass or moss, just the taste of untainted water: clear, rushing. He sensed it before he arrived, the cave. The hairs became sparser. His tongue felt skin clenching, more nervous than he. He was the one that now got to say, Relax, relax, as his tongue finally found its buried treasure. Vinnie had confessed he'd never been eaten out and Jeremy jumped at the chance, wanted Vinnie to remember him, remember who he was, not one of the many that came to be videoed and abused. Something more, something other, no matter what that other was. And he was at the walls, the well, the pit where everything hid. He licked it and Vinnie clenched hard almost throwing him out of the valley. But Jeremy persisted. He stroked Vinnie's furry cheeks, petting like they were an animal that needed calming. He lapped at Vinnie's hole a second time, this time without resistance but producing a small, low moan. Jeremy ventured a third swipe of his tongue across Vinnie's tight hole. This third attempt had Vinnie lying still, awaiting a fourth, a fifth, as much slathering as Jeremy was willing to give. Vinnie was giving up something to the boy, admitting something as a man, and Jeremy felt honored and did his duty. He gently played in the hole, spitting in it, rolling his saliva around to moisten it and turn the tight muscle into soft, giving flesh. The boy turned curious and nudged Vinnie's legs further apart. Vinnie resisted until Jeremy licked the bottom of his balls, and buried his face deep into his taint. The boy was relentless finding every corner, every hair that swirled between his legs. Mercifully the boy found his hole again and again found his hole being worshiped. He allowed the boy's tongue to travel spelunking into his unexplored cave. The boy's tongue was long. He feared what the boy might discover in the depth of his cavern. Vinnie reach round and drew the boy back up to his face and kissed him. This was as new to them both as was Jeremy first attempt at rimming. There was a moment of shock, then passion, as they rolled around across the leopard-spotted bed, playing at dominance and submission. Jeremy was quicker but Vinnie stronger, so they took turns lying one atop the other. Did it ever feel this free to be with someone, Vinnie thought? The hair and skin sliding over each other was wearing a fur coat naked. To Vinnie, it was rolling over a body of silk. To Jeremy, it was sliding over a muscular mountain. It was Jeremy that broke the truce and let Vinnie remain on top. Jeremy spread his legs letting the man's erect flesh fall between his legs. "I never did this before," he whispered to Vinnie. "Will it hurt?" Vinnie shook his head, and then looking in Jeremy's honest eyes, changed his mind. He nodded yes. "But you'll like it," Vinnie added. He reached below the bed in a drawer and brought up some KY. He squeezed some on his finger and slipped into Jeremy. "Does that hurt?" he asked. "It's cold," Jeremy answered. Vinnie then squeezed out more onto two fingers, and slipped them slowing in the boy. "How about now?" Jeremy bit his lip and bore down on Vinnie's fingers. He took Vinnie's other hand and placed them in his mouth. The boy ran his tongue over Vinnie hairy digits and examined them in the darkened room, while unseen fingers explored Jeremy's hole. "I want you to be the first to fuck me, no matter if it hurts." Vinnie looked in the boy's alert eyes, said, "Good." He waited a moment, then asked, "Do you want to be tied up?" The boy shook his head no. "Slammed?" The boy shook his head again. "I just want you inside me," Jeremy said quietly. "You're not afraid of catching the bug?" "Do you have it?" asked Jeremy. The boy watched every twitch in his face. He would know if he were being lied to. "Yes," admitted Vinnie, quickly adding, "from needles." "Me, too. Needles," said Jeremy. "Never seemed fair since most times people get it from each other and all. So I want you to do me. Bareback. I want to know what that feels like. By you. I wanna say, that's who I got it from. A who, not a what." The kid broke his heart. It was a bad sign for a person in his field. He smoothly reached into the same drawer that held the lube, and opened a zipped baggy withdrawing a soaked rag, and put it over Jeremy's alarmed face. He lay atop the kid till he no longer struggled. He got up, threw a green tattered bathrobe on the kid, and got dressed himself. He made a brief call to say he was on his way. He looped a rope around Jeremy's hands and another securing his feet. Lastly he tied a red scarf across the kids mouth and a blindfold kerchief knotting it tightly behind his head. He lugged him downstairs over his shoulder like a duffle bag to a place in the alley where he kept his van. His headlights cut through the fog as they drove across the bay. *** We had a fairly heavy wind storm come through last night. The wind turbine that keeps me off the grid is damaged so I won't be able to write a lot today. If I don't fix it no one else will. The storm also laid down a bad combination of snow and ice so it'll be tricky to get into town. The jeep always handles it though. To disabuse you of the notion I'm in Vermont like what what's on my profile (and I'm speaking mainly to the Russian hackers that by now have spotted this chronicle), I could be a Vermonter, but I could easily be in Ashland, Oregon, or New Hampshire in the White Mountains—probably not in a big city. Got over that in my time in San Francisco. Suffice it to say, moi rossiyskiye druz'ya, to my Russian friends, it's easy enough, as you well know, to buy into a cheap server farm and have your IP address scattered like leaves in the wind. Last I checked I was sending this out from a server in Rhode Island, I nice place I've visited once. Some pretty expansive mansions, once home to some very unsavory characters. By the time I've finished this part and send it out through our public library or my home or McDonald's, the next port will be from Pakistan, a place I have no desire to visit. I'm sure, though, it has it's a very nice place. It's easier to manage things in a small setting. Ninety-five of us live up here. We know each other, who should be here, who shouldn't. It's an isolated place, and we do carry shotguns. I thought I'd be surrounded by ski bunnies and day traders. Instead I'm surrounded by hunters and snowmobiles. Men with long black beards and missing teeth. Deliverance with a New England accent (or Oregonian). Without putting out too much of a breadcrumb, I thought ahead and bought this place in the mountains a while back, twenty-two acres in all, if I needed an escape hatch. And I did need an escape hatch. The forest provides all the wood I need to keep warm. The well never empties, not even in last summer's drought. I'm happy and content, still in contact with a few people I trust. I'm even close enough to a New England theatre festival, or maybe that's an Ashland theatre festival, to where I can volunteer occasionally to take tickets and watch a show. Maybe if you came through here recently I took your ticket. The main reason I'm backpedaling, I'm sure you've noticed, is I don't really want to get into this next part. JT's my friends and this isn't a good moment for him. Maybe I want to breathe for a second or let you breathe. It amounts to the same thing. Second, I know I have to go into town and get a couple of parts for the turbine. It's cold out there, and I'm happy to stay near the wood stove with the cats. But in these parts if you give weather even an inch it'll beat your ass. The same could be said of the crowd my friends and I met in 1996. It was a bad year all around (I'm talking to you, Monica!), but resolved, mostly, with a good outcome. Mostly. Although I now have to keep a low profile, there were many years of duplicity and enjoyment, which I wouldn't give up. I'm afraid Joey and JT would disagree, but you can't make omelets, dot dot dot. Am I right or am I right? Here's to the broken shells. *** Vinnie chose the master bedroom with its four-poster bed to set up shop. He'd gotten keys by messenger on Thursday and parked inside the garage across from the house Friday night. Tiburon is a wealthy neighborhood across bay from San Francisco. Very exclusive. Belvedere is the wealthier side of Tiburon. Tiburon is the other side of the railroad tracks in this neck of the woods. At water's edge the land rises quickly. The road through Belvedere divided the garage from the house. The house was built on the water and had a gangway that connected the road to the house. Vinnie was the first to arrive. He checked for any cars and after knocking the kid out once more to be on the safe side, carried him across the gangway into the house. There was a large photo when you got inside. Dr. Crenshaw, an upscale pediatrician and former owner, and his family in matching purple ski jumpers, accosted you. The two girls and Dr. and Mrs. leaning on their skis at jaunty thirty degree angles, and the good looking blond, tan son smack in the center on his snowboard. Guess who was the favorite in this family? thought Vinnie. With his sack of potatoes, Jeremy, on his shoulder he judged each bedroom. The master bedroom made the most sense. He plopped Jeremy on his side on the four-poster and went back to the van to get his lights and cameras. Once back in the entrance way carrying his equipment, he scanned the living room. The furniture was still here, product of a quick sale and quicker divorce. No personal items were present save for the smiling faces in the dissolved family. Vinnie guessed neither Dr. or Mrs. wanted the reminder. Jeremy lay in a jumble of ropes, green bathrobe and naked parts. The robe was open and Vinnnie quickly shut off that part of his brain that wasn't specific to getting the job done. He closed the robe and started untying the kid. He left on the gag and blindfold. He put all the pillows in the center of the bed and rolled Jeremy over them. The kid's ass was raised and each arm and leg positioned toward one of the four posts. He could have used the ropes but analytics on his sites indicated a ten percent increase of downloads and fifteen percent increase in sales if leather cuffs were used instead of rope. People and their fetishes. He'd secured the kid to the bed and was setting up the lights when Dana Shaftow brought in the dog, collared and obedient. He told the dog to sit. Vinnie shut down his brain as hard as he could examining the dog. "What is he?" Vinnie asked. "Half Great Dane, half English Mastiff. My client specifically bred him for dick size. Didn't you get the basics from X?" "Some things I don't need to know. My job is to get the talent and shoot the show. How long is this going to take?" Vinnie took out a stick of gum, offered a piece to Shaftow. Shaftow took the extended offering. "I thought you did the other boy's show. You're a boy agent, aren't you?" "Nope, this is the first one." There was jockeying going on and Vinnie wasn't interested in playing. He could twist this little nerd's neck in two seconds, but how would that set him up for other gigs? "So how long?" "Depends on the boy's hole. Once he takes the knot their going to be tied for at least twenty minutes. The cums starts from the point puppy gets hard, but until their tied, that's when the action starts. I don't stay for that. The whole thing disgusts me, if you want to know the truth, but I don't make judgments. A gigs a gig, right?" "Right." Vinnie looked at Jeremy ass in the air. He clamped down his brain, hard, thought of the chambers in Nicaragua, thought of the revenue from the one night, but nothing was distracting him from the present. He looked at Shaftow. He hated him, a skinny weasel in a three-piece suit. Limo driver-type at best. He'd like to string him up sometime. "So once they're, what, tied? It's twenty minutes?" "Minimum. If the kid struggling it's stimulates the pupster more. Could last up to an hour then. Depends. Once he's nutted that's when the real waterworks start going on inside. He'll think the bitch under him is liking it squeezing on his knot. With girls it's easier. A pussy will give cause it's made for a baby's head and arms and shit, but from what happened to the other boy, from what I saw on the tape, to me, personally? It was painful to watch. I couldn't finish it. And that kid was hardly a virgin. God help the kid who's never even taken dick. Doggie's gonna think the bitch is lovin' it big time." Vinnie was trying to keep his face neutral. Shaftow read his face instantly. "Tell me the kid ain't a virgin!" Vinnie gave the slightest of nods. "Woo-ee! Might have to stay for this one." "Suit yourself." Vinnie adjusted the lights, taking an occasional glance through the three viewfinders. Shaftow walked up to Jeremy's ass, wet a finger and stuck him. "Hey, hands off the merchandise," Vinnie growled. Shaftow raised his hands in deference. "That tight ass bitch best not injure the canine. He's talent too. Got a higher price then that bitch ever will. Just sayin' is all." "Well, you don't get to touch him." Once again, Shaftow raised his arms higher, purposefully a little higher, letting his coat jacket fall open revealing his Glock. "So we good?" Vinnie calculated the room size, how many step it would take to get to him and block his reach for the gun. Wondered if the dog would pounce. That was the X factor. He didn't like dogs and he sure as hell didn't want to mess with this one. "Yeah. Peachy. So how do you get this party started?" "You do. I just deliver. Here," Shaftow said, throwing Vinnie a tube of grease. "Use this on his ass since you don't want me to touch. I'd lube him good if I was you, he's gonna need it. The dog'll get to nine inches, and the knot? Make a fist." Vinnie did. "Yeah, a little bigger than that." "Shit," Vinnie said under his breath. "Don't worry, it don't happen all at once. But once their tied, do not, in any way, get between them. He'll rip your throat out. You have memory cards for an hour." Vinnie nodded and noted that Jeremy was coming to. "You're probably gonna need it. Mind if I hang back and doing a little whacking. Never seen the beast take on a virgin. Should be good fun." He gave Shaftow the gypsy eye he'd once seen his grandmother give as a curse. He was going to kill this shit. "Just do it in the shadow of the bathroom. Don't want you in the shot." Vinnie closed the distance between one of the camera's and Jeremy ass. He now had his wide shot, medium and close up all set. It was coverage, details of lighting. Within the shadows, Shaftow called out, "Let the dog sniff the tube. It's laced with bitch in heat. He'll know what to do. Probably same as you would." He laughed coldly. Vinnie gave a second gypsy eye. One more, and fuck this scene. Shaftow was done. He paused contemplating, then walked over to the dog, opened the tube and let the huge mongrel sniff it. He dog growled and barked. From the shadows Shaftow called, "Stay!" The dog spun in a circle and sat. Vinnie saw that a pink dot was coming out of the furry sheath. He walked up to Jeremy's ass and liberally lubricated it, pushing as much lube inside Jeremy arched ass as he could. He then went around and turned on all the cameras. "Go get it!" encouraged Shaftow. *** A strange voice called out an order in the dark. He tried to make sense of things as they were happening so fast and he was still several seconds behind himself. He felt his ass in the air, his crotch lying on some soft pillows. He was naked. Tied. He tested one arm and sensed he was completely immobile. He tried his other limbs. The same. "Vinnie!" he yelled through the scarf in his mouth. "Vinnie!" He shook his head, scraping them on the sheets, seeing if he could get the thing off his eyes. He managed to get a sliver of a view of the massive wooden bed he was tied to. He felt a tongue lapping at his ass. "Vinnie?" he pleaded know full well what Vinnie rimming him felt like, and that was not Vinnie. He screamed, "Vinnie! Help, Vinnie!" He felt sharp claws and fur scaling over his back. Something hard penetrated his ass. It was so foreign he had no reference for what it could be, but he felt it continuing to penetrate him, inch after inch, and an incessant humping. It lubricated him as it traveled into him. Not only was it digging in deeper by the minute, there was also something expanding right between his prostate and the inner sphincter. Clutching his asshole, trying to push it out, seemed to inflate it more. But the foreign object, whatever it was, was swelling massively inside him. He flailed his ass around trying to get the invader out of him. He couldn't deny it any longer. It was a dog. He was being fucked by a dog like in one of those dirty videos he saw. He screamed, "Get it off me. Get off!" but no one was answering. Was he alone? Either answer was equally frightening. It sounded like someone was saying to themselves softly, yeah, fuck the bitch, yeah. "Vinnie, please, help me." At the bottom of his vision, just in the corner he saw Vinnie, his face contorted. Vinnie saw he was discovered and slithered out of Jeremy's line of site. "Oh, God, help!" he said in tears. "I know you're there." He looked the other way and saw in the bathroom a dark figure jacking his dick. "No," he yelped. "No, no, no, no, this isn't happening. Y'all can't do this. Stop!" He protested, moving his butt around trying to throw off the animal, but there was something now locking and sealing the animal internally to him. He felt his cavity swell and fluid continue leaking upward in his colon. He'd never been penetrated like this. A finger, yes, but not even a dick. But a thin rod elongating inwardly, filling him, lubing him, and a ball that started the size of a walnut was getting to the size of a fist—this was outside his darkest imagination. The fist pulled and pushed at him. Tried to get into his second chamber. It couldn't, he wouldn't let it. The more he fought it the large it grew. He fought an endless battle. Minutes passed and the beast continued its unrelenting humping trying to get in further. He felt the fist tearing back and forth from the second ring to the inside of his sphincter. It stimulated him in ways he'd never dreamed of, didn't want to think about. He wouldn't give into the sensation as pleasurable. He fought it for a good fifteen relentless minutes. It didn't feel good, he told himself. It was wrong. "Vinnie, this ain't right!" He knew the words were unintelligible and ill formed through the gag, but these were pleas from his heart to the one person who wouldn't betray him. He cried into the pillow, "Please, stop, please." His cries were growing weaker. He was feeling this is what Vinnie wanted, and if this is what Vinnie wanted him to be—maybe he should— "No!" he said defiantly, his head shaking in rage, his eyes bulging beneath the kerchief. "No!" He started shaking his bindings. Pulling on his leg shackles, flexing his butt muscles, causing the dog to squeal, then growl, then start humping harder. It was almost through his second ring. "Bitch better not be hurt the dog," an unfamiliar voice said from the bathroom. "Jeremy, just let the dog finish," Vinnie whispered. "Then it will be over." Jeremy felt his bowels flood with dog semen, and the dog seemed to be slowing down. "What'd I tell you?" whispered the unfamiliar voice. "You can overlay another track over this, can't you?" The stranger then talked conversationally to Vinnie. "Well, twenty minutes. Like clockworks. Tell your bitch to take it like a bitch and he can go. Looks like puppy's got another thirty, forty minutes still in him. He sure is loving junior. Maybe junior would like a little reach around, get into it more. He sure has a nice big—" Jeremy heard a struggle, two bodies colliding and falling on the carpet, and then a discharge from a silencer. Then a second, and the dogged shrieked and fell to its side, still obscenely connected in his butt. He desperately yanked at his right cuff with all his might. He pulled on it and either he was going to snap the bed point, break the chain or pulling his arm out of its socket. He was not lying there any longer. The leather cuff snapped at the buckle. His free arm swung around and he pushed the dog's chest. Something like baseball shit out of his ass along with a sludge of cum. He saw Vinnie plugging a third, fourth, fifth discharge from the muzzled pistol into the man on the carpet. The man flopped with each shot except the last. He pointed the gun at Jeremy. Jeremy hugged the bed and the sixth bullet hit the dog in the head just as it was about to pounce, exploding a smattering of blood over Jeremy and the crisp white sheets. He undid his other arm, shaking in fright. Vinnie was at his legs unbinding him. Vinnie was about to approach but he took his legs and with all the force in him kicked Vinnie in the face. He sprang up and stomped on Vinnie's chest, kicked his head, kicked it again. Bent over his face and shit all the dog semen he could push out over him, yelling, "You mother fucker! You piece of shit!" He took a light stand and used it like a bat clobbering him everywhere Vinnie couldn't protect. Vinnie reached up an arm to shield himself. Jeremy grabbed a camera by its tripod and again beat Vinnie with it. "You fuckin' piece of shit. Open your fuckin' mouth or swear to fuckin' Christ I'll ram this leg down your throat." He meant it too. He stood, legs splayed, over his face. Vinnie opened his mouth and Jeremy let loose another torrent of canine sperm. "Swallow it, fucker. Let me see you swallow the goddamn dog sperm you fuckin' perverted fucker!" He did. Then he turned his head to the side and spewed it back up. His face had bruises, a large cut about a brow. Blood on his teeth. Jeremy threw the tripod against the dresser mirror. His reflected naked flesh broke apart in pieces, right along with his heart. He fell into the bed. Shoved the carcass of the canine to the floor and heaved in sobbing tears, convulsing on the bed. "Come on," Vinnie said, getting up, shards of mirror falling off him. His right eye was swelling and he held his side. "We have to get out of here." He still had the gun in his hand. "Put on his clothes," he nodded at Shaftow. "Careful of the glass," he said, laying the gun on the dresser. Jeremy's face wet with tears, the mask of the forlorn and eternally lost, he took the dead man's shoes and pants and put them on. He left the rest. The shoes were small. They pinched without socks. He snatched the gun off the dresser and pointed it at Vinnie. "I aught t'kill you. Right here, right now." He said it calmly, evenly, intensely. Vinnie raised his hands, not looking at the kid in the eyes. "Your right, your right. I'm a fuck, I fucked you up ten ways to Sunday. Go ahead. I deserve it." He meant it, too. Jeremy saw he meant it. Vinnie tried but could not look at him. Jeremy reflected for a long while, glanced at the dead man and back at Vinnie. He began coughing, then hacking till he almost threw up. He tried to calm his breathing. "Why?" he said, lowering the gun, putting his hands on his knees to remain standing. Vinnie paused for long time. Probably the longest he'd ever sustained a thought. Searching. Weighing. Nothing moved. There were no fog horns or waves slapping the pylons, only silence waiting for something to break. A red stain slowly spread under the dead man. Vinnie attempted forming inconsequential words. Gave up. Finally, he exhaled. "I got nothing, cowboy," he said, "I'm a black hole." JT looked up. He'd never seen Vinnie like this. Vinnie unguarded, had no comeback, was all shattered glass behind his eyes. Vinnie snatched up the green bathrobe off the floor, shook off glass and draped it over Jeremy's shoulders. He grabbed the three cameras and left the rest. Glass crunched as they left the carnage.

I'm floored by you comments! I'm afraid if readers were put off by anything earlier they should probably not read on. Without giving anything away, it's about to get darker but still stay true to what happened. As JT would agree, sometimes there's justice and sometimes there ain't. I'm amazed too, @bareall77 you predicted there were, in certain parts, events taken from real life. Some of it to me, some by me, others—for better or worse—that simply crossed my path.

Hump Day Monday I took off from school cause I felt shitty. I got a call in the afternoon from the L.A.P.D. My dad—a police officer due to retire in two years—had been killed in a drug bust. They were deeply sorry for my loss. The funeral would be held Wednesday. They'd hoped I could make it. I didn't feel anything. I sat on the bed, the only furniture in the room, staring at the alarm clock waiting to feel something. The second hand moved but nothing inside me did. Well, I felt shittier. Responsible. Inadequate. Mr. X says porn is pleasure plus guilt plus shame. Without shame, just pleasure and guilt, it's simply art. Shame is the key ingredient to raising art to the level of pornography. I felt pornographic and didn't care. I called Riggs' office and got his secretary, Cameron, a very pretty man with the deepest blue eyes. Why was I thinking about his deep blue eyes? I was horrible and shameful. I was a degenerate, it was my fault. I was the irony in my father's death. I pushed all this down and told Cameron what had happened. He gave me his condolences and I hung up. I cried and then I didn't. Riggs called me back that evening to see how I was. Okay, I told him. No, you're not, but that was okay. He would arranged for a flight for the funeral. I declined, he said nonsense. Go for the funeral and come back the next day. Mr. X was impressed and was peeved with him—Riggs—for not having me signed to a contract before I left his house. Staggered home from his house was more like it. He, Riggs, was impressed too. Despite his non-reply when I asked him if I was ever in the running for the lead—I understood now with how much meth he slammed, he was incapable at the moment of answering, much less even understanding the question. He was sorry that this was the first moment he had the chance to tell me. Yes, I was still in the running for the part, in fact, he could see no one else coming close to clenching the lead. Maybe Jeremy was still a possibility, but I was in the lead for the lead. It was the first I'd heard Jeremy mention, but Riggs continued, "But," Riggs cautioned, "Mr. X definitely wants to talk to you as soon as you're back. But I would say this. Take your time. I know what he wants to propose. But you need to think it through. Know what your getting yourself into." I thanked him, puzzled and unsure what he was trying to communicate, while I was trying to work out in my own mind what I wanted. "What about this," I proposed. "Can I take you up on a one-way ticket and I'll drive back with my dad's Cadillac. I would be back in class on Thursday." "Boychick, you take as much time as you need. Class is just class. Your father is your father, no matter how you thought of him." I heard on his end the phone quietly set in the cradle. I still hadn't slept since Friday morning—that is, if you don't count the black outs in the playroom. I felt a bizarre electricity buzzing through me. A mild hallucinatory state I knew was from the aftermath of the slams, where I saw meaningless illusions of light everywhere. In my apartment, I had a fan on high trying to lower the temperature in the stale, hot room. It's whir fed into an audio hallucination of a radio station playing inside my head. It was the white noise of the fan that my brain, still running on overdrive, was translating into soothing music. It was that music I finally fell asleep to for the next thirty-six hours. *** Cameron knocked on my door Wednesday morning with the flight ticket leaving in two hours. I thanked him, got dressed, took a cab, nodded off on the flight and landing at LAX just before noon. I took a cab to the cemetery, where dozens of black uniformed officers had assembled. There were also two women present I didn't know, both boo-hooing. I avoided them. I was a little paranoid in the presence of so many police officers, but most were family friends that I knew from when I was little, had come over to our house for bar-b-ques. Not so much of late. I kept my dark glasses on and covered up the bruise on my neck with my starched collar and a tie that felt like a noose. I was roasting in my dingy polyester suit during the ceremony, but it was what I owned. Afterward, Roy, my dad's boss and total jack off material—unibrow, crisp side burns and cropped hair, heavy dark beard even when freshly shaved—gave me a big, bear hug and passed me over to my Uncle Glenn, dressed in his expensive Armani suit. His wife and kids couldn't get away, he apologized. A pretty awkward moment lapsed between us as he let me go, my arms still hanging by my sides. My uncle drove me to the house. He said he would be willing to arrange to store the furniture and sell the house. "Whatever," is the best I could come up with. My body still had a trace of electricity running through it and I just wanted to get out of my suit, maybe take a dip in our pool before I left. At the house everything felt surreal, like I was a ghost floating through it. My room was just as I had left it before I moved in with Perry. My trophies were still on my desk; family photos of better times hung on the walls—Disneyland, Yosemite, I couldn't stand looking at our faces; a poster of Nirvana (Curt Cobain was the last man I looked at before I went to sleep each night); my Boy Scout knot board; me and Chief, my dog till I was ten, sat framed on my nightstand. I tore off my suit leaving it on the floor and got into my swimsuit. I went out to the small, cramped pool in our backyard through the den's sliding glass door. My uncle had flipped on the Dodgers and was helping himself to one of my dad's beers. I guess my dad wouldn't care, right? "I ordered a pizza," he said, as I was passing through, "if you're hungry." I closed the sliding door, feeling the warm, familiar beach breeze engulf me. The pool took up almost all of what remained of the back yard after the den addition. We were lucky, we were rich, I always thought. We were an elephant in a tutu, we were a ridiculous illusion of a family. We were pornographic. Feeling my uncle's eye on me, I decided to strip off my bathing suit and flash my new P.A. On the diving board, seeing the metal reflected by the sun, illuminating the otherwise shadowy back yard's wooden fence, I dove. I swam the length of the pool underwater. Just like the Hockney painting. When I got to the end, my uncle stood there with his beer. "You should have on a red jacket," I said looking up to him. He squinted at me. I tilted my head and banged some water out of my ear. "Uncle Glenn, why don't come in and join me." "Maybe once the pizza get's here. You hungry?" Cue pizza delivery boy. Ding dong. "Famished," I said, while Uncle Glenn went to the front door. I swam a couple of laps feeling for the first time the strange drag of my P.A. I flipped around like a dolphin feeling all the new sensations it gave me. It was healing fast as Mr. X said it would. The salty piss cleanses it, so piss a lot, he said. Tits leave alone. It was tender to the touch and constricted in underwear which made me leave off underwear for a while. Uncle Glenn came back with the pizza box and set it and a bunch of napkins on the glass table. The table took up the remaining three square feet not taken by the pool. My father was so ridiculous he even bought an umbrella to shade the table, even though that corner of the yard never got sun. I pushed myself up out of the pool, flexing my triceps purposefully in the act. Uncle Glenn had already gotten his slice and was in a deck chair when I got to the open box. I was slick, shiny, still dripping when I picked up my slice. Nude and completely hairless. "Pineapple, ham. You always had the best taste, unk." He eyeballed me again. I could tell he was getting a hardon. He glanced at my tits and then at my crotch as I dropped my legs and left them dangling in the water. "Thanks for coming," I said, "I know it must have been hard getting away from your practice and all." "Did you have those done in San Francisco?" he asked, waving a finger at my piercings. I nodded and gave a short, squat smile. "I hope it was done in a sterile environment." No, it was done after multiple slams and getting fucked and fisted for the first time, with tons of grease, piss and cum coating me. "Oh definitely, very professional," I said. "The girl was certified." "What's with the bruise on your neck and arms?" he questioned. "Fight class gets pretty out of control sometimes. Check out my ass," I said, rocking up to expose my welt to him. Like I ever had to ask him to check out my ass. I saw my uncle relax a bit. I didn't want him relaxed. "So how's Aunt Martha and the kids?" He began taking off his shoes. He'd already draped his Armani jacket on the back of his deck chair, now he was starting to loosen his tie. I fluffed my dick off my wet balls. Even with the tender pinch I felt in the tip it was starting to rise. "Busy. School, garden club. Jimmy's goalie on the team, so lots of running around to practice, games. Boy has he grown. When was the last time you saw him?" "I was thirteen, he was ten. We had a fun time when he spent the night that time." I let that hang a little ambiguously, not relenting from our locked gaze. He took off his tie and unbutton his collar. "I don't suppose your dad's swim suit would fit my big gut?" he asked as casually as he could. I had to stifle a laugh, opting for a non-committal shrug instead. "Prob'ly not. Why bother. No one can see back here." "Sure," he said, slipping out of his shoes, socks, pants and shirt, hanging his clothes carefully over his chair. Uncle Glenn had gained a lot of weight since I'd last seen him. Same narrow face, high forehead, but his hair was now white and his cheeks were jowly. My father always worked out, but Dr. Glenn never. Too busy. Dad would come home and I'd watch him swim laps in our pool. He wasn't overly muscular, but he did have memorable arms and thighs. That's why it was such a shock to see my uncle standing there in his extra-large 2xist (2xist? really?) black underwear with his flab hanging all over. "So, why no hair? Is that a thing now?" I was at half-mast but was slowly deflating looking at him. I started to play with myself since I saw him staring at my crotch. "It just feels better when I'm rubbing up against a hairy man." "I bet," he said, stripping off his underwear, acting like it was a joke. His long schlong with plenty of hair over his crotch was totally erect. Where my dad's pubes were dark, his were light grey. He jumped in the deep end with a huge splash, displacing water all around the deck. "Good choice, David. This is what I needed, after—" There was an unsettling silence while we both floated for a while. I decided to change that and slowly bobbed closer toward him. "I think this is what you needed," and I put my hand around his large cock and tugged on it. I pinched one of his fat tits and then the other. He grabbed my dick but I lurched away cause of its soreness. "Fuck, yesss. I agree, boy. Do you know long it's been?" I counted to myself the last time. Five years I calculated. "You are one hellava good looking boy. Take after me, don't you?" I said nothing, but climbed up the pool steps and took some cushions from the chairs and laid them out along pool side. He came up behind me and felt up my ass. He insert a finger and, feeling no resistance, added another. "Hell, boy, you're so loose." He added a third and jumbled around bringing out a fart. "What have they been teaching you up there." "Just what you're about to do to me here." I knelt on all fours and after he spit on his cock, knelt, he easily glided straight into me. It felt good to have him inside me. On some level we both needed this fuck, probably for different reason, but still a fuck is a fuck, and this one was, like the others, pretty hard, fast and loveless. This time I knew full well what I wanted. I rammed my ass into his wet, hairy cock, and he had me by the hips pounding me with a frantic rhapsody that probably hadn't seen a fuck in five years. A quick-before-we're-caught fervor that I never understood before. He steamed urgently ahead like a huge locomotive, breathing heavy, wheezing horribly. It was always short with him. On the final few thrusts he lurched fully into me, holding me with his sword at its peak, then pulled out and thrust again, holding it there, feeling every inch of me. Then one last time, thrust, and held my hips tight against his rod. I could feel him, spurt after spurt, his cockhead pulsing and spitting inside me. He pulled out and cum drained out, running down my leg and stained the cushion. I didn't give him a moment to get away. "Okay, unk, my turn. You lie on your back this time." He sat back on his haunches on what he just heard. "David, no, I don't do that. Never, never, never," he protested. He protested, me thinks, a little too much. "But I know you want to. Look at your cock, unk. Still all wood." I bent over to suck his rock hard member. I tasted my assjuice mixed with his cum. I swallowed his juicy fuckstick till his grey pubic hairs brushed my lips, till his fleshy crotch crushed into my face. I was of his flesh, my face buried into his flesh. First one leg awkwardly kicked from under him, then the other. He held both arm back to prop himself up while I ran my mouth up and down his quite plump member. I played with his balls and ran my fingers back to touch his his soft, moist anus. He jumped. I placed a hand on his chest and slowly he leaned back until he was completely prone. I lifted his legs and spread them to expose his furry brown hole. He was still wet from the pool, tasted of chlorine and his musky, fetid maleness. I parted his asslips with my fingers and tongue. He let out a cry of ecstasy and fear—ecstasy that he loved it, and fear that he loved it. I rimmed him mercilessly as he squirmed under me, pushing his lips out letting me get deeper inside him. I spied some old suntan lotion on the glass table, reached up and lubed his hole. I cautiously and generously greased my cock, sensing if the tenderness would upend my intentions. Seeing my uncle spread legs, his brown wet hole fully exposed, it didn't matter. I stuck my P.A. in his virgin cunt with one finger, then slid the rest of my member slowing up his quivering shithole. "Wait," he hollered, "it hurts." "Just figuring that out now," I breathed on top of him, using my weight to push into him. His breath was rapid and his face contorted in pain. But he wanted it. I know he wanted it. "If you didn't want this you would have pushed me off a minute ago," I reminded him using his words. I pulled out a little and felt my dick firmly resolve to rape him. I plunged in again and pulled out feeling the trail of metal following my meat. Each push was agonizing and thrilling, for both of us; exciting me to pursue my desire, for him to succumb to his hidden desires. Yes, it hurt but hurt so good. This was a refrain I was learning, from no one else but from my own senses. Fucking him felt good on so many levels. The wet, slippery viscosity of the lotion was perfect because I could feel him fighting me internally—his hole was incredibly constricting, what a contrast to Riggs—but fucking him was like jacking off into a crushing fist. The harder he squeezed to eject me, the more I was pleasured. "Keep it up, keep fighting me, keep me from cumming. Squeeze harder, Uncle Glenn, that's it!" I looked down and saw his own cock dripping. As I picked up my pace I started jacking him too. Looking up at me, he winced every time I ran my P.A. over his prostate. We were both looking into each other's eyes, kinda shocked, kinda dirty, both wild eyed, when his cell rang. I was hard inside him, toying with his hole, as he reach for the phone in his coat pocket. "Oh, Martha," he said, pleading with a hand for me to exit. It only made me stiffer and punch his hole harder. He grunted. "What? No, it was moving, yes. I'm close, closing—" he grunted again, and the years I felt helpless gushed out of me, banging him furiously. "Oh, Jesus! What, no, I suspect I'm overwhelmed. Oh, fuck! Martha, I'm sorry, it's just, I can't—" "Hi Aunt Martha, it's Davie!" I yelled, as he covered my mouth with his hand. "David and I, we're trying to—. It's hard, dear, so hard. Oh!" I shot my wad right up his Hippocratic hole, feeling the river of cum and tension of the past couple of days, past lifetime, ooze right out of me. He surprised himself and shot all over his face right after, getting it in his eyes, stinging himself. "I'll call you back." He snapped shut the phone. "Oh, Jesus, David, David, David. What have we done." "You've done nothing." I pulled out seeing a bright bead of blood on the tip of my P.A. I grabbed a few napkins weighted down by the pizza box and wiped Uncle Glenn's dripping red ass. I went to the bathroom, flushed the bloody napkins, and got a roll of cotton bandages to wrap my dick in. The bleeding wasn't bad, it would soon stop, but I wanted nothing so much as to get out of there. I'd already taken out most of my stuff. I took the picture on the nightstand and the knotboard on the wall. I made sure Uncle Glenn had my number, assured him I'd sign the paperwork, no problem, and grabbed the car keys in the kitchen. I was out without a scene. We'd never mention this, like all the other times, again. The garage housed the family car. And like everything else about the house, it was way too big to fit comfortably in its space. I squeeze sideways facing my father's workbench. I popped open the car door, but just before getting in I saw a misplaced wrench on the table. I picked it up and put it up on its outlined rightful place on the pegboard. Each tool—hammer, screwdriver, wrench—had its rightful place. With the wrench back in place, all was right with the world. After stealthing my uncle I no longer felt my family was pornographic. Quite the opposite. I left shame behind next to the pool. It no longer belonged to me. I felt a little bit guilty—perhaps—and mighty pleasured—my smile showed that—but no shame. Feeling pleasure with a hint of guilt, I felt what I was leaving behind was art. I pulled out of the drive, took the top down, and pointed the over-sized, white Caddy toward the long drive up the coast.

Stereophonic (Midnight) Mr. X pulls out. He suggests I squeeze to hold in his piss. He steps over to the table to prepare my points and slaps Riggs' ass to get him to get it together so he can help him. Riggs needs time to get out of the sling. He slowly drops his feet and tries to use the momentum to leverage his body to a sitting position. I'm lying there feeling how content I am, but know I should be sitting up too. Mr. X tells Riggs he wants me to have a double slam as a capper for the night. I'm kinda sad at the news about the evening ending, but I'm getting real jittery and a little paranoid at the show of footsteps I see at the window. My hole feels empty but I also know that won't be for long. Everything feels twitchy, like my skin is being stung in a million places by jelly fish. My teeth grind. I feel annoyed, angry, anxious, without a reason. Get your ass on the table, says Mr. X. I don't get the sense he's much aware of me or how I'm feeling. He's on a mission, the first part of which is getting his points all set up. I pass Riggs who reaches out a hand and feels up my dick. I stop for a second and feel his other hand going up my crack. He fingers my hole and pulls back to give my butt a hard crack. Instinctively I now say Thank You, Sir. It's automatic, like I'm saying it in my sleep. I'm also beginning to see figures in the dark now. Faces like you see on an Etch A Sketch—wiry, jagged lines in the dark forming faces. I tell myself it's the drugs, but that doesn't stop them from forming. I use the sling's poles to help me get closer to the table. I put a hand on Mr. X's shoulder. His skin is on fire. I feel drawn to him because my skin feels like wet ice. I nuzzle in back of him and he nudges me away, a spoon in one hand, heating the contents with a lighter. How much? I venture to ask him. Point three and three. And with the chem piss, how much? You'll be fine, he answer distractedly. I make it to the table, which is up at a forty-five degree angle. I feel like everything needs to be in slow motion, that I can't skip a step in adjusting myself to climb on it or I'll fall to the ground. I get up but I'm stuck until someone can help me with my legs. Riggs is there, unlocking the back of the medical table, lying it almost flat, me traveling down with it, the room travel down, the ceiling moving down. I look up behind me, upside down, and it's dizzying. I watch shadows of upside-down feet walking by the window. I wonder who they are, if they're going to be joining us. I hope not. Irrationally I fear there will be more people coming. The last thing I want is to meet any more people tonight. As much as I don't want the evening to end, I fear it will never end. Riggs grabs a leg and drapes it over a stirrup, then drapes my other leg in the other one. He adjusts them apart so more of my hole lies open and exposed. A light is switched on and I feel his shadow fall over me. He stands between my legs letting his cock dangle over mine. He releases a lock by my arms and two arm supports spring apart from the table. He straps one small cuff over my right wrist, then the left. He pushes out the supports so my arms are now at right angles to the examining table. Riggs pushes them until they lock in place. Mr. X observes I'm ready and comes over giving Riggs one of his needles and a rubber hose. I'm excited and fearful at the same time. I'm not sure what they're doing but like the fact I'm literally in the dark as to what to expect. Riggs comes around to my left, Mr. X is on my right. Both men take the rubber hose to my biceps and tie them off. They swab my arms and located a vein. I'll go first, says Mr. X to Riggs, then you follow up once I'm in him. "David," says Mr. X. It takes a second for it to occur to me that he's talking directly to me, bending over in my face. "You are having a very good slam first. I want you to ride like before. I'm going to start opening you. You think you can't take it but how much you're ass has taken already, you are ready for your first fist. I want you to feel the rush of Riggs second slam when I go in, and you go over the edge with my fist going in you. You understand?" Okay, I say, looking up in the mirror at my spread out body. I hear his words but have no idea what he's getting at. Get ready, he tells Riggs, not me. I am barely here any more. I am a reflection to myself, looking down upon my body. Mr. X's needle is piercing my skin. It hurts and feels good that we're finally moving. Looking down I see the liquid turn crimson. I look up to Mr. X's face. I can't find his eyes. His head is only black sockets. His cheekbones collapse in his face in the harsh backlight. Shadowed grey strands stand out from his chin. His shoulders are impossibly broad and strong—I want him to crush me; his fat tits have piercings that play and dazzle in the light; his snake hand plunges the crimson liquid into me. I feel the rush travel up my arm and disperse through the corridors of my body. I close my eyes and feel it overtaking me. Separating one part of me from another. Mr. X's venom travels to my brain, some to my heart, some to my lung, some to my groin, which I feel Mr. X's hand is testing with several fingers. So much is happening at once I give up trying to understand, just look up in the mirror and see what my body looks like when it's rushing. I can tell you what I see. Who else would I tell? It flushes red, my chest heaves, my pelvis pushes down on the snake hand I see poised to strike. I can't focus on anything, but feel everything. Riggs' clear liquid turns red, and quickly disappears. I feel a second, larger wave usurps the first. I'm tumbling like before but this time no one catches me. I turn inside out as a hand pries me apart, a large palm of pain and succumbing. I want the snake head and am rejecting it at the same time. Mr. X is forcing me to accept him, and I want to but can't physically take him into my body. These are thoughts I don't own. He does. He is telling me things, what he wants, what I have to do. I respond by opening, by bearing down, guiding him into me. And then he is in. I throb on his hand. I picture the hand inside. I look up and see the wrist I'm swallowing. I thought the sensation would cease once I surrendered but he wants more, he is continuing to find a path through the deeper cave in me. It is easy. How can it be easy? It slides without effort, like a chute that had been laid and the hand is simply finding it's way in to rest, to settle. He then he is in a deeper crevice, and still his snake is traveling deeper. I cry out, I hear myself saying something, it's not coming from me but from the mirror above: Let me get use to it. He had the opposite idea. And tells me things he's doing, wants me to do. I feel his every inch, his twisting hand, the shrill tendrils of his fingers, touching barriers that fall to his nail-less finger, the tip of the snake, it's tongue that finds the smallest opening and bores and scratches to collapse another barrier, and finds he can grind the seal into submission, and I want him to, and what started as a hole only as wide as the tip of his finger, penetrates, now caves in for several fingers, like the tentacles of a squid follow the single finger, spreading apart and conquering another compartment. He spreads his fingers making way for his arm to start entering me. I see his rapid progress, but close my eyes and see it even more. "Open your fucking eyes and see what I'm doing," he says. Riggs is next to me, breaking a capsule under my nose. I am pushing my hole against a forearm. It is too big to open any farther and yet it does. Mr. X works me inside and out. Bees buzz in my head. I hear his words in a foreign tongue, not the meaning but the intention. I am opening to him. I am watching what he's doing. I feel his power. I'm empowering my own destruction. He slowly closes his hand into a fist. I detect his fingers curling, nails scraping my walls, pinch against contracting rectal undulations, thinking I'm shitting when it's the exact opposite. He first pushes in then pulls out a fraction of an inch which convulses my body in spasms of bliss, and his caresses pull him deeper. I see a shine in his black eyes toward the back of his cavernous skull. They shine like coal, like burning coal, glow red, like staring into a furnace, feeling the searing heat, the flickers of flames, and eyes staring back at me. He tells me with his eyes to push and push down on his arm. Riggs crack another capsule and I feel myself falling uncontrollably down on this demon's arm. He is expressionless, takes all the emotion out of the act and replaces it with my obedience. And no, I can't resist him. The sensation of pulling my body apart on his arm is impossible to resist. I feel myself start to quiver on his arm until it builds to heaving myself on him. He twists his body, his shoulder twists away from me and I see my hole moving up to his arm pit. He twists back in a crouch, his shoulder coming up from below, delivering itself a blow that pushes his arm pit, black hairs trailing into my cavern. His toothless maw opens into a fiendish smile as he sees me giving in to destroying myselft. I push and bounce no matter the torment his arm provides. It is the torment I want, and lick my lips in debauched desire. I show him what I want and he is more than delighted to provide me my own annihilation. It's Riggs who slows me down. He's trying to calm my writhing body. Mr. X roars, Let him be destroyed! Bass words, deep and dead, flow into me, but it is the actions of Riggs that slows my bodily offering of sacrifice. I don't want to cease this overpowering desire, but each time Riggs soothes my frenetic body from impaling onto this proffered arm, a little more of who I was returns to my brain and body. I see the storm of waves in the mirror, whitecaps, slapping on this foreign object slowing to ripples, then gentle, soothing swell of tide. It slows my mind, too, allowing me to accept what I've done, knowing how good it feels and still want to survive beyond this night. Mr. X continues to plow my hole, but without me to gut myself, the residual of me, of who I am, remains. I feel the draw he offers me. I accept his punishment, but not my death. Intermission Assemblyman Brenner has been dead for years now, so I can tell you it was his dog he'd kept at his farm in the Salinas Valley. He never gave the dog a name. I think that's just cruel. Who does that? His wife never visited the farm—all those migrant workers. She stayed in their Sacramento gated estate, which he would reside in only when the California state house was in session. For both their sake's—keeping up appearances for her daddy's inheritance money, and for his varied special interests—the house sessions were thankfully brief. Dana Shaftow arranged things. Transportation of the dog was one of the things he arranged. Vinnie was his San Francisco contact and the one who would provide the talent. Money would funnel through X Corp. and everyone would come away rewarded. Vinnie, the talent, Dana Shaftow, and Mr. X. The assemblyman would have a VCR copy for his own private use, and a clause in the contract (which officially didn't exist) stated Mr. X was permitted to make unlimited copies for wider distribution. Vinnie and the talent received a one-time fee; Dana Shaftow's boss, Judge Reinhardt of the D.C. circuit, and Dana Shaftow himself, and of course Mr. X, would receive on-going residuals. The initial overhead costs were born by Assemblyman Brenner. He already had three of these specialty videos on his shelf hidden away on his farm—two with girls, one with a boy. His part of the revenue stream from downloading and sales went first to an off-shore account and then back-channeled into his campaign funds. The three tapes he financed were like gum. After so much use they lost their flavor. That, and they were all on the young and scrawny side. Even though the fax was low quality that he received on his farm Sunday afternoon, he liked the look of this jungle boy—long hair, defiance in his eyes, young and certainly not scrawny. He put in a call to Dana Shaftow and one to Vinnie. On his end, Vinnie put the wheels in motion immediately. Dana caught the call on his cell, waiting in line in a Washington D.C. dry cleaner. Sure, he knew of a secluded house on the market, across the bay in Tiburon. Wealthy, quiet neighborhood. Plenty of privacy. No, no one would hear a thing. Yes, he could get if for one night. Friday or Saturday. He'd have to check with the real estate agent. He'd connect with Vinnie and confirmed everything. He snapped shut his cell phone, then, to the elderly Chinese woman behind the dry cleaning counter, he handed over a certain blue, cum-stained dress. He arranged to pick it up the following Sunday. I might also tell you that, lest you fret, K9 would not be the worst thing to happen to JT. The aftermath of the event, and the cascade of subsequent events produced from that weekend, well, that would be. Still, he'd be better off than Joey but that's not saying much. *** Okay, okay, Mr. X is saying. I'm not really following any of this shit anymore. I'm so fucked up I don't know my name. You did good, he keeps telling me like that's supposed to mean something. He points to his wrist, maybe a half an inch up. I guess he's talking about the fist that just got shit out of me and that's as far as I went, not like up to his armpit like it felt like. He's telling Riggs to strap me down and he's bringing the table up to a forty-five degree angle. Then he's saying I think we're about done tonight. One more thing. Fuck, whatever. He opens up a black doctor's bag. Was that always here I'm wondering? Riggs did an excellent job restraining me. I can't budge an inch. I'm pinned like a butterfly. I wish I cared. All I can think of is a slice of pizza, a coke and salad with little sliced olive with Italian dressing from this little pizza stand on my corner. Two-fifty special. It's about all I eat. I know I should eat. I should probably sleep too. I can't tell you really where I am, who I am, what time it is. I know I've been fuck, fisted, shaved, pissed in, pissed on, probably pozzed, but hell if I know if any of this really true. I think it happened, but I also thought a moment ago I was riding a man's arm who I first met tonight up to his arm pit. Swear to God I thought I felt his arm pit hairs tickling my asshole. He's putting on blue surgical gloves. He snaps them, I think for my benefit. Snap, snap! But I'm through trying to figure out what's going on. He's washing one of my tits that seem much bigger than usual. It's hard for me to even recognize them at the moment. I look at his tits and Riggs', and though they're hardly that size, they are pretty ginormous. Funny I can remember Mr. X and Riggs but have lost myself. He holds out forceps and pinches one of my bloated tits. I flinch but after tonight its gotta be something really big to grab my attention. Fuck! He's holding out a long needle that he's about to— They're both looking at me, talking. They seem pleased. My tits are throbbing. The only thing I catch is Mr. X telling Riggs to not let him pass out again. I guess that would be me passing out. He wants me to feel it, Mr. X is saying. 'It' has an ominous ring. I look down at my tits and see two small bars going through them. They smart like a bitch, so why do I like them. I want to touch them but I'm completely restrained. Mr. X is washing my dick. Now then, David. He's saying it straight into my face again. I guess I'm David. I go through a huge nerve cluster, one of biggest in the body, and I'm going in deep in you so you can eventually have 00 gauge like me. I guess this all makes sense in some universe, not the one I'm in currently; he might as well be speaking Russian. Maybe he is. He's pointing to my dick, turning it over, rubbing a spot maybe a quarter inch down from my piss slit. I wish I had some opinion about this. Some dread or excitement, but I feel completely drained, emptied. He takes a long steel instrument with a sharp point out of the medical bag. It has a small ring at the end of it, size of a quarter. Whatever. An 8 gauge he's explaining as he's inserting the instrument into my penis. He's feeling under my shaft. He looks in my eyes telling me, Take deep breath. I'm not drained any more—a shock jolts up my spine, rings an alarm in my lizard brain, and ricochets right back down to my cockhead! Riggs is holding me by my shoulders. I feel every shred of skin tearing apart making way for a sharp needle ripping through my spongy flesh. Blood spurts from under my dick and streams red piss over the table. Riggs is frantically putting down paper towels but can't keep up the with the flow. I'm sure I'm screaming but every conscious part of my brain is in the tip of my dick focused acutely on the most excruciating sensation of metal being dragged into and out of my shaft, tugging at it like a claw, encasing it, pliers pinching and locking the invader in place. Mr. X withdraws his pliers leaving behind a metal ring that enters my piss slit, comes out the shaft, and ends with a captured ball completing the circle. "Beau-ti-ful," slowly gushes Mr. X. He admires it. He shows it to Riggs. He can't help himself—I see he's possessed. He goes down on me, blood leaking and all, giving me the most punishing head of my life.

Intensity is one of the things Mr. X appreciates in his stable, ponyboy

The Canary "Pain is weakness leaving the body," Marine Motto "Did y'all drink all the milk," Leah called out in the hallway from the kitchen. She heard a 'Yeah' from his room. "That just ain't right, JT. Now how my supposed to have my morning tea?" JT didn't answer so Leah walk down to his door. "You up?" "No," said JT, muffled under the covers. "Well, you best get up or you'll be missing speech. And Miss Marshall don't like when you miss even one of her classes." "Then she's gonna have to come on over here if'n she wants to see me. I feel poorly." Leah opened his door and stood next to his bed, him hiding under covers. He peeked out to see her standing there, hand on hip, empty tea cup dangling from her finger. "Whew," she whistled. "What cat dragged you in?" "I don't rightly recall." "What'd ya mean, you can't recall? "What I said. I remember meeting someone and I had a drink, and then I don't remember. He must of put something in it, cause next thing I remember was being home in bed with my clothes on." "When? Saturday?" "Must of been Sunday." "You mean you went out Friday and don't remember anything till Sunday. Jesus Christ Almighty, JT. You were out of it for two whole days and can't remember a thing? Or you don't wanna admit to remembering a thing?" "Leah, lay off. I feel I got cramps and fever." She felt his forehead. "Well, you're sweatin' like a whore in church. I'll get you some Motrin." He looked up at her with sad puppy eyes. "What? Stop that. If you're feeling bad you probably did something you should feel bad about." She saw a stash of crumpled up money lying on his dresser. She counted it. "What in Sam Hill? You got two hundred and fifty bucks. How'd you come up with two hundred fifty dollars sitting on your dresser? I thought you were broke." "Uh, that's part of what I can't remember. I woke up in my clothes and saw the money and can't remember where it came from." "Jeremiah Tiberius Reynolds, you know you don't ever need be ashamed of telling me anything. You know I wouldn't tell your momma or you daddy. But you be honest with me, hear?" "I'd tell you, but I swear to the Almighty, Leah, I can't remember a thing after that drink on Friday night." Her spider eyelashes blinked as she looked him over. "Well, you look sicker than a dog. I'll tell the Academy when I get there. Lemme fetch you the Motrin and you sleep." "Thanks Leah. I promise to go out and get milk when I get up. I wish I knew where that money came from. Maybe it'll come back to me." Leah brought him back the pills and some water, kissed his forehead, and let him be. He heard the front door lock. He recalled full well where he'd spent the last two days and nights, although at the end, Saturday night, when he passed out after an hour of getting balls and dick electrocuted, the last six words he recalled, and there were only six while strapped to the bed, were Vinnie's. Each shock accompanied a word: Muscles, Are, Required, Intelligence, Not, Essential. MARINE. Vinnie ingrained it into him at every opportunity, and used it to signal that he was about to let loose pure hell, no holds barred, on whatever punishment he was inflicting on Jeremy. Jeremy kept waiting for the time when he and Vinnie would hold each other's balls and squeeze till one or both of them came. He kept waiting for Vinnie to say, Look at my dick, look at my dick, and then it would be over and Vinnie would collapse, like he did in his videos, and there'd be a manly hug and it would be done. But it never came. All Vinnie did was abuse him the whole time. Yeah, at the beginning he made him feel things he never did, and it was crazy, but he was so out of it because of the slam. By the time Saturday morning came around, things started to make sense, but then he saw Vinnie shoot up and his real suffering began. He was gagged so he couldn't tell him to stop, only yell while getting kicked in the balls when he couldn't take any more. Or when he actually got a screwdriver stuck down his shaft and electrocuted, it went on for so long he lay at the end just twitching with every round of electricity. Vinnie got frustrated and slammed him again, and ramped up the abuse a hundred million times. His tits were electrified, pins stuck in them. He got a mask put on him and a vice put on his balls and felt them get crushed, but because he couldn't see what was happening, all he felt was pain. There was no fun in just pain. Vinnie laid him back, gentle like, and Jeremy thought he was going to be nice to him. Vinnie put a gas mask over his head filled with popper smell and was starting to get into it because of the aroma and Vinnie playing with his cock. But then he felt a needle go through the skin between his balls and his shaft. It wasn't a point for slamming. It was just the needle part. He screamed into his gag and inside the gas mask, but that didn't do nothing. Another needle when in right above that, and on and on until Vinnie had put in a stack of needles that reached up to the head. Jeremy thought that'd be the end of it. But after a long wait he heard Vinnie unwrapped another set of needles. He said in a different tone of voice, one lacking any emotion like the first night, one that sounded cold and clinical, "Muscles," and another needle went right through his dick head. It hurt more than anything he'd ever felt, a feeling so intense things went dark for a moment. Vinnie waited for Jeremy to get back to full consciousness. "You back with me, cowboy? Camera's are rolling. We don't like dead air. Where were we? Right. Are," and a second needle perpendicular to the first, punctured through his urethra, out the top of his glans. Jeremy screamed, then made rapid pleas through his gag. He didn't have to pay him, just stop. He wouldn't tell nobody, just let him go. "Required," Vinnie replied. A third needle when in his pee slit and out the right side of his glans. "Just three more to go, partner. I'm sure you heard of Jacob's Ladder in Bible class. I did in catachism Well, this is my take. Intelligence," and with that Vinnie shoved another needle in Jeremy's pee slit emerging out the left side of the glans. Jeremy repeated 'please, please no,' which fell on deaf ears. "Not a ladder going to heaven, no," Vinnie stroked all the needles that ran up Jeremy's shaft, "but one going down to hell. This one's going to smart, sport. Take a big hit. Not!" and Vinnie punctured Jeremy's left testicle straight in with the needle going all the way into the core. Jeremy thrashed in his chains, trying to push himself off the bed. He pounded his fists against the bed, grabbed at Jeremy. "Essential," and the last needle punctured his other testicle. Jeremy tried to hold it in, but Vinnie pulled out the needle apologizing. "Sorry, partner, missed the center target. Once more, Essential!" Jeremy shrieked straight for one minute until the acute unimaginable pain subsided to only to an intense painful throb. His whole member was a constellation of wounds each one individual, taken together excruciating. Vinnie kept playing with Jeremy's cock and the needles gouging him. Jeremy felt the familiar alligator clamps that had shocked his nipples and earlier when the screwdriver was in his cock in the wee hours of the first night. Those early e-stims, Vinnie called them, those were a "three-piece warm-up band, JT. Now get ready for an opera." It agonized him, Vinnie hooking up the electrodes to the needles in his cockhead and shaft, but when he place the clamps on his testicles every movement made adjusting them tore through the center of the internal flesh of each ball. "Done in a second. You just hang in there, partner." Jeremy whimpered but endured the pain. There wasn't much else he could to. "Now I remember you don't like having your butt played with and I can't blame you. I'm the same way. And believe me I don't derive any pleasure in this but what's an opera without base notes." He felt Vinnie pushing a lubed object the size of a quail's egg up his butthole. It slid passed his sphincter and land next to his prostate. "Hope that wasn't too personal, but I think we're pretty much beyond that. Okay, orchestra tuning up." Electrodes randomly zapped each part of his cock and ass and jolted him in every direction at once. Then quit. At first he only felt, or not even felt, thought, yeah, thought about a pulse in his prostate. There was something definitely there as least he thought so. But then he definitely felt a ticking, annoying at first but becoming stinging. Then the sting transferred to his glans then moved first up then down the ladder of needles to his balls. At his balls, the stinging became a jolt, a large jolt in the left, then an even larger zap in the right, then both, then repeated—left, right, together, left right, together—each time increasing in amplitude. As it crecendoed to an intensity that made him dance to an unheard tune, just as suddenly it quit. "Pretty impressive, right?" Vinnie started the pattern again, this team in a higher key. Allegro—sharper, faster, more emphatic. "So weird huh? Where'd I learn to be this musical? Asbury Park high school marching band? Oh, no, no, no. What are you, crazy? Paris? Vienna? Try Nicaragua, Jeremy. Didn't know the Nicaraguan's had a taste for the classics? Well, not the pomp of the oompah marching band played for the generals standing on balconies. No, basements with captains and lieutenant-colonels supervising sadistic soldiers that I received training first hand. Ah, those classic strums on the guitar, beautiful serenades I heard out the window, covering my shrieks inside the chamber. Chamber music," he laughed. To Vinnie, Jeremy's background screams were of a pattern, but you had to listen closely. He'd start with a flare of intense voltage deep in his rectum, then traded up to a quick succession of yelps as the head of his penis erupted in head-thrashing, teeth-gritting anguish. The pain, like a xylophone running up and down his shaft, was a favorite of Vinnie's. He'd often come back to it like a chorus or a refrain. His main melody, though, remained in the balls. The agonizing sound produced by the balls he perfected and was closest to, partially through trial and error, but principally through personal experience. Vinnie made a few adjustments since he hadn't heard Jeremy singing for a minute or two. "Since I was caught up trading arms—we sold to those in power and those wanting power because that's what we do—as a prisoner my country had no need or any more knowledge of me. I was on my own. I have to tell you, Jeremy—" Jeremy bellowed out a torturous screech, "Oh! Fuck yes, that's it! You get it now! Jeremy, I have to tell you when it's every man man for himself and you're the only man, you are fucked! I know you feel me. And those crank electrical generators that they show in movies, they get the job done. I would have like to share it with you, but they are hard to get a hold of. I've tried, believe me. The basic set up attached to a man's balls unlocks the keys within a few days. Cause there's no scars or damage, you can start again from scratch. Then another few days after you've sung, for your captives to be sure there wasn't any lying. Then a few more days just for hell of it. Since our government has a policy of not paying ransoms—which was the point for the Iran-Contra controversy, Jeremy—go think of that irony." Playing with dials and switches, Vinnie got Jeremy singing a beautiful series of rhythmic screams. His songs literally were music to Vinnie's ears. Vinnie had sung them, why not the boys that came to him too. They would share the splendor, justify why'd you'd say anything to make it stop. Something with a samba beat? Vinnie made a few changes to the syncopation and undulating amplitudes, voltage would generate on one set of cycles, while another pattern altogether at odds with the first would, eventually, pair up. What was singularly bearable—more teeth-gritting stuff—when the two electrical patterns merged, physically, and—because you could predict it coming a mile down the road—psychically, it paired up unendurable torment opening those teeth to a sustain hollering. If the tormentors were truly good at the job (and Vinnie learned expertly from his), well, a sustained, especially piercing one note of agony could indefinitely be strung out. Or until the singer passed out. Or died. It happened. Usually this was set in the minor key of "no-no-no" for the performer was aware of the terrible logic of the song. Jeremy was at this stage. Vinnie listened enrapt. Jeremy's cries, then screams, when he saw what was about to happen, were pitch perfect. The boy wasn't dumb as he looked. (Although Vinnie noted he looked pretty darn good. He stuck his middle finger in the boy's butt to fine-tuned the plug to ensure it was aligned with the prostate and got a zap for his trouble.) "Okay, choir boy. Ready for the finale? Time to make you a soprano. Time for the fat lady to sing." Jeremy adamantly shook his head. He wasn't going to be able to live through this. "Muscles Are Required," Vinnie said turning the dial to the top until Jeremy yelled his guts out. "And who takes you in, Jeremy, after you've given your all for your country? Well, who would that be, Jeremy, question mark?" He gave a game show buzz sound and accompanied it by a shot up the dial to 10. "Incorrect. The correct answer is Cuba!" Vinnie brought the dial back to 6. "And who do you get turned over to once you've sung any other songs with a Latin beat you might have in you? No, wrong again!" Vinnie dialed up to 10 a second time, and left it there watching Jeremy flop like a pinned frog on his soft leopard-spotted bed, before bringing it down and leaving it at an intense 7. In a game show voice he replied to himself, "The answer is The Kremlin—who knows, as a special operative, you must have one or two last songs to sing to be valuable enough to finally get traded back to the U.S. of A.—and as a canary you'd do anything to survive the wires connected to your balls." Vinnie turned up to 10 and left it there, monoguing something terrible over Jeremy's horse, rasping shrieks. "A dishonorably discharged, Jeremy, for what it was all worth, at an Oakland loading dock. No marching bands, no crowds, just a few dock workers and a familiar Russian junky who just so happened I'd share a cell with. A plant you might ask? Probably, Jeremy, but one who might could put you to work in a bar in San Francisco. Maybe set you up with your own business. 'No scruples, but many rubles,' Mr. X, the only one there to greet me, certainly was lyrical. He was poetry in a perverted soul, had and still has many connections. You could make good life here, he told me when he drove me into the city. A sleazy one, but do you care at this point? Screw the world like it screws you. The boy was unresponsive. He switched off the tens unit and began putting away his toys. "Intelligence." Boys willingly sign on dotted line in my country for less. Boys in the slums fist themselves, take rape of old men, take shit for eating, take American baseball bats up themselves for food, for American men to download for enjoyment. Everyone goes home winner. "Not." That's four sessions back to back. Two with masks. Two face uncovered. That's two-fifty in one weekend. More than he got in a month wired from back home. On the walk back to his apartment he figured out what four weekends like that would get him. "Essential." And that wasn't even the private one-timers who paid a lot, lot more, Vinnie promised. Maybe five hundred for one night, depending on what he would be willing to do. He had his email and would be in touch. He'd keep the headshot, if JT didn't mind.

Prolapse (Night 2) You’re a sick puppy, I said to myself. After watching the concluding half-hour of the abuse Joey was put through, how could I be stiff as a board witnessing it? At Bar X Duncan stood off to a corner watching the shadow men who’d been aroused by his performance. The first group of men in line for Joey's ass were satisfied with simply fucking the half conscious kid strapped to the fuckbench. It was the few remaining men who lingered around waiting for the room to thin out, that slipped a few extra bills to Mr. X, these last men almost made me crack my nut, sick as that was. I don’t know if Joey had ever taken a fist, but the assembled men, maybe five or six, started testing out what the boy could take. With the first fist he was clearly awake, struggling against his restraints. The men were not gentle but took satisfaction in Joey’s pleas to stop. Several tried double fisting him but they failed in their attempts. The last couple were satisfied to piston and punch fist him, violating him with a good forearm before trading off to the next in line. The lube starting running pink then turned red, before Duncan saw that Joey could be seriously internally injured. He intervened and gave Joey's ass to the last man in line. He was a very thin old man—ninety, a hundred, a thousand year old priest?—practically skeletal. He negotiated with Mr. X and Duncan, giving Duncan a small black bottle and then went over and knelt before Joey’s ass. Crouching on his knobby knees he surgically felt inside the boy. Duncan came over and gave Joey a hit off the bottle the old man had provided. Joey’s head drooped even before the bottle was capped. Duncan sampled a hit. If it weren’t for one of the remaining spectators standing close to him, Duncan would have fallen. The spectator steady him and Duncan stood for a long while enwrapped in a hypnotic daze. The skeleton soon had his fist in Joey going up to his mid forearm when Joey’s head bobbed up and fell again. The old man's rested inside Joey at the crook of his arm. He withdrew it completed and immediately reinserted it. Joey silently opened his mouth, his eyes saucers of black, as the man this time went past the bones of his elbow. Joey breathed rapidly trying to absorb the old man’s thin flesh and bones. The skeleton paused just for a moment to let Joey adjust to the depth he had penetrated, then immediately inserted his other bony hand in Joey’s ass. There was an audible gasp from Joey when the second hand entered. Joey’s head fell. Duncan was again awake and stroke over to give the kid another hit. Joey shook his head emphatically but Duncan whispered sternly in his ear, and held the reluctant boy’s head between his thigh and his hand. Joey surrendered to the inevitable and inhaled obediently first with one nostril then the other. Duncan held this there until the captive took two more hits. The old man waited for Duncan to cap the bottle and step aside, then set the new hand trailing along his first arm. You could actually see the Joey's facial transformation. What was first reluctance then resistance to what the old man was doing internally to him, now Joey was assisting his own impalement. The old man met his new hand with the other deep inside Joey's body. The boy pressed his ass back on the old man's arms, trying to force the man's arms ever deeper. Me moaned and huffed with every inch he pushed and absorbed. At the peak of what his body could take, arms up to the withered biceps, the old man pushed an inch deeper extracting a frantic holler from Joey and then cruelly extracted both hands all the way out at once pulling Joey's innards with it. Joey cried out not in pain but in delirium, as his hole flared open displaying his newly exposed bright red entrails. *** I did as I was instructed. Water, then back on the giant phallus. I was able to take the speed bump and add a last few inches in pure sympathy with what I imagined Joey must have gone through. The video ended with Duncan unstrapping Joey and carrying him either unconscious or simply a crumpled sack of beaten meat with a thick river of spent lube and cum drooling out of his asshole. A final shot of Joey's head buried in the cleft of Duncan's hairy chest. On cue Mr. X and Riggs made their entrance. "Is excellent video, no? Analytics says over seven thousand visits, five hundred downloads in first day," Mr. X chortled, holding out a contract. "Joey will be big star, already have signature from him. This is yours. You sign whenever." He placed his hand on my face evaluating my butt and the distance traveled. "Very good, boy. You come far ways. But now I want to show you what you will be like for me. Not tomorrow but goal for you. Riggs has present for your next step, yes Pig Riggs?" With that, Riggs climbed in the sling, strapping in his legs, spreading open to display his hanging asslips. "What do you think, almost virgin Boy Scout. You see bull cunt like this before?" As an afterthought Mr. X added, "Leave dildo on bed, take up butt plug and come over here. That big plug there." Between pulling out the object and shitting it with my loosened ass muscles, I grunted till the dildo fell out. I went over and picked up the large butt plug Mr. X indicated and then went over and stood next to him. I bent to look at Riggs and Mr. X inserted a few inches of the plug in my ass. He gave an approving snort and I allow him to push it all the way in. "Oh, shit! Thank you, Sir." I examined Riggs' hole while my hole adjusted to the smaller object. "Holy fuck, Sir! I've never seen a hole with hanging flaps like that." "Sit and wheel yourself closer. See full talent of Riggs' hole. Maybe pleasure him while I get preparations going. Poppers to inspire you." Mr. X went to the table and went to work on loading fresh points for himself and Riggs. I took my hit and looked at his full, smooth puckered old man butt. A wave of lust got in me once I capped the bottle. I spread his cheeks and went in to get my first real taste of a man's asshole. I gave a lick to his hanging nutsack and ran my tongue down his taint. He was smooth, clean, but once I got to his sloppy asslips I got a taste of his muskier self. The poppers made me want to get more of that smell so I plunged a finger in him and pulled it out and sucked on it. He let out a cry of delight. What a dirty child I was, he sputtered. His sphincter and colon were softer than I could have imagined. I sucked on the outer flap of skin, every so often slipping my tongue inside as I circle around his hole. Each time I inserted my tongue down his shit chute he gave a loud moan. I used my fingers to spread apart his hole. It was so pliable that every time I spread him apart, it would stay open for a moment and I could see deep inside his cunt. It was bright pink then turned red the farther in I peered. He was pushing to expose more of his colon. I was fascinated how I was in some warped science experiment discovering the extremes of anatomy. This was not a boy's tight butthole like I knew mine to be when we started—how long ago? This was a sloppy pig's, extremely used manhole. I took another hit and began lapping it like a dog. We found a rhythm of him pushing, exposing more hole, and me licking as the next velvety layer of red innards unfolded. His moaning increased. "That's it, lick that rosebud, pig boy," he murmured. His cock, fully erect, bobbed in excitement to what I was doing to him. His hole was cleanly scrubbed and I explored it with my mouth and tongue each petal he was blooming. I felt my own hole open with the new butt plug, smaller than the dildo I had been working with but still big enough to give a charge with each gentle bounce I took on the stool. But what I was sitting on was nothing like what I was seeing. I was envious of Riggs' accomplishment, and anxious for my hole to follow suit. Not tonight, I knew, but I thought with these two men's perverseness, I could easily be guided to follow Riggs' path. Riggs pushed out his cock and I ran my tongue up his balls and up to his cockhead. There was a lot of precum dripping out of him, and I relis,hed the salty taste he was emitting. I kept splaying his ass apart with my fingers and leaned up to suck his cock straight down, trying to swallow as much of his eight inches as I could. I was turned on by him and what I was causing him to do. I wanted to take even more pleasure in him. My dick was hard as I stood up. I saw Riggs was watching me in the mirror, as I used my dick as a teasing stick, running his hole up and down, occasionally pushing in just the tip. "You little fuck," he moaned. "Give me your fuckstick, you back alley slut." I pushed it in, my first feeling of fucking an ass. And what an ass! How soft and giving his hole was. How plush and how much pleasure I felt in my engulfed cock. His hole was a wet crevice that gave absolutely no resistance as I pushed in. I was quickly up to my balls. Mr. X immediately saw what was I was doing, ordered me to get the fuck out of Riggs. "You little deviant shit, we might have to revise your contract, at least add a Top clause. I thought you were total bottom." He was swirling the liquid in the needles trying to dissolve the crystals. "I can see some situations where your talent would be appreciated. Councilman Greggs, I was thinking Riggs." He strapped a tourniquet around Riggs' arm and haphazardly stuck him. "But it's not always going to be about you, boy. Get that in your head. This time is about Riggs. This is how you treat some clients," he said, pulling the emptied needle out of Riggs' arm and snapping off the tourniquet. Riggs raised his arm in the air, his eyes bulged, and he gave out a short cough. "Fuck," he muttered with a blank stare. His pupils were huge. He took me in, trying to focus. "Fuck, I want your little prick back in me." His look was demented, selfishly evil. His lust made my heart race and relieved that he looked incapable of getting up out of the sling. Still something tantalizing remained in his desires. His head fell back onto the pillow. "Please X, let the piece of trash fuck me." "Alright. Only till I'm ready, and if you cum, boy, I'm going to cut off your balls and that will be the first and last fuck you ever have." He stuck himself with the second needle, used his thumb to register, then pushed down his plunger, and went through his ritual of capping the needle in slow motion, then holding onto the slings bars to steady himself. He went to work on Riggs tits. "Well, get your dick in him." Not that I felt turned on, but out of fear of not doing what Mr. X said, I got up and place my semi-rigid dick back against Riggs hole. It easily swallowed me up and with some gentle rocking I felt the pleasure of Riggs velvety ass making me rise to the occasion. Both of them with large black eyes watched me fuck Riggs. When I was confident I wasn't going to fall out, I grabbed the top bar of the sling and began slamming my cock into his silky hole. It felt fantastic pleasing myself and being observed simultaneously by these two very drugged up and debauched men. Steadying himself by holding onto the sling's pipes, he made his way behind me. I couldn't see him but felt him guide my arms down, and pin them behind me. "This is the way you fuck. Arms out of way of camera," he instructed. "Go all the way out and right back in. Let audience see your dick and then slam it back into pig. Could be young boy pig or old fuck like Riggs. Audience for every taste." I fucked Riggs, hard. Mr. X felt up my chest, tweaking my nipples, slithering his forked tongue in my ear, bit my neck a couple of times. His snake hand went down my side until it curved into my butt. He must have forgotten about my plug. "Ah no," he said to himself, a little disappointed. "Okay sit. Observe what you're little tight ass is going to become." I backed out of Riggs, more turned on than ever. I wasn't going to last much longer, so it was probably good to get a break and let Mr. X turn his dark attention on Riggs. Sitting next to Mr. X, I watched him grease up both his hands, and how, with a clench fist, he went straight and smoothly into Riggs. Riggs gave a grunt of pleasure and delight, breathing heavily. His hardon died but he was toying with the soft spongy mound incessantly. Mr. X withdrew his fist and immediately inserted his other. Like a locomotive taking off, his alternating fists started slowly and sure, but soon sped up to rapping Riggs' ass like a punching bag. Riggs looked in agony but spread his legs apart further. His eyes were looking up at the mirror taking in the devastation he was being put through and making animal noises, gnarling deep guttural incoherent words. Mr. X quit abruptly, inserting both hands, palms out into Riggs' hole and stretched with all the power he possessed. Riggs' responded with rapid puffs of breath, his body spasming in tremors, making a racket with the chains. Mr. X encouraged him to push. Where before his asshole had blossomed like a large rose, now those same red petals were turning inside out. Part of his colon was protruding beyond his asslips. "Fuck is that?" I asked, inching closer. "Just wait," replied Mr. X. "Go play with his tits. We're both fucked up. I gave him more than you ever had. The more you distract him the farther you and I can go with him tonight." I was interested in what Mr. X meant by that. I shuffled over to Riggs' side. He looked up at me pitifully, almost blindly. I was ready to start tweaking his nipples, but he asked instead if he could suck my tits. I bent over and at first he slowly nursed them rubbing my back, but as Mr. X quickly turned to his violent punching, Riggs grabbed me around my shoulders and pulled me onto the sling with him. His grip was steel and desperate. The harder Mr. X pile-drove into Riggs' gaping hole, the harder Riggs bit down on my nipple. My yelling only made things worse. Mr. X increased the velocity of his punching and Riggs increased the ferocity of his bite. Whose agony was more intense was a tossup. But again, Mr. X abruptly halted and spread Riggs' hole even farther than before. Riggs, a wild animal a moment ago, whimpered as Mr. X ordered him to push. He grunted out an enormous amount of flesh. I looked up at the cracked mirror, now outside of Riggs' reach, and couldn't believe how much of Riggs' colon lay in Mr. X's hand. With his snake hand, his fingers traced a ring around Riggs' bloated sphincter. Mr. X's other hand held a good six inches of Riggs' colon. "Now you finally make progress, Riggs!" Mr. X seemed to congratulate him. Riggs looked at his reflection in the mirror and sighed, both a sound of accomplishment and relief. "Boy, come, feel prolapse." It looked to me like a repugnant red slug, undulating slightly when I touched it. "It's like a turtle, very sensitive, wants to go back inside. But Riggs know it's a special pet, a most sensitive pet that he carries around for me inside. He knows it belongs to me and needs much worshiping." Mr. X picked out a capsule of amyl from his vest, broke it, sniffed and shared it with me. Mr. X knelt before the slug, flicked his tongue around and inside Riggs' prolapse. He grabbed my shoulder and knelt me before it next to him. We started lapping it together, both of us fondling it like a delicious object. Mr. X guide my face to what looked what otherwise would be its tail and told me to put my tongue inside. I did and felt a river of sludge greet me. Crisco and yellowish, pink and brown butt juice oozed into my mouth. I swallowed and stuck my tongue in deeper. "Good boy," encouraged Mr. X. I sucked on it, pulling out more of Riggs, both more of the red slug and more juices. Riggs' guttural mutterings came back as Mr. X encircled his forked tongue around the outside and I explored inside the prolapse. Mr. X put his arm around me and together we worshiped at the disconnected colon of Riggs. The three of were entwined for quite some time, each of us emitting deep satisfied noises of debauched delight. I felt something nasty overcoming me the more I suck down Riggs' juices. I looked over and saw Mr. X watching me. His eyes had lost all color, were black pools staring into me. His hand slick with Riggs' slime, he ran his hand through my hair, slicking it solidly to my scalp. I licked his hand, saw more of Riggs' fluids running down his arm where they had been deep inside. Pink grease and streaks of brown sludge. I ran my tongue up his arm, swallowing fetid liquid that bonded me ever stronger to him. I couldn't help myself. I licked his arm to his bicep, and then, catching a whiff of his armpit, continued till my face was buried deep into the bush of piss and rank odor that he emanated. He caught my head in a vice, but I didn't want to go anywhere. I was happy exactly where I was. His other hand glided down my belly to my dick. He greased it with what was left of Riggs' secretions. He easy aroused me and brought us up both facing Riggs. "This is what I wanted you to wait for, so your first fuck wouldn't be a nice, clean fuckhole but a degenerate filthy prolapse, something most boys never even dream of. Yet here you are, my new initiate." He was going to get me off right there, but he positioned me in front of Riggs’ 'tail' and held it in place while I inserted my very engorged dick slowly into it. Riggs cried out in astonishment, his eyes, also black, looked demonically incoherent up at the mirror and back over to me. He seemed to roll in and out of consciousness. "Fuck me, boy," he teased. "Do what your Scout Master orders. Fuck my blown out cunt, and when the time comes I will do the same to yours." My cock pierced him deeper, but unlike my first penetration of him earlier when he was sloppy and loose, getting inside his prolapse was difficult. I felt like I was pushing it in. While Mr. X held it with slippery hands, the stretch I was giving his already pulled out colon was putting him over the edge and in pain. Or was it ecstasy? This was new and unreal to me, Mr. X was right, I could never have imagined it. Was I hurting him or was it part of the new revelation to me on the connection between pain and pleasure? All I knew I was so aroused in how I felt, in the power I had over this man from whom I wanted only one thing desperately, but felt after tonight we'd never get back the the innocence of auditioning for a part. So, yes, I now wanted to fuck him, to cause him pain. Whether it brought him pleasure too, I didn't care. My need was immediate, superior, utmost. I got a regular stroke going, not too deep to push him in, but enough to keep me aroused. There wasn't any trouble with that. Mr. X pulsing his prolapse on my member was keeping me on edge, short of cumming that I wanted dreadfully to put off. A distraction, one question had been floating in the background for the last couple of hours while the drugs were wearing off. It needed to be asked of Riggs' at his most vulnerable. With my dick starting to rock him harder, I blurted out before I censored, "You were never going to give me the part, were you?" I rocked the sling only slightly harder, but enough to have his prolapse disappear like a sea anemone, taking my cock inside with it. It was unearthly sensation, one over too quickly, but, amazing, followed up by Mr. X's hand following me inside. "Fuck, man," I said to Mr. X, "yessss. Jerk me off inside Riggs. Fuck, that's incredible. Don't stop. Aw, fuck." The three of us were conjoined. Riggs eyes were open but cold and dead as a shark. Mr. X, not enough to owning my cock in another man's ass, was playing with my butt hole too, fingering the plug, pulling it partially out then letting it snap back inside my hole. My senses were overload, and the hanging question I felt Riggs had answered with silence made me spewed a river up his butt. Mr. X increased his rhythmic stroking when he felt me gushing. As he focus his pressure on my cockhead with his thumb, each milking he gave me brought another spurt of cum. He rubbed and rubbed my cockhead. I was flinching but still spewing my seed inside Riggs. He released Riggs and wrapped his snake arm around me tight as an anaconda, and with his other hand extracted the entire buttplug in one tumultuous motion. Without his embrace I would have collapsed. As it was my legs went weak, dangling like a marionette clutched by his arms. I fell out of Riggs' hole, juice and sperm leaking out his ass. I threw my arms around Mr. X's neck trying to regain my balance. He scooped up my legs and carried me like a rolled carpet over to the bed. He lowered me and laid next to me. The snake hand that he'd just had possessed Riggs' prolapse, still heavily greased, now testing my hole. It was his snake hand and I knew where it was headed. He pushed in his cockhead to get his venomous elixir in me. Piss warmed my chute till he was finished. We lay like this until he knew his chems were affecting me. Now I was the one who was shaky. In the semi-darkness, I struggled with reality, I was starting to hallucinate. "Mr. X," I said, "I'm seeing things." "Tell me," he hissed in my ear. "I'm tweaking hard. Strange things, Mr. X, like equations and hieroglyphics. I see them zipping by. I focus on them, they rush ahead so I can't hold onto them." I was shaking again in a drug fever. Mr. X felt me trembling. He pulled up behind me, spooning and providing me with his internal fire. Gripping me forcefully, he provided comfort. He rubbed my abdomen and my chest. "It'll pass, boy, especially once we give you a final booster." "I'm so fucking high, Master. I don't even know how long I've been down here. When are we?" I asked, putting a hand behind me, just to feel someone was really there. "It's Saturday night, boy," he said. "Time we start the real party, yes?" He nuzzled my butthole with his dick. I couldn't help rubbing up against him, no matter how much I was shivering or how much my brain was sizzling, I still craved dick. "Geez, Sir, what have we been doing so far?" "Foreplay," he responded. "Time to modifying you to my liking." Just the tip of his penis entered me. Enough to cause a seal. Slowly I felt a second batch of his warm elixir drizzle into me. I knew by now how I would be in a few minutes. I was a captured insect whose prey continually injects the most intoxicating venom, devouring me alive while holding me as his meal. He finished pissing a few last squirts, he didn't have a lot left in him, but the feeling I now carried inside was enough to alter my mind about resisting another slam.

They're awesome. Lots of sound players out there. Find someone experienced and be clean.

The Serpent My eyes were closed. I wasn't asleep, only half listening to the video. I imagined what it would be like to have Duncan focused on me the way he was on Joey. I weaved my own web against the garage wall, giving up my ass in small bounces. I felt the effects of the enormous tool in me. It made me want to submit as aggressively as I could to any large assailable object. I reached around and disappointingly realized I'd only taken in a fraction of an inch. My big accomplishment was the head when Mr. X was still here. I was tired and resting like Mr. X said, lightly pushing against the dildo. I glanced up as the camera admired Duncan's body. The video filmed him at different angles, each shot more evocative than the last. A flash of his asshole, a bead of sweat running down his chest and falling from his tit. The camera worshiped him as I might worship him. Starting with his massive feet, panning up his veiny calves and boulder-like thighs. He couldn't help but flex whenever he swung the whip around his head and delivered his blow. The muscles in his legs bulged with each lunge he took toward his target. His ribs, each striation, light and shadow, expanded and contracted in his exerted breath, each time he gave Joey yet another stripe. With every blow another scream. An angry, devilish smile curled his lips. The dildo penetrated an inch. I absorbed each frame into me, swallowing the cameraman's intent, examining as the lens zoomed in on Duncan's muscular butt. With the crack of a lash his dimple deepened. He shimmered in the hot light. The camera swung around revealing a close up of his dangling balls and rising cock. The sustained act of delivering pain aroused him, and the camera caught each growth cycle, cutting back from the cries of the quivering boy and forth to his engourging manhood. I thought about his phallus in me, his hand smacking my ass with every thrust. Pressing down on the mass of hard rubber stretching my hole, I increased the urgency as Duncan thrashed his whip wildly. Joey's piercing screams from the frantic beating started to recede until he hung lifeless. With his erection at its peak, Duncan walked over to the injured sack of meat and roughly kicked the body's crumbling legs apart. He fingered the boy's hole and spit on his member. In a single thrust he pierced the lifeless boy and began his utter domination over him. The boy grunted, a small reminder that he was still mildly conscious. Duncan began ramming him relentlessly. He held onto the ropes above the quietly sobbing boy as the camera tracked down from Duncan's fierce warrior face, his flaring nostril and clenched jaw, down to the moist brown hair of his pits, following rivers of sweat running down his flexing torso. After a quick hit, I got in rhythm with Duncan's cadence. I imagined taking Duncan's invasion as I pushed against the garage wall. When he grabbed the boy's thin hips he quickened his pace and so did I. I closed my eyes, imagined I was his object, assailing me on a stage, revealing a passion we had between us to a sea of invisible observers. The poppers put me in a state where I was lost in my fantasy, pummeling myself against the instrument stretching me open. I abandoned all inhibitions with Duncan inside me. I wanted more and more, and gave up more and more. I imagined I would let him abuse me, do whatever he wanted as long as at the end he'd take me in his arms and let me surrender to him. I broke out of my musing with the feeling of an obstruction, a speed bump protruding midway down the dildo. I realized my fantasy with Duncan had allowed me to swallow half the over-sized cock. I stopped rocking and felt the enormity of the object inside. I reach between my legs and felt my dick was starting to get hard again. I tried stroking, fumbling in my mind to get back to the imagined place I was with Duncan. Duncan had taken and released his victim and had him on a bench that allowed Joey to be spread open on all fours. Joey's butt was exactly aligned with Duncan's waist, and Duncan easily slipped in to fuck him furiously. I picked up my jacking, getting harder with Duncan's every assault. "Boy!" Mr. X announced over the static of an intercom. "Keep your hands off where I can see. Sun is almost down, and we don't want you to finish before we get there." I glanced above at the yellowed newspaper, saw it glowed orange. Next to it I saw a camera. "I can tell you this—maybe you know already—this anus you stretch for me, this anus I will own, can give you an orgasm as much as your dick. Take break. Get water. See if you go any farther on the monster before we come down. But don't you cum or I make sure all you have for orgasm is your anus. I have serious interest in training you. You must be as serious." *** It came down to money: he didn't have any left. He spent the couple hundred he had from Dottie's and Coach Hubbard's parting gifts on rent, two weeks’ worth of food split with Leah, his new roommate from the Academy, and an itty, bitty bag of herb copped in the Castro. This third week in San Francisco, he was down to pocket change. Separately, Dottie and Billy, that is, Mr. Sweeney (pianist) and Mr. Saint Claire (drama teacher) from back home, and Coach Hubbard (assistant) and Coach Johansson (head), his former football coaches, each of the pairs had arranged two small funds for his summer at the acting school. The money, a hundred and a hundred twenty, respectively, was doled out in monthly installments. Dottie and Billy and the two bachelor coaches didn't know they were both funding him. It was better that way he reckoned. But even with the two funds, San Francisco was friggin' expensive. The plan was to find a part time job like he had in Knoxville, like at some big supermarket chain like a Bi-Lo he'd worked at last summer bringing in buggies, or a Food City or Walmart. His oldest sister, Katie Ann, was a pharmacist at Walmart, and Cliff, his older brother, had worked at Food City. Cliff was unemployed now and, sadly but not surprisingly, was using again. Trouble was, any supermarket anywhere near the city had five million applicants, that, or it was a small mom and pop, family run business, that, or he could barely understand the proprietor's accent or they his. And all the fast food chains paid crapola. So instead he smoked pot with Leah and played video games on her computer, or watched internet porn when she wasn't there. The internet was awesome! There were places you could go that were even stranger than what you saw on the streets of San Francisco. Crazy, like, this one time, this guy he bought his cannabis from, in this a kind of alley—there were trashcans anyway. Anyway, he saw this guy dealing and bought a dime, and there was a guy next to him crouched on all fours with a dog mask on. I shit you not! But that's not the thing. The thing he found on the internet, a seed of an idea that flipping coins in his pocket kept making him come back to, a germ of an idea he tortured himself with all week—did he, Jeremiah Tiberius Reynolds, who loved his dick—no, exalted in the Righteous Glory of his Pecker of Power—or as he called it, the Serpent—had he balls to go through with it? When he put it that way he steeled his nerve to meet the challenge. What did he have or not have the balls for? Well, see, that's the thing. One night when Leah was out, he was scanning some porn sites, and this one time he found an outrageous site where this kinda handsome older Italian guy made short video clips of smashing other guy's balls with a mallet. Or else like would crush a guy’s balls in a vice. Or one time he saw Vinnie, the guy who thought up all this insane shit, put a screw driver down this other dude's shaft and then—you must be fucking shitting me—electrocute it. Really sick shit! Sometimes the other guy wore a mask, not like a dog's mask or a clown mask or anything weird like that, but pretty creepy anyway. Stuff like a black hood with like zippers for eyes and a tube where your mouth should go, or more ordinary masks like at parties where you wear over your eyes so but the dude could still see what Vinnie was up to. But they'd be all tied up anyway and couldn't move, so what did it matter if you could see that Vinnie was attaching electrodes to your dick and balls, sometimes in the butt, too, but those ones he didn't like. The balls smashing and dick screwdrivers in the shaft clips, those ones were okay. So the site charged something like $6.95 for 15 minutes to rent any of the full-length clips you'd want, but you had to have a credit card. He didn't so he only watched the short previews. They were for free, and he didn't need more than a minute or two of clips back-to-back, if he was really edging his meat, to get off watching a guy get kicked in his pecker. Shit! He did this kind of thing with his brothers after school all the time. Not naked jerking like, but just for kicks. Even at practice with some of the guys sometimes he did that, or just like they were going to. If you got hurt and cried or anything you'd be a pussy. No one ever cried, except this little guy at school, Jessie, but Jessie wasn't all there so he was mostly let be. Mostly. Except this one time, back of the stadium. Jeremy kind of felt bad about that time. But anyway. The phone number for the site, Ball Busters, was always looking for "models." It was right there at the bottom of the screen: "Who you gonna call?" and then the phone number. Or you could use an email address application, which he'd sent on Thursday. Leah was with her girlfriend for the weekend, so when Jeremy got home from fencing class, he went online and found his email, peckerwood321—peckerwood123 had been taken—had a message. The message was from Vinnie. It said: "Hey peckerwood321, are you for real? If you are pick up the phone and call me before you chicken out. If your doing this for wack off material fuck you and get a life! Send me a picture of you naked! You don't have to show your face. I pay you good money if you let me crack your nuts or maybe something else just as good. If you let me work on you with no mask I'll pay you even more money. You have to be 18 or under 35 and in decent shape. Call me now. Vinnie." Jeremy paced all over the apartment. He had a bowl of Wheaties for dinner and used up the rest of the milk. Leah'd be pissed because she liked milk in her morning tea, but, Sweet Jesus! he thought rubbing his hands excitedly, maybe he'd have money by Sunday and he'd buy a quart of milk before she got back. He crunched the rest of his cereal in front of the screen. He was starting to jack off looking at a few new clips. Vinnie was hot. Looked like he was an ex-marine like Coach Johansson but dark and Italian. Jar head, pecs better than his, but he had more ripped abs than Vinnie, but Vinnie's biceps were bigger, but his triceps stood out more. So he froze the frame and pretty much jacked off studying Vinnie till he almost came. Crap! If he came he wouldn't do it. It was tempting to cum when Vinnie came on screen. Vinnie would torture a guy’s nuts, jacking himself and the other guy. Most of the time he and the other guy would cum but he had to hit the guy a lot of times before he, Vinnie, got off. If the other guy came too, well, good for him. But the video always had Vinnie shooting all over the other guy. He put his bowl in the sink and rinsed it looking out the window. The kitchen was on the side of the building and looked at another kitchen across the way. A blonde guy was doing the dishes and an Asian guy came up behind him and wrapped his arms around the blonde guy. Jeremy poured a glass of water and picked up the kitchen wall phone. He dialed the number for the site. He had it memorized. There were two rings and on the third it was interrupted by a phone machine: "This is Vinnie. Leave your phone number and I'll hit you back. Be sure to tell me what site you're calling about." It beeped but Jeremy wasn't ready, so started babbling, "Hello, Vinnie, my name is Jeremy Reyn—um, Jeremy, and here's my number." He gave it to him and quickly hung up. He thought for a minute, then dialed the number again. After the recording Jeremy said, "This is Jeremy again. I don't have a picture I can send you. I have a headshot but I would have to give it to you in person. It's not naked or anything but my shirt's off and if I gave it to you in person you could see what I look like. I could take off my pants so you could see that too." He paused for a second, then added, "I've got a big dick and huge balls." He thought for a second longer knowing this was a long shot. "And I used to kick my brothers in the balls and they kicked me too, in the balls." He was going to hang up but one more thought occurred to him. "I wanna use a mask, not the one with zippers, but just the eye kind. Good bye." What had he done? He felt his heart leaping out of his chest. What if his father or brothers saw him? But his family didn't even have the internet. The family phone was the old rotary kind. Coach Johansson had the internet. He might see the site. He didn't think Coach Hubbard had the internet, he was older, but because they both lived in the same apartment complex, and were always at each other's places all the time, Coach Hubbard probably looked at Coach Johansson's internet. He knew Dottie and Bobby had it. They each had the own AOL accounts. Dottie was the one who first showed him dirty picture you could find. The first ones he saw Dottie kept in a folder labeled Celebrity Photos on his computer. They were supposed to be real celebrities, but really they were celebrities who's heads were pasted on other naked men. He thought it was funny seeing Tom Cruise's head put on a man that had a big 'ol dick. Yeah, sure! But then other times when Dottie was cooking and Billy wasn't home yet, he saw things that he couldn't believe. Boys doing things and girls doing things he thought were sinful and wrong, but stirred the Serpent anyway! He hadn't come across men doing painful things to other men like Vinnie's site. That he discover only when he got to the city and got to spend a lot of time surfing when Leah wasn't home. He did, though, come across girls peeing on men, men peeing on girls, and boys putting their hand in each other's butts. Some dog stuff with both sexes. He didn't like those. He like dogs, like Dukey back home. But then the phone rang and he just about shit a brick! Should he answer? Don't be a pussy, he told himself. He picked it up really quick. "Hello?" "Is this Jeremy Ren." "Yes, Sir. Is this Vinnie from the internet?" "You got it. Jeremy," Vinnie paused, "you from the south or something." "Yes, Sir, I am." "And you got a big dick and big balls? How big a dick?" "About twelve inches. That's when I'm hard." Vinnie whistled. "Well, that's big. Not the biggest I've seen in my line of work. You didn't say what site this was for. You sound young. Is this for Daddy-Oh? "Well, sir, I'm twenty next month. And this is for Ball Busters." Jeremy heard paper being ripped from a notebook and the sound of Vinnie scribbling. "So, Jeremy. What do you look like?" "Well, I lift weights, and was a tight end receiver this last year. I'm five eleven. What else? I got brown hair--it's kinda long right now 'cuz I was Tarzan--and blue eyes." "Hmm, okay, sounds good. Tarzan huh? You like girls or you like guys, Jeremy?" Geez, no one had ever straight out asked that question before. He didn't want to talk about all the stuff he did with his coach or Mr. Saint Claire or Jeannette. It was too complicated. "Well, sir," he said, "I guess I like both. Is that okay?" "Sure it's okay, buddy." Jeremy heard a cigarette being lit. Vinnie exhaled. "So, can you meet me right now?" "Uh, right now? I guess I can. Where?" "There's a liquor store on Van Ness and 21st. Meet me in front and I'll take you to my studio. You sound nervous. Don't be. We're just gonna talk. You call all the shots, sport." That made Jeremy feel a little better. He realized he'd wrapped the phone cord around his non-phone hand so hard his fingers were numb. "Okay. I can probably get there in twenty minutes. Van Ness and 21st. That's in the Mission, right?" "You got it, sport. Oh, what are you wearing?" "Right now? A tee shirt and underwear." On the other end of the line Vinnie let out a deep masculine laugh. That also made Jeremy feel better, although he got embarrassed catching now what Vinnie meant. "I'll have on jeans." "Great! Jeans and a tee shirt. Very distinctive. Hey, could you wear a chain or something so I can pick you out?" Jeremy thought a second. "I've got a hat, a white one?" "A fuckin' cowboy hat, all Midnight Cowboy and shit. Love it." "Yes, Sir." He was suddenly beaming. His favorite movie of all time, and Vinnie mentioned it! Maybe he might even like Vinnie. It's not like he knew a lot of people. Maybe they'd be friends. He was sure as hell hot enough naked in the clips. "Oh, one thing. You aren't on any drugs are you?" "No, sir," he lied. Well, just a little. Pot was hardly a drug where he came from. Unlike his older brother, he stay far away from Oxy and H, he thought to hisself. And besides he only took a couple of hits when he first got home. It was now almost eight. He hardly felt buzzed at all. Maybe a little paranoid but that could be because of this phone call. Maybe he would put a doobee in his wallet just in case. Vinnie might be all righteous in your face about drugs and did them anyway. He was kind of like that to his little brothers and sister. A lot of people were like that. Didn't make them bad. Just made them people, Coach Johansson would say when they would light up on his couch in off season, watching sports and whatnot. There was a long pause. "Jeremy, I think I'm going to like working you over." "That'd be swell, Sir. I think I'd like that too. I'll see you in a little while. By now." The phone clicked off. He stood up, went to his room and put on his jeans and boots. He looked at himself in the mirror. His cowboy hat was up in the closet. He put it on and adjusted it just the way he liked. Cocky, a little concealing his eyes, sexy, afraid of nothing and no one. He talked to himself like John Voight did in Midnight Cowboy. "Okay, here's the deal. You could take him if'n you needed to. He might look all tough and all but, dang it, you've taken guys bigger than him on. Member that transfer, Wilson Shafton last year in home room?" He leaned on the dresser and stared hard in the mirror at his own blue eyes. "You need the money, see, and you're going to get the money. You hear me? However you need to get it. And that's what." He pushed off the dresser, swaggered to the bedroom door, spun around and shot his finger at his reflection like he was shooting hisself. He gathered his keys and put a joint in the wallet. He struggled with the door key to get it in the lock. His hand was shaking badly. He finally clicked the lock, and bounded down the stairs two at a time like this was nothing. Leaving his building he pinned the envelope that had his Tarzan headshot in under his arm and slid his hands in his pocket. They was still shaking when he rounded the corner into the night. *** Jeremiah Tiberius Reynolds loved his cock, or as he called it, the Serpent. He loved its feel, its texture, its color—just a shade darker than his suntan skin. He loved its bulbous head, the length of its shaft, the girth the same size as the mushroom head, all the veins that swirled around it, especially the large protruding vein running down the top. He loved his balls, too, maybe not as much as the Serpent, but still he loved them. Ever since his older brother showed him what the Serpent could do, he gotten off with it every day, any place where he could find ten minutes of privacy. JT Reynolds hated his cock, or maybe it was more fear, or more disgust, or maybe the evil temptation that came with it. "JT," his truck salesman father would yell, pounding the door, "get outta that bathroom right now. The devil has sway over boys who want too much privacy, and your sisters need their time before the bus comes." "One minute!" he answered, and that's about as much time as it took. The Serpent ruled him. It made him experiment with temptation. He discovered playing with his balls made him ejaculate harder. It brought him to touch his butthole more than once laying in bed while he three brothers breathed heavy in their sleep. It was the Serpent that one time put the thought in his head, to stay in the shower long after his teammates left, with the touted league-winning Coach Johansson and Coach Hubbard lingering in their office, after the staff had gone home. The coaches, single men both, sitting behind the glass among the silent trophies. Coach Johansson, handsome, fit, square-jawed, sun-blond hair, broad shouldered, and as straight as can be, brought him a towel during the still-hot afternoon, telling Coach Hubbard JT probably forgot a towel. Coming upon JT and his gigantic weapon fully armed he initially feigned embarrassment. And thirty seconds later shower off, knees wet, JT got his first blow job. It might have been Coach Hubbard in the shadows, maybe just a trick of the eye when he came in Coach Johansson's mouth. No one ever mentioned anything afterward. He'd let his one and only high school girlfriend, Jeannette, touch it on one of their drive-in movie date. She was repulsed and offended, but somehow let a wrist fall in his lap when they were alone on occassion. His father made sure that wasn't often. The beast responded to her touch, but it was Coach Johansson and even Coach Hubbard, who just by being around the corner, in their office, warm water running over the single-minded reptile when it would spring, all on its own, to life. There were no more accidental encounters with the rugged, scruff-face, Johansson, with Hubbard living in the shadows—for sin in this neck of the woods, especially with a teenager, especially a teen football player that everyone thought was maybe too pretty anyway, was punishable by firing, expulsion, public humiliation, banishment and probably much, much worse. The bachelors were beyond discreet—they were celibate. In their actions anyway. In senior year Jeannette got JT to audition for the winter musical, The Music Man. Though JT couldn't hold a tune in a mason jar, or twist his waist in any recognizable manner on the dance floor, he could rap words and he could march in a straight line. He got the lead. Jeannette got chorus. His director, Mr. Saint Claire, worked hard with JT. Mr. Saint Claire's roommate and musical accompanist, Mr. Sweeney, together worked JT late into the night, often driving him home. Mr. Sweeney would sit in the backseat, behind Mr. Saint Claire, and reminisce about his years as a hair stylist on Broadway, and Mr. Saint Claire would shush him and put on a Judy Garland cassette. Dottie would ponder out-loud, whatever led him to this backwoods country, without even cable for goodness sake, he could just not imagine. The volume nob then went higher. JT found them a funny pair, until this one night, a week before opening, when JT forgot his lyrics for the umpteenth time. Mr. Sweeney threw up his hands and stormed off, yelling back at the stage, "It's 'P'—'P' for heaven sake—'P' stands for 'pool'! 'B' stands for nothing!" Mr. Sweeney swayed getting to the gym door. "'B' stand for bubkes! for beefcake! for banjo-playing hillbillies! for Billy!" Mr. Sweeney screamed up to the klieg lights. They found him later in the car drinking out of his flask. As usual, he sat behind Mr. Saint Claire on the drive to JT's house. After fifteen minutes of silence, Mr. Sweeney capped his flask and unleashed on his roomie. Did he know how in love Mr. Saint Claire was with him, what a handsome stud JT was, how JT could have any girl or—ominously—any man he wanted. So why did he have to have Billy? "Who's Billy?" JT asked, flummoxed. "He, him," Mr. Sweeney said, pointing a finger at the driver. "Dotty, shut it," said Mr. Saint Claire. "Dotty?" JT asked, pointing to the back seat. Mr. Saint Claire confirmed, "Douglas," and popped in a Barbara Streisand tape. At the next rehearsal the library lady, Mrs. DeWitt, took over on the piano. The Music Man was a hit! JT was a hit—although Mr. Saint Claire convinced JT to use his regular name 'Jeremy Reynolds' in the playbill. At the final cast party, on the director's couch, Mr. Saint Claire opined, "Jeremiah would be little over the top, I would say, but Jeremy Reynolds—it’s the name of a 50s movie star, don't you think, Dottie?" Dottie had no opinion. He rose from the couch and said he'd bring out the remaining bean dip and Doritos. There was a long pause, people were starting to leave. Jeremy Reynolds attempted to break the silence. "I never had champagne before, Mr. Saint Claire. Is it always pink?" asked Jeremy. "Only in the better places," sneered Mr. Saint Claire. Mr. Saint Claire wanted to change the subject. "JT, I mean Jeremy," he said, displaying all his teeth, "what do you think if for the spring we put on Tarzan?" "That's a play?" asked Jeremy. "Well, it's a musical I've been working on with Dottie, and I think, we think, you'd be terrific as the Ape Man of the Jungle. It has a monkey chorus, Jane as your romantic lead, and you'd swing from cardboard tree to cardboard tree. What do you think?" "I love Tarzan!" Jeremy pounded his chest excitedly, drunk, going 'Oo-oo-oo!' "This one time," he confided privately, though the last guests were in the kitchen with Dottie," I got a boy doll Tarzan for Christmas, from aunt Aggie in Charlotte, but it got took. I don't know who took it, but I think it was my daddy." Thinking back on the muscular plastic toy he clung to in bed, feeling its plastic chest and no weener, the Serpent turned. Dottie ushered out the last of the guests and swept back through the room. "I didn't bother with the dip. I'm going to bed. I'll clean up in the morning. Can you drive the music man home?" "Of course I can. I only had two glasses of champagne," protested Mr. Saint Claire. "Four, but no one counted. You feel safe with Mr. Saint Claire, sugar?" Mr. Sweeney asked Jeremy with a double-edge of concern. "Course he does. Finish your drink, mister, and we'll go." In the car Mr. Saint Claire put on the Bee Gee's Saturday Night Fever cassette singing along with them. His arm swung as much as it could in the small VW. "Ah-ah-ah, stayin alive-ive-ive!" "There's my house, Mr. Saint Claire." All the lights were off, the street deserted. "So how about it, Tarzan." Mr. Saint Claire pulled the break, reached over and put his hand on Jeremy's thigh. Since the boy didn't flinch, he unzipped Jeremy's worn out corduroys. Jeremy helped him slip them over his knees. Mr. Saint Claire reached inside his boxers and let out a 'whoa!' He pulled out the Serpent which sprang out of Jeremy's shorts. Mr. Saint Claire lowered his head and within two minutes Jeremy came in his mouth. Mr. Saint Claire said, gasping for air, "I think we're going to need a bigger loincloth." *** Vinnie was already there, smoking, leaning on the bricks when he arrived. He took a long drag on his Marlboro, offered up the pack to Jeremy, who waved off the offer but thanked him anyway. Vinnie took one more hit and tossed the butt in the street. He was silhouetted from the light out of the liquor store and made an imposing figure to Jeremy. They were about the same size but Vinnie was at least ten years older and thirty years more jaded. He wore a grey tank top that had "PIG" stenciled across the chest, black jeans, studded belt, and black leather boots. Jeremy caught that his jaw was repeatedly clenching and jutting from side to side. He'd seen that many times with the friends his brother hung out with. Maybe Vinnie was nervous, though, he thought trying to fool himself. Vinnie lit another cigarette and nodded for Jeremy to follow. "So, which site was it again?" Vinnie said, as Jeremy quickened his pace to stride along side him. "Ball Busters. I sure do like that site." "Why's that? Jeffrey, right?" "Jeremy. You can call me JT if'n you want." "I can?" Vinnie changed into an Aw-Shucks voice. "Well that's a might neighborly of you." Jeremy stopped, his back up. "You got something against the south?" Vinnie sized him up. "Nah," he chuckled, waving away the threat. "Specially if the southerner's packing a twelve inch long horn. Where you from, cowboy." They started walking again down the street again. "Little town right outta Knoxville. You from here?" "Jersey, by way of Oakland. But been here a long time. Discharged in Oakland many moons ago. So you like my site, huh? It’s still coming together but it pays very good coin." Jeremy nodded vigorously. They went quiet. A little farther down the street Vinnie picked up again. "So what’re you into, sport? Fisting, saline, bi, orgies, daddies, sounds, what?" Passing a street light the older man looked at Jeremy's face. The kid was obviously embarrassed. "Don’t know, Sir. I've been sucked off a couple of times, once by my coach, and once by my acting teacher, and, like I said, my brothers and me used to fool around kicking each other in the nuts. That's about it. Right now I'm looking for money. Your site said you'd pay good if'n I let you kick me in the nuts." "An acting teacher and coach, huh?" Vinnie left it in the air without comment. "So you never fucked nobody? A girl or this acting teacher?" Jeremy shook his head. "Well, Jeremy, just so you know, I don't suck no cocks and I don't fuck nobody neither. That cool with you?" Jeremy agreed it was. Vinnie used the butt of his cigarette to light another one. "Sure you don't want one?" Jeremy took one out of Vinnie's pack, lit it from Vinnie's cigarette. Coughed. "I pay fifty bucks to video abusing you, seventy-five without a mask. If you dig Daddy-Oh I'd give you a hundred but there's no mask for that, and we'd have to arrange to bring in one of the regular daddies. It's without condoms, if you're cool with that." Jeremy frowned. They stopped in front of a warehouse. "Well, this is it. Game, cowboy?" It was an industrial building that looked deserted. When they were inside, there wasn't even a light, but only a ghostly greenish light from the exit sign. Vinnie led them to the elevator. There was a lock instead of a button. Vinnie put in his key, turned it and the doors opened. He flipped on a switch inside and bright fluorescent blinked on behind a grungy plastic ceiling grate. Vinnie pushed 8. The doors closed and they started to climb. "So, what, you're a virgin or something?" Jeremy tried to sound experienced. "Well, two blow jobs. And my girlfriend gave me a handjob once." "Nah, kid, don't get me wrong. That's a good thing for this gig. The public likes first timers. But a good looking stud like you, what, first thing you want me to do is kick you in the nuts? You wouldn't want even a daddy suck you off? Maybe lay you or something?" "Well, I wouldn't mind if you put a screwdriver in my pecker." Vinnie laughed. "Aw, buddy, I think that's a little advanced for you. Let's just start off slow and see where that takes you. Okay, last stop. Housewares, linens, ball smashing." When the doors opened there was a security gate that Vinnie had to unlock and slide open before they could get in. Jeremy was looking through the gate. The room was illuminated in the blue glow of a bank of monitors. Each monitor had screen savers randomly ricocheting around on the screens. Once Vinnie got the door open, Jeremy wandered over to look at all of them, set down his hat on one, and studied the random photos bouncing around. Fisting, sling fucks, tits clamps, blow jobs, men peeing on men, extra-long rods going in men's pee holes. The Serpent was definitely stirring. "Video editing. I got this smart old perv that helps me with my sites, hooked me up for commerce, and showed me this editing software. I'm ready to dump him. But, I don't know, he also comes over if I want an extra pair of hands, either to move around the cameras or help me work over a guy." He switched a breaker switch on the wall next to the monitors and the dark room lit up warmly. It was like being on a sound stage, well, it was a sound stage of a sort. There was the black wall that Vinnie chained guys to and kick and punch their nuts, there was the table with all the eye hooks to bind a guy down so they couldn't budge while he did stuff to them, and there, hotly lit by four yellow klieg lights, was the famous bed with the leopard print and the pile of tiger pillows, where Vinnie would tie up guys, spread eagle. Jeremy lost his sense of fear and now only felt wonderment. He strolled over and ran his hand along the felt material and tested the fee;. It was real, not the internet. He was entranced. The whole floor was like magic. Not scary like he thought. Big, open, kind of like a stage. It even had that dusty stage smell. Even the dark corners cast spells. He wished he lived here, had this much room. It was expansive. He'd never seen a space so big. Not the cold storage room of the Bi-Lo, but real warm, lit brighter than reality. Even with the bed and monitors it hardly made a dent in the room's size. A kitchen area was in the corner and a couch and chair by the front windows. He really liked this place, and wanted to make a good impression on Vinnie. "Vinnie," he started, unsure if he should take the next step, "you want to smoke a doobee. I brought a joint in case you wanted to." "Aw, dude, I'm disappointed. I thought you didn't do drugs." Jeremy couldn't tell if VInnie was being sarcastic. "Only pot. I did coke with my brother, but it's expensive." "You're not fucking kidding. Mm-kay, you twisted my arm. So, you bring your headshot or what?" Vinnie pointed to a yellow envelope Jeremy had been clutching tight under his arm since they met. "C'mon, sit." He pointed to the kitchen table stashed in the corner. Next to it sat a bench with a hot plate, toaster oven and a small refrigerator. "Wanna beer?" Vinnie waved to his fridge. "If you’re having one. Thank you kindly." He sat at the table and slid his envelope over to Vinnie. Vinnie came out of the fridge with two beers and smacked them down on the table. Opening the manila envelope, he pulled out the photo. Jeremy as Tarzan, the Ape Man. He slid the lighter over to Jeremy. “What’s this? A skirt?” Jeremy lit the joint, took a drag and, a little offended but also hurt, handed the joint over to Vinnie. “I’m Tarzan. That’s my loincloth.” Vinnie laughed, not at Jeremy, but how hot he suddenly realized the kid was. And the loincloth was exceptionally small for such a large hunk. “You acted in a whole play in this.” He took a long drag and passed it back. Vinnie took a long time examining the studly boy's physique. He'd seen lots of pictures like this in vintage model books but this was the genuine article. No pretense in that broad handsome face. Pure innocence, a huge, perfect smile, and nowhere near a pansy faker. "It was a musical my teacher wrote, but they gave most of my songs to the lead gorilla. And one song they changed at the last minute to Jane’s. The school didn't exactly go hog wild over the show, but we did sell out every night for three weekends.” Vinnie held up the glossy with Jeremy wearing a loincloth shorter than any of the short-shorts the Village People ever wore. “I bet you sold out. Bet a lot of repeat customers, too." He toked several times on the joint. "You are a very brave man, Jeremy Ren.” "Jeremy who?” “I thought you were Jeremy Ren. Isn’t that what you said on the phone?” “Oh, I recon I didn't want to say my whole name to a stranger. My name’s Jeremiah Reynolds, but I don't want to use my real name if we do this.” Vinnie stubbed out the half-finished joint against his wet beer can. "I'm sorry, sport, but this is dirt weed. I've got some stash that's gonna kick you country ass." He went to the leopard bed and pulled out a drawer under it and took out one of his own joints. Jeremy slammed his hand on the kitchen table feeling justified. "I knew y'all wasn't all up tight about herb." Vinnie smirked, put his hands up, caught red handed. “They for real call you Jeremiah back home, seriously?” He brought the joint back to the kitchen table, sat looking over the eye candy in front of him. He didn't know how he was going to use him, but use him he would. “Well, they used to call me JT, but Mr. Saint Claire said I should use Jeremy Reynolds for the stage.” “That your acting teacher, the one that blew you, Saint Claire?" Jeremy nodded. Vinnie lit the joint. "How about JT Wren?" he said handing the joint to Jeremy. "Sounds butch, don't it?" Jeremy started toking away on the new joint. He looked at the ceiling lights then over at the bed. He smiled and starting nodding his head. “So, JT, let’s see that twelve inch trout you’ve been bragging about all night.” “Okay.” Without another word Jeremy undid his jeans and let them and his boxers drop to the floor. He fluffed up the Serpent and presented himself to Vinnie. Vinnie rocked back in his kitchen chair and gave out a low whistle. "And that's not even hard," said Jeremy. Vinnie shot up and went over to his video editing table and got his Polaroid camera. “Take off your tee shirt, buddy. Mind if I snap a few?” Jeremy shrugged his shoulders and stripped off his tee. He flexed a bit for Vinnie. He didn't mind at all, in fact, he liked being looked at and having his picture took. Vinnie grabbed at his own crotch freeing up his own serpent. He took a couple of Polaroids circling Jeremy. Front, side, back, close up butt, close up cock. “Mm-kay, cowboy, lift your Johnson and show me your nutsack." Jeremy swung his extra large bag of rocks. He was good at following direction like this. Kinda getting into it. His Johnson kinda getting into it too, from Vinnie's point of view. "Mm-kay, you better put 'em back on now.” A little disappointed, Jeremy pulled up his pants. He decided, though, to leave his tee shirt off. Vinnie took back his joint. "Good, huh?" He took a couple of short puffs and then one long drag and held it. "I recon I never had weed this good before. Hits ya quick, don't it?" He was leaning back in his kitchen table chair, arms clasped behind his head, trying to show off the little bit of dark brown bush he had. He was really feeling comfortable now. "I tell ya', Vinnie, I was nervous as a long tail cat in a room full of rocking chair fore I got here tonight. Now I'm as happy as a puppy with two peckers." After a second processing what the kid said, Vinnie exploded smoke through his nose and gave a wail of a coughing laughter. He couldn't stop. He banged his head on the table. Jeremy, smiling innocently, said, "Wha'?" "Dude," he said, passing back the joint, "did you really just say that?" "Say what?" Jeremy giggled. "I recon I did at that. But I mean—shit, dude, this is best dope I ever met. Makes me horny as a goat." "You got that right, cowboy. How bout we get in the saddle and we do a little catch and release." Jeremy couldn't wait to drop his drawers again. He excitedly undid his pants, dropped it all and ran over to the bed. He felt overcome with happiness and jumped up to a pole hang from the ceiling that held two klieg light. Between the lights he started doing pull ups. Vinnie watched him, imagined what he wanted to do with him, this virgin's first night. Nothing too extreme or he'd never come back. At twenty pull ups Jeremy dropped. "That weren't no regular joint. Now c'mon and admit it. I know drugs and that had more than plain ol' weed in it. Lil' angel in it?" "Caught me again. It's laced with T." "Crystal?" Jeremy frowned. "I smoked some clouds once and was up by myself all night. Swore I'd never do it again." "We'll that's because you was alone, bro. I'm here, and you and me, we can stay up all night if we feel like it. Do things. Anything you like, bro. You just tell Vinnie." "Like puttin' a screw driver down my Serpent." "Well," Vinnie pondered, "how's about we start off with maybe a small sound. C'mon, get on this bed you nut job. I'll show you what that's like." Jeremy ran over and jumped on the bed, leapt back on the plush tiger pillows and spread his arms and legs out wide awaiting the cuffs he'd seen so often. With Jeremy wiggling in bed, Vinnie stripped in front of the attentive kid. Vinnie untied his shoes and placed his socks inside them. He took off his PIG shirt, revealing his strong, hairy chest. He rubbed a hand casually through the thick black forest that covered his flat belly and went right up and over his shoulders. He, too, then jumped up on the bar that held the overhead lights and did a couple of pull up to show off himself. He had a lot more hair everywhere especially his pits than Jeremy, and his knew his crotch was also a dark hairy jungle, not like the kid's who he suspected manicured the little that he had—not that that was a bad thing, far from it. Vinnie dropped to the floor and undid his leather pants, let them fall and stepped out of them. He flashed a Cheshire cat smile to Jeremy and teased his five-day old dirty underwear down bit by bit till they too were on the floor. He then picked them up and snapped the waistband and shot the briefs squarely into Jeremy's face. He wagged his own not-so-unsubstantial Johnson, slapping the semi-hardon sided to side. He strolled over casually—he wouldn't spook him—but Jeremy was oblivious enjoying himself to the hilt. He was so excited he rolled back and forth on the bed that he'd only seen before on a small monitor. Vinnie began the descent of talking young boy's down, getting them to relax. "Mm-kay, partner. You saw the videos. I gotta first get you hooked up to the bed like this." He took one of the cuffs and reached out for Jeremy's large paws. He put it in the fur lined cuff and locked it to the side of the bed. Jeremy looked more excited than scared. Vinnie found he was talking to a frisky but, so far, cooperative colt, putting out a hand as he circled the bed. "It's okay, cowboy, we don't do anything you don't wanna do. Mm-kay?" Jeremy nodded eagerly. Vinnie secured his other arm. Vinnie then climbed naked over Jeremy making sure his dark hairy balls brushing over Jeremy's hairless abdomen. Jeremy bucked up surprised and over-stimulated. "Can I touch 'em?" Jeremy begged. "Sure buddy. But remember we start off slow." "I know, I know." Vinnie positioned himself so Jeremy could feel up his very furry low-hangers. Rolling Vinnie's balls gently around like a soft sack of eggs, Jeremy spoke as if he was reading from a script, "Not till the end, then we crush each other's balls. Look at my dick. Look at my dick, is what you say." "That's right, sport. Now your leg." Jeremy swung out a leg for Vinnie to cuff him. "Well, we'll see what we want to do as we go along. Right now, I'm going to cuff your other leg and then show you what a sound in your dick feels like." Vinnie worked quickly while in a side-ways glance he watched Jeremy magnum phallus rise to an extreme length. Fuck, he was going to make a fortune off this boy. Once secured, Vinnie slid himself across Jeremy's chest again to get to another drawer under the bed where he kept his set of sounds and lube. He loved feeling his hairy crotch on top of Jeremy broad chest. The kid was maybe as big as him but was completely smooth. It made his dick twitch while he slid back with his sounds in hand. The boy responded to his touch with abandon, pushing up his body to be felt everywhere he could. Vinnie ran his palms and his knuckles up and down the kid's torso. He was as close to a god as you could get, but still a wild animal waiting to be broken. He'd start with the colt's most prominent feature and improvise from there. He grabbed Jeremy hardened cock, lubed a small sound and squeezed some lube into Jeremy piss slit. The kid arched to the ceiling. "Calm down, buddy, we haven't even started yet." "Okay, Sir. It was just cold." Vinnie placed the tip of the rod over the slit opening and let it slide down a quarter of an inch. "Shit, shit. Take it out." Vinnie did, cocking an eye at Jeremy. "That felt so weird." "It's supposed to, sport. This ain't regular blow job sex. You just lie back, close your eyes." He took the sound again and placed it at the opening. He just inserted the tip before Jeremy jumped again begging for it to be taken out. "Should I start with the electric screwdriver then?" Vinnie asked, with a hint of anger and dripping sarcasm. Jeremy looked at Vinnie unhappily, shook his head and gritted his teeth. "Okay, Jeremy, this won't hurt, but it is going to feel extremely weird. But trust me it won't hurt. I'm going to use a lot of lube." Jeremy nodded his head trying to look brave. Vinnie lubed the slit liberally, put the sound again to the tip and let it slide in. Jeremy stiffened as it went down his chute. About three inches down he uncontrollably began bucking. "Please, stop, stop!" he shouted, but he bucked the sound slipped out of Vinnie's hand and it began it's natural descent from it's own weight. He thrashed from side to side, begging Vinnie to remove it. "Sweet Jesus. Holy fuck! Make it stop!" he cried. The rod was long but not a long as Jeremy's cock. It had disappeared down his shaft. Vinnie could feel it in there but with Jeremy jumping around he had no way to pull out the sound. "You have to stop or I can't help you," Vinnie tried to calmly explain. Jeremy tried to relax, felt it buried deep and so unnaturally. He tried as much as he could to accept the sensation. By a few deep breaths he was able to live with the feeling. In another few seconds he became less frenzied, almost willing to have it within him though he wasn't liking it. His cock softened just a bit but it was enough to stroke it down and have the sound's head reappear. Vinnie used his discarded underwear to grab the slippery tip and slowly, gently pull it out. "Oh, Sir," Jeremy pleaded, "I can't do this." "Course you can, cowboy. Just like riding a horse." Vinnie really liked the kid but maybe he was right. He just might be too wild to control. Then as he thought the night might slip through his hands, a thought popped in his head as he brushed Jeremy hard body with his impossibly soft skin. "So, JT. A lot of this takes time to get used to. And you look like Mr. Serpent is into it coming back to life so quick." Indeed, Vinnie noted he was stiffer than when they even started. "There is a short cut," he proffered, seeing what the boy's reaction might be. Jeremy, too, looked like he ached for the night not to be over "If you like the T-laced joint I know you'll love this, and you'll be surprised at how calm you'll get. Really nice and mellow after a fantastic initial rush. You won't believe how good it is." He reached in back of himself, and took a leather gag and ball from a bed drawer, and put it in Jeremy's mouth. The kid didn't resist. He was afraid with the next part he would. He secured the strap behind the boy's shaggy head. It was difficult to speak. Beneath the ball in his mouth he was able to get out "Okay, Sir." Vinnie pulled the strap taut. "Yep, 'Okay, Sir' is the magic word." Vinnie went around and secured the restraints much tighter. He saw Jeremy was forcing himself to relax and getting comfortable again on the leopard bed, though still he was a little anxious. He soon wouldn't be. He went back to his dresser and pulled out a rig and a spoon. He put some white powder in the spoon, added a bit of water and heated it up. Jeremy was watching him like a hawk, but surprisingly said nothing. His cock was dripping pre-cum, the veins looking like they might explode. Vinnie made sure the mixture had entirely dissolved, put a cotton ball in it, and loaded one of the points. He then set up two camera, one close up on Jeremy cock and the other one further back, a two shot that would capture him and Jeremy together. He glanced at the cowboy hat on the editing monitor and brought it over and set it on Jeremy's head. He tapped the side of the rig, looked over at the video monitors to make sure everything was right. In the drawer he found a rubber hose and tied it around the boy's outstretched muscular arm. He told Jeremy as he searched for a good vein, "I might you join a little later but right now let's concentrate on popping your cherry, or cherries." He tapped Jeremy's arm to bring out a vein. Jeremy flipped over forearm his displaying to Vinnie the largest protruding vein he had. Vinnie was surprised and broke into his Cheshire cat grin again. "Not your first rodeo, is it, cowboy." Jeremy looked up at him stoically, and shook his head. Vinnie stuck the vein, saying, "Now tell me if this burns." He gave Jeremy the entire contents without protest. "Yesss, oh fuck yesss, take it, go with it," he coached the boy, stroking his forehead, as he saw the change come over him. There was a bead of blood where he withdrew the needle. Vinnie bent over and licked it, the last thing Jeremy saw before his head sank into the tiger pillows. The boy was gone. The body alive for anything he wanted to do. Vinnie grabbed another set of sounds, a little different than the first. They were extremely thin as wires but had an octagonal bit at the end. While the boy was flying on his bed, he lubed it and inserted the bit in Jeremy's pee slit, letting it slide all the way in. Jeremy gasped and his Serpent jerked in Vinnie's hand. Once it settle in, Vinnie began twisting it in the depth of the Serpent. Only physically in the room his body trembled and swiveled his hips on the sound receiving sensation that were not natural to a body. Vinnie assisted him in intensifying the sensation by swiveling the Serpent around, drawing gasps and spasms in the body on his bed. Jeremy's abdomen shook in shock, trying to absorb the intensity of his internal forced extra-sensitivity. Vinnie wanted to exacerpate and build on what Jeremy was feeling. He took out another sound, greased it and entered it into Jeremy's urethra letting it join its brother in its descent. From far off somewhere deep in his brain Jeremy let out a cry of agony and satisfaction. He squirmed even harder in Vinnie strong hand. Vinnie took the two ends and began pulling them up and down within the kid's shaft. He felt the bits together with his fingers and ran then along the outside, following the internal motion up and down. "Better than a screwdriver, ain't it kid?" Jeremy was too far gone for words but present enough in body enough to rock his member in Vinnie's hand. "One more?" Vinnie offered. He expected no answer and inserted a third. A hissing, sucking sound came out from behind the gag. Whimpers of euphoria gave over to heavy moans of overloaded stimulation as Vinnie, unrelenting, violently stroked his shaft with a ever-tightening grip. He could feel Jeremy stiffening and coming up against his first climax of the night. Vinnie gently extracted the sounds, mouthed Jeremy's mushroom head, and deep throated him down to the tuft of clipped hair sprouting from his groin. Jeremy forced out some unintelligible words trying to make them escape from the gag, trying to form thoughts out of his spinning mind. He didn't know if they were words of damnation or gratitude. If there existed words that were both, those would be the words. They fell on deaf ears as Vinnie was lost worshiping the newest offered phallus. It wasn't the first time Jeremy felt the rush from a needle. He had his brother to thank for that. But it was one of the best. This time, though, a blow job wouldn't be the end of the encounter like the two he had—or third through hundredth if you counted the incestuous affair he long had with his brother Cliff. In his mind he was cascading far from where he started. He would be wise to cherish this ride tonight, the rush of bliss flowing from the Serpent's head to the farthest reaches of the world. There weren't that many more remaining.

;-) and more

And a licensed medic. Well, maybe not licensed.

Thank you. I appreciate your comments.

"Hang in there, baby" Jeffrey Lewinsky grew up in Cleveland, Ohio. A second cousin to Monica Lewinsky, a public figure that summer. He shared a paternal Lithuania Jew grandfather with her. His material grandfather was an atheist and a Scotsman who lived, after his wife died, with him, his brother and his parents. He loved his grandfather. The old man used to regale him with ribald stories of the old country, the lads and lasses, the haystacks and kilts flying in the wind. When his grandfather passed away Simon was eight, he was sadder than anyone in the family, and suddenly we wanted to entertain everyone with stories he made up. When people ignored his antics he became sad again. His parents were concerned and took him to a shrink, where he was diagnosed, after weeks of counselling, as a manic-depressive. Later in college reassigned to be bipolar. Meds helped. He studied drama at Carnegie-Melon and received his Bachelor of Arts there. Circus arts he excelled in. He was agile, worked out obsessively, was wicked with a whip. Advised by a New York agent that said he would take him on if only he would think about changing his name. Jeffrey Lewinsky would limit him to Jewish roles. He thought that was stupid, so sitting in a Duncan Doughnuts reading an article in the Times about John McCain, he decided to take on the new name. He adopted his grandfather's brogue, just a lilt of it, and practiced the new identity with ribald stories of the old county. Looking at Joey who was starting to come to, he realized this new name and identity was two years ago this month, the same time he'd been off his meds. Joey coughed, focused on him, blinked. He rubbed his neck with his free hand, rattled his other cuffed hand, rasped, "What the fuck?" Duncan shrugged his shoulders innocently. "I bet it was the best orgasm you ever had." "Uh-so what if it was? What the fuck, Duncan?" He rattle his handcuff again. "Key. Not funny. I'm getting dressed and out of here." Never one to apologize, Duncan insisted this is simply who he is. He was hard wired this way, and it's how he shows someone he liked them. "Hey! Jeffrey Dahmer, ever hear of flowers and a card? Jesus, asshole, you could have really killed me. And fucking unlock this. And what happened to your accent?" "That's for fun, just like breath play—pretty common really: erotic asphyxiation, asphyxiaphilia—just like a lot of other things I like. And I like you. A lot. And that could be a problem. Well, we could call all this off right now, no harm, only a little foul. Wave goodbye to a ton of money and a beautiful life together." "And you came in me. I remember. The rubber broke." Joey was beginning to get anxious. No, that was too simple. He didn't want to show it but aside from being nervous, cuffed to a metal headboard, he was crushed. Duncan had betrayed him. "Fuck, man, did you also put something in my drink?" "Well, technically, Mr. X put something in your drink, but yeah, I came in you. Twice. While you were out the second time. It's another one of my things. "You fucking fuck!" He put his hands to his head, trying to take this all in. He was naked in a ratty room with paint chips peeling off the ceiling, barebacked by a guy he really liked, choked to the point of passing out, and now the fuck was treating it like a joke? "I couldn't help myself—you were irresistibly fuckable, or fucking irresistible." Duncan laid his hand on his captive's belly. Joey slapped it away with a get-the-fuck-out look, but his body betrayed him. As they were talking Duncan saw before Joey did that Joey had an erection. Sitting on the bed, Duncan gave a small bowed. "And the court rests, Your Honor." "I'm done. This isn't a joke. My clothes. Key." Mr. X knocked, and barged through the door carrying a red leather case. "The anarchist is awake. Good. How is he?" "I'm afraid he's not too happy." "Maybe I have something to make him happy again." He unzipped the case displaying two capped riggs, ready and loaded. Joey sprung to his feet but found himself on a short leased. He yelled for help but was covered over by the deep bass beats and the noise from the Friday night crowd downstairs. Mr. X took the precaution of closing the window, while Duncan struggled with the teen to pin him down on the bed. Joey became a wild animal trapped by his arm. He swung and connected some blows to Duncan, but the man withstood them like he was taking the swats of a small, naughty kitten. With his body weight he felled the boy easily and held him to the bed. "Your going to lose this match, lad, and I don't want to hurt you—not until you want me to. And I do want to." He crushed the boy until all appendages, one by one, couldn't move. Mr. X was busy at the foot of the bed with rope securing first one leg, then the other. Joey's uncuffed arm was tightly secured to the bottom of the bed, crook of the arm up. Mr. X put a tourniquet around Joey's bicep, found a large protruding vein, wiped it with a swab, sat on his hand, and stuck him with the needle. It registered, and he plunged this liquid swiftly into the struggle boy. Duncan eased up on him but still knelt over his torso. Mr. X release the boy's bicep and arm, and Duncan raised the arm in the air. Joey coughed and then lobbed his head side to side. "Oh shit," was all he said. Duncan offered up his own arm to Mr. X. No trouble find a vein there. He picked a juicy one, registered and slammed Duncan. "Come down when your ready. Your things are in my room. Don't dress the boy," Mr. X said gathering his things. Duncan was finding it difficult to talk. He got out one question. "Cat?" "It's hanging on the door. Try not to be too long." As he exited, he said, "We've got good house." Duncan felt Joey's erection rubbing his hole. He slathered lube on the boy's pole and applied some lube on his hole. "Here's a first, boy-o," and punctured his hole with Joey's rod. Joey let out an enraptured sigh. Almost simultaneously, so did Duncan. He rode the boy for a good, long time, while he and Joey exchanged cries of contentment feeling the height of the rush going through them. It looked like this wasn't the kid's first time with meth. He rocked and slid the boy's long member in and out and side to side. Anything he did, both he and Joey extracted delight. He tweaked the boy's small tits, and with eyes closed Joey did the same to Duncan. The boy reached down and jerked Duncan's cock. Duncan poured lube on it and Joey took up a rhythm similar to him fucking Duncan. "I'm going to cum," Joey gasped. "Wait," said Duncan slowing down the motion. He didn't stop, it felt too good, but he wanted the boy heightened not spent. "I could love you," Duncan admitted, hypnotized by the boy's young spear deep inside him. "I want to love you and have you love me." He took Joey's cock to it's head and slowly descended down on it, making it last as long as he could. Joey groaned yes. "Then let me hurt you. I'll hurt you so good, that's all you'll ever want anymore." Joey groaned yes again. "Like this torture, we'll never be closer. You'll be loved and I'll be loved. We'll be loved. You'll see." He let Joey slip out of him. Joey sighed like he was about to cry. He bent over the lad and lay his body on top of his and kissed his face; kissed his eye; kissed a cheek; kissed an earlobe. He whispered he wanted him to understand the allure of pain like he did, the sweet surrender to it. He would be there and never let him go. Duncan uncuffed him, rolled Joey over face down on the bed, his head in the pillow. He took his member and pushed it into the boy's waiting butt. "Remember I love you. Say it to yourself like you would say it to me." Duncan saw Joey mouthing the words." He rolled off Josey, got up and took the cat off the doorknob. He brushed it gently over Joey's back. He pick up the instrument and let the ends fall over the young man's slender torso. He picked it up once more, and this time flung it with a small amount of force. Joey hissed and Duncan brought the cat back to run up and down his spine again. Duncan slowly got the boy used the sensation, sometimes roughly, other times gently. Joey's hisses and murmur became interchangeable. With the increasing harder lashes, Joey started thanking Duncan into his pillow. This Duncan permitted to lash him more often. A Thank You Sir also increased the number of harsher lashes with less and less gentler ones. Soon all Duncan gave Joey were severe, though not yet violent, strikes. The boy bravely faced Duncan whip until Duncan felt Joey was ready. He didn't want him rehearsed, merely slightly prepared. He praised Joey, kissed his face, told him how beautiful he was. Only he knew how rare and precious Joey was. Joey was his, if only he'd agree. Duncan rose him off the bed. He hugged Joey tenderly, stroking his hair, kissed him deeply, lightly stroking his back. The latter was painful for Joey but he endured, kissing Duncan at those times the most deeply. They staggered to Mr. X's room where Duncan found a pair of chaps and a studded codpiece. He found two executioner's masks and put one on. The other was for Joey once in the dungeon. They made their way down to the bar. Through the bar the naked boy elicited hoops and cheers. Not just a few hands ran over his naked figure. As in a dream Joey smiled all around at the adoring crowd groped and fondled him as Duncan led him through the mass of bodies. He warmed to the men's adulation, their clutching hands, their praise. Next to the bathroom was a guarded door. A man the size of Duncan let them through to the staircase that led below. Duncan guided Joey's shoulders down to the dungeon. The stairs had a landing that splintered off in several directions. By going straight and down a few more steps, they ended in a spacious room with a single spotlight in the middle and a hook. Off to the sides was a rack of buttplugs like a rack of weights increasing in size. Across the room was another similar rack of dildoes also of increasing size. A fuckbench and a sling were also waiting in the shadows. There were men in the dark corners that Joey was aware of but didn't pay heed. Duncan had him. It was all he cared about. He kissed Duncan's shoulder. Duncan stopped in the light and flexed his bicep, then lifted his pit for Joey. Joey worshiped it, taking his time exploring the curls and swirls of Duncan hair, his tendons and sucking on his sweat. Mr. X came out of the shadow, camera in hand. Again, Joey paid no attention, his entire focus was on Duncan. Duncan pushed the boy's head down. Joey mouthed over his bare chest, nursed his nipples, then was pushed lower to Duncan's studded crotch. Joey brushed his cheek against it and lowered himself to the floor. There, he licked his Master's foot. Holding the boy's head, the Master raised this foot. The boy held it and worshiped it as if it were a sacred object. He sucked the toes, licked the dirty bottoms of the heal and arch. Lowered one foot and repeated the worship of the other. Duncan unsnapped his codpiece and his soft meat flopped out. Joey inhaled it, swallowed it to the hilt and gradually grew it with the slime of his mouth until it was fully grown. He licked his Master's balls, cupping them and bathing them with his tongue. He lowered and tilted his head so he disappeared between his Master's legs to attend to his holy ass. Mr. X swung the camera behind and illuminated the puckered hole the boy was attending with his mouth, the entrance of the deity by his tongue. Finally his Master raised him up. It was time. Joey was covered with a mask. It covered his scalp, eyes and cheeks, leaving only the nose and mouth exposed. Mr. X held up a rubber bit to place in the boy's mouth. The Master put it in his mouth and latched the back. The Master took his time with elaborate knots, first binding the boy's arms in front of him, then looping additional ropes to hoist him to the ceiling. The boy's feel dangled several inches about the floor. Now the boy's height matched his Master's. He spoke directly, quietly in his boy's ear. He stroked his body until the boy had a firm erection. Like a magician's assistant, Mr. X brought instruments out of the shadows. First a riding crop and a cap of amyl. Duncan broke the cap under the boy's noise and then inhaled it himself. He took the crop and rapidly slapped the boy's buttocks and back. He spun him around and repeated the same intense slapping to his chest and groin. When he stopped the boy shouted, clearly, even through the bit, "Sir, thank you, Sir!" Duncan once again, harder this time, slapped Joey, intent on making him cringe from the crop. Joey didn't break, took every blow. When Duncan stopped, Joey once again shouted, "Sir, thank you, Sir!" Duncan raised Joey's hard member exposing his hanging balls. Duncan took the crop and whipped the balls with a hard slap. This made Joey buckle under. "Sir, thank you, Sir!" still came out of his mouth. Duncan then held a firm grip of Joey's slender dick, making the head hard, and started giving the head small repetitive slaps back and forth, increasing in intensity, until once again Joey broke in half to escape the pain. Yet again he shouted, once composed, "Sir, thank you, Sir!" Mr. X brought out a large whip with multiple strands ending in small knots. Much larger than the cat upstairs, there was nothing gentle it could produce. Duncan brought it up to the boy's chest and let him feel it against his skin. Duncan brought his mouth to the boy and kissed him tenderly. Tilted back Joey's face, mouth agape, and spat in it. "Sir, thank you, Sir!" was Joey's reply. The boy had lost his hardon but a few flicks of the whip's tails brought it back alive. Mr. X bought over two caps of amyl. Duncan snapped one under Joey's nose letting him breath deep for a long time, then broke his and breathed in the chemical. He stepped back and brought the whip down hard against the ground. He then raised it and let one lashing after another lose on Joey. First from the right, then from the left, repeating back and forth without a break. Finally, Joey cried out in agony. Still Duncan didn't stop as the boy yelled but did not ask for mercy. He spun the boy again to expose his chest and genitals. He did not hit him with as great of an intensity but kept the lashings going far longer after the boy initially broke. The lad was in tears when Duncan stopped. "Sir," the boy cried, trying to catch his breath, "Thank you, Sir!" he spat out, a long trail of saliva running to the ground. Both he and Joey were glazed in sweat. The camera examined Duncan unblinking while the whipped meat spun in the background. Then the camera focused on the body. Red gashes, red welts, spun around in a dreadful carousel. Duncan stopped the spinning and held the boy who's head dropped onto Duncan's chest. He felt Joey's hushed sobs. He comforted him, giving him words of compassion, telling him it was almost over, they'd soon be done. That he loved him for this. That he proved he belonged to Duncan's. The crying stopped and Mr. X brought the Master a long Australian single tale whip, a gift from one of the richest men in the world, and three amyl caps. Duncan broke the first cap under Joey's nose letting him have as much time as he needed. He then broke the other one under his nose, absorbing it for a while then rejecting it to the floor. He broke the last cap under Joey's nose whispering in his ear. He again threw the cap on the floor and took steps far back from his object. He cracked the whip several times overhead. In the corners, the men murmured in dread and excitement. The Master saw the object tremble which aroused a full erection. A vein pulsed on Duncan's temple. He cracked the whip again and sliced it through the silent air striking his target. Joey let out a piercing howl of agony. His body swaying the from the impact from the lash. A thin stripe of blood flowed off his back. "No! Please, Sir, no!" he cried. Sweat ran into Duncan eyes. He wiped it out, cracked the whip twice more in the air and tore the whip back in the other direction, ripping another stripe of flesh off the boy. It left a bloody X on the boy's back. Joey screamed in anguish, beg him to stop. "More?" shouted Duncan to the dark figures in the corners. "More! More!" they shouted back. Duncan doled out one, two, three, four lashes in a row. Five, six, a seventh. Joey shrieked in torment. "More!" demanded the invisible wraiths. Duncan heaved his chest, threw his arms open, and flailed the whip twice more with a thunderous crack that silenced the house. The spinning object swung silent from side to side. Duncan walked up to it, saw the stripes of blood running down the back he destroyed, felt it trembling without a word. He untied the rope from the ceiling, lower its feet to the ground but did not release it. He kicked its legs apart and began fucking it as it trembled in his arm. Its weeping made him harder. He made obscene motions of domination, bent it over, smacked its ass several times with the grip of the whip, spanked it as if it was a horse he was riding. He called for the bench. He fucked dispassionately as he undid his final knots. The fuckbench was brought to him. He bent the boy, positioned his arm and legs in place, then locked him there. He reinserted himself, and madly pounded to fuckhole, tearing off Joey's mask and grabbing a fistful of hair to propel himself into the boy's exposed ass, grimacing with every thrust. The boy was silent, in shock, head bent when released, broken. Mr. X was examining the wreckage, Joey's bloody back, the bruises on his arms and legs, his face immobile, streaked with tears. His eyes vacant. Duncan possessed erupted in orgasm, letting some of his cum fly over Joey's back, the rest depositing inside. A final indignantly. He pissed over the boy, rounded over to his face, opened his slack mouth, let a stream fill up there, pissed in a nostril, causing an unconscious quivering and peeing on the floor. Duncan then went back to the broken boy's ass and filled him with his waste till he was done. Mr. .X offered him a large buttplug and Duncan sealed his boy. The men in the darkness applauded wildly. The darkened room rose dimly as the carnival barker, Mr. X shouted, "Step right up, pony rides, ten bucks apiece. Feel the most tenderized piece of prime New York beef this side of Coney Island." The men felt up the wreckage and then waited their turn. Mr. X brought in three hundred cash off Joey's spent carcass over the course of the night. He also had the raw footage for a decent video that he would put into circulation once the performers were paid off. Joey didn't remember anything past the fourth single-tail whip. The pain, however, never left him; it was there, in the darkness with him, sealed in his unconscious, each inflicted gash was relived repeatedly once he passed out, etched itself into him like a tattoo on his brain, permanently branding for what he now was. The scars of the anonymous men who fucked him, he would never recall them either, though one left their imprint on him, too. With the haunting memory of that darkness engulfing him, he awoke in Duncan's apartment. Bright, sunny, the fragrant wisp of the sea fluttered the bedroom curtains. An unseen bee buzzed around a vase of purple lilacs on the nightstand next to him; a card with a kitten hanging from the end of a rope, "Hang in there, baby" it read, propped open in front of him—his flowers and a card. Tears welled in his eyes. Weighed under the vase, a large stack of hundreds ruffled in the breeze. Duncan lay behind him gently rubbing salve into his wounds. His touch was torture and yet soothing. Duncan kissed his ear. ***

Joey's Choice The first thing Duncan heard going down to the showers was Jeremy yelling, "What y'all's problem?" then scuffling, and Joey yelling back, "You're my fuckin' problem!" then more scuffling. Duncan burst in the locker room to see the two young men, naked, rolling around on the shower floor swinging at each other. Joey landed a blow to Jeremy's head and Jeremy was about to return the punch when Duncan interceded. "Alright, break it up, break, it, up." Joey was seething, fists clenched and ready. Both boys squaring off. Jeremy wasn't backing down, but clearly didn't understand what Joey was upset about. He rubbed his ear. "What is this?" Duncan demanded. The rest of the boys were drying off and trying to get out of there as unnoticed as possible. "This southern cracker knew I wasn't ready. I didn't even have my helmet on and hit me anyway." "I thought New Yorkers could man up," Jeremy spat. "Guess y'all are just fast talking pussies." This set Joey off a second time. He tried climbing over Duncan to get at his adversary. "Settle down now," shouted Duncan with Joey hanging on his shoulder. He smacked Joey's wet ass and set him down. "Get dressed, both of you." He was all wet from their clash, especially where Joey had climbed on him. He would forego the shower and opt for dry jeans and a tank. The rest of the boys had filed out; tension dispersed somewhat when it was just the three of them. Duncan broke the silence. "If I had a dollar for every blow I ever got when I wasn't ready, I'd be, well, I'd have a dollar." He laughed thinking he was funny. The boys didn't. "Jeremy, go on now and apologize." You didn't buck Duncan's orders or your life would be a living hell. "Sorry, buddy. I was just playin'." Jeremy, a buff, five-eleven, former high school tight end with too many teeth, smiled shark-like, and held out his large paw to Joey. Joey slapped the hand away. "Screw you, cracker barrel," he said putting on a New York Dolls t-shirt, then bent to tie his sneaker. "That's enough! Jeremy, thank you for being a gentleman. You may leave us. You, Mr. Corelli, a word." With that, Jeremy strutted to the door. Before leaving and out of Duncan's sight, he looked at Joey and made a flicking motion—a flea off his large shoulder. Joey stiffened. "The friggin' redneck sucker punched me." He looked straight ahead, avoiding Duncan's gaze. Duncan smacked the back of Joey's head, not hard, almost affectionately. "What's a matter for you?" he mocked. "Nothing's the matter with me. This place is the matter with me. Pretty boys and a hell of a lot of swishes, like Jeremy hiding under his redneck jock act. Right before class he thought it'd be okay to grab my ass. Front of everyone. I know Carson saw it, Kennedy probably too. I grab ass, nobody grabs my ass," he protested feebly. Duncan studied him. Angry New Yorker, yes, but covering a very sensitive talent, talent they would unearth here if he let them. One private note in his file stood out to Duncan. At fifteen he wrote to the Chinese government asking for Mao's Little Red Book. The FBI showed up at his parent's door asking if they knew about their son's request. Apparently they were rich New Yorkers in a communist cell, horrified that they'd been noticed by the government through their son's shenanigans. He had trouble with his parents ever since. Notes on him were he went through several high school phases very briskly: punk, Goth, Queer, serial killer; he landed on anarchist. Pierced eyebrow and tongue. He wore a permanent scowl and mostly black. He had a beautiful body, cheek bones that could cut glass, a long Roman nose, thin, gangling arms, a perfect black bush, just a sampling of hair beginning to grow around his nipples, an bit above average dick, and a very low hanging set of balls. They didn't get more perfect than this, Duncan thought. "If I had a dollar for every time I got grabbed, well, I'd have what I have right now in me bank." Duncan clipped Joey's chin and got a half smile out of the boy. "Being talented, being famous, everyone's gonna want to grab yer ass. Me included." He finished buttoning up his jeans. "C'mon, I'll buy you a pint. How old did you say you are?" "Nineteen," replied the young man, looking a little nervous and more than a little honored Duncan wanted to spend time with him. "Well, you look twenty-one. I know a place that's pretty loose on carding a pretty face." Joey scoffed out loud, not liking to be thought of as pretty. He fought against smiling and managed a neutral frown. He toed on his flip-flops, waited at the door looking impatiently at Duncan. Duncan finished lacing up his leather boot, slipped a black hanky in his back pocket, left side, and escorted Joey out the door. *** Like an extra-long piece of shit, I finally felt Mr. X's softening cock slither slowly out of my colon. I lay perfectly motionless, feeling every millimeter of his exit, each drop of sperm clinging to my wall, each bar on his shaft bumping over and out my sphincter. At the end I was empty, oozing copious amounts of cum and piss. I clung to him, put his hand in my mouth and sucked his fingers, but I could tell he was drawing away. All the traits of post-coital maneuvering to disengage. “Time for you to rest. Other things to be exposed to, take you another notch down. Things others will expect of you. Not all pleasant but not all tonight. For now you need some quiet.” “I don’t want to go home,” I pleaded. “Far from it. There's more I want you to explore. One thing I want you to see in a little bit. I'll arrange. First Riggs and I need to do paperwork and you need rest. Afterwards, Riggs and I will put on a little show for you. You like a show? But to show I want you to lie still for a while. You’ll know when we end, at least tonight you will. Then you'll have a big decision. If you want to come to Bar X and spend a couple nights with me as your Master and some others good teacher. Or you pass on chance of a lifetime.” With that he climbed over me. His butt close to my face, I raised my head to show him proper respect and lick his hairs that dangled from his asshole. I only had a scant tasted of his moist, dirty hole. He pushed my head away, saying it was too soon for that. "You lie here, watch." He pointed to a screen that Riggs had been busy setting up. Riggs flipped on the monitor that hung above the pegboard. On the screen a lithe, dark haired young man was being tied up. The guy tying him up was in an executioner mask, had long red hair tied in back and red sideburns that ended in points. They both looked familiar. The man in the mask had a tremendous body, big thighs, thick neck, bulging biceps and an enormous chest. The young man being tied up had a hood placed swiftly over his head but I noticed a pierced eyebrow like one of my classmates had. Heavy black hair in his armpits, an even heavy dark bush above a cock that was growing by the second. He was pulled up to the ceiling and swung there helpless. The red haired man stood next to him, stroking his body, fondling it lovingly, whispering in his ear. "Is from last night, my place. My place is always interesting, yes?" Mr. X squatted next to me tossing a huge dildo, the head the size of my fist, the length of my forearm. It splashed in the muck puddled next to me. "Fuck yourself till I get back. Don't try for whole thing. Just watch video. All the things you see, you will do. Eventually. I want you to think of them with pleasure. Duncan is a great teacher of pain and pleasure. This Joey now knows," he laughed and slapped my butt. "We will teach you like we teach Joey." "Yes, Sir," I said in disbelief. Joey was difficult but pretty innocent for all his posturing. Was that really him with Duncan last night. Even still druggy this blew my mind. "Riggs, throw him poppers. He's got homework." Mr. X scooped up a handful of grease and stuck it up my shit chute. "Be pig. Show me how you want your hole and I show you example of how it will be." Like a gauntlet thrown down, I flipped onto my knees and settled the dildo at the edge of the mattress. I poised myself on the mattress edge and squatted on it, all the while looking at Mr. X. In one "oof" I got the cockhead inside. Mr. X took my shoulders and lay me down on my side. "Very good. Riggs said you are quick learner. Now watch movie. If you get excited, take in more monster cock." Riggs, by the door, said, "Mr. X, I do believe you've found a true pig." "You should see what this boy Joey took last night," Mr. X said closing the door. "Pretty astonishing, even I say," his voice disappearing up the stairs. *** Duncan draped his arm around Joey as they walked into Bar X. It seemed like Duncan knew everyone or at least they wanted to know him. Mr. X, who owned the place, took their gym bags and set them behind the bar. In a few moments he brought them back two large ales. Joey sipped his but recoiled from the dark beer's taste. Duncan said he'd get used to it. If they ever went to Scotland he'd buy him a real pint, not this swill. "It's not even alcoholic. Can't while I'm training, nor should you either." Joey drank but wasn't liking the taste. Still, he was with Duncan, and Duncan gave him sudden burst of physical attention that he lapped up. Stuck close to him with his arm over his shoulder, slapping his back when he introduced him around. Joey glowed with happiness with each sip he took. In fact, halfway through the ale he couldn't remember a time when he was ever happier. The bar started to fill the moment they went in. "This is the first leather bar I've been in," Joey called above the din. Duncan, smiled, and pulled his and Joey's head together. "Get the fuck out, lad! I took you for a leather cub or an otter." Joey shook his head, smirking. "You ready for a lager? Mr. X!," Duncan called out, "my young friend here, of proper drinking age, is ready for another." The crowd was raucous. Lots of leather everywhere. Caps, cops, chains, bare-chested muscle-roids, overweight bear types, biker daddies, a few collared men with leashes. No one compared, though, to Duncan. He'd taken the band off his ponytail and let his long, burnished hair release. Joey was proud to be with him. He wasn't costumed, just simply a tremendous hulk of a man, arms busting out of a wife-beater wearing tight scruffy jeans. Joey spotted it in a second. A black kerchief sticking out of his back left pocket. Mr. X burst upon them. Joey looked around in a flash of panic. "Boy, you see ghost?" asked Mr. X handing them new drinks. Joey frowned. Mr. X was a sketchy looking character. But then who else would be running a bar like this? "Drink slow, cowboys. Happy hour is till seven. If you need more quiet you can always use room upstairs, or feeling adventurous?" He grabbed Joey's angular chin. "A VIP like Duncan, always welcome in the dungeon." Duncan laid down some bills. "No," said Mr. X, "we take it out in trade." The missing teeth in Mr. X's smile startled Joey. Growing up in New York, he'd always been around, if not directly, then in the circus that was New York street life, the Felliniesque characters that color the city—starting with his parent's friends: the symphonic conductor with trite wild hair; his outrageously large soprano wife; his godfather who lost an arm in Vietnam and his legs to diabetes; the ancient Duchess that was rumored to be his maternal grandmother's lover; the skeletal man that was always the last to leave his parent's meetings who had something on his father. Mr. X would fit right in. As soon as he left, Joey felt more at ease, not only because he forgot about his parents, but more importantly, he was alone in a crowded, smoky, stale-beer-smelling bar, the best place on earth, ever! He took a long swig, finishing a third of it. Flagging black, he hadn't forgotten. The Brooklyn commie socialite parent's anarchist boy knew his colors. S&M. Hard core. Left: seeking. He tossed back another full swig. As the bar grew even more packed he felt himself starting to drown between the pressed bodies. "I should go," he suggested, steadying himself. Duncan wrapped on arm over Joey's shoulder, drawing him in. Joey felt the large man's strength and his warmth. The heat drew out his innate coldness and was on the verge of melting it. Duncan bent over and pressed his lips against Joey's lips. His heart jumped. This couldn't be happening. He'd always found his fight instructor was jacking material, but now, actually pressed to Duncan's lips there was nothing to do but reciprocate. It wasn't a tentative kiss. It was passionate, declarative, still with still attached to tenderness. Their kiss lasted minutes, long enough to cause others to notice. "Get a room!" someone close by shouted. "Should we?" Duncan suggested. "Here?" Joey asked, feeling a flux of feelings. Anxiousness but oddly relaxed, horny, frightened, light-headed, incredibly turned on by Duncan. His touch, his smell, the arms he was permitted to touch, the waist he held onto, the butt he grabbed, the kerchief. "Mr. X's building. His rules." Duncan stated, starting to usher Joey to the stairs. "Maybe later we'll explore the dungeon." Joey stopped before the first step. "Kidding," added Duncan, clownishly. They started walking up. "Not really, though. But only if you insist." Duncan was playing with him. They stop-started all the way up the stairs. "I'm kidding. No, not really. A joke. Not." By the time they reach to top of the stairs, Joey felt like he was about to pass out. His mind was confused. Knowing he wasn't drunk, yet getting fuzzy on how he got here. He clung heavily to Duncan. A knee collapse and he lurched falling sideways. Duncan was able to catch him and brought him up in his arms. "Oh, baby," he said, truly concerned. "Don't pass out." Duncan knock on a few doors till he found one that wasn't occupied. He carried Joey only half conscious into the seedy room. There was a single bed near the window, a yellowed window shade pulled down, flapping mildly in the hot breeze. Duncan switched on a lamp next to the bed and set Joey down. Threw drooping eyes Joey scanned around at the ripped flowered wallpaper, the empty closet with a few dangling wire hangers, the fading light outside. Duncan laid with him on the bed, looking into the boys face. "Love, you knocked it back so fast I couldn't stop you." "I'm okay," said Joey straining to sit up. "Stop what?" "No, we'll just lie right here. You're okay. You are a beautiful, beautiful boy. I want you." Duncan sat up, stripped off his top and tossed it over the metal headboard. Joey reached up to feel the chest he'd been longing to caress. He ran his fingers over the mass of muscle. Duncan looked down grinning as he flex each plate for Joey to enjoy. He bent close, telling him, "You are the most beautiful boy I've ever seen. I've want you from the first day in class." Joey pushed himself up to kiss Duncan. Duncan was open and engulfed the boy's mouth with a long, luscious kiss. He slipped off Joey's shirt then his shorts. He lay the boy back down and ran a hand up and down his entire torso, playing for a long time in Joey's bush, before finally wrapping a hand around Joey's long cock. Joey's erection bounced in Duncan's hand. He ground his crotch against Duncan sandpaper jeans, clutched his broad back, put a hand through Duncan's tight waistband feeling for his butt. Duncan unbuttoned his pants. He got up off the bed only for a second to slip out of his jeans. He pulled off his underwear. Joey motioned for them. He handed them over to him and Joey took a long, happy inhalation of the crotch. Duncan laughed and tossed them on the floor and climbed on top of Joey kneeing his legs apart. Both writhed feeling each other's skin on skin. Joey clutched Duncan's triceps and biceps, kissing, biting and sucking on his ripped shoulder. Duncan ran his hand between Joey's legs, wetting a finger, then feeling for the boy's hole. Duncan drew himself lower on the boy's torso, licking his nipples, tonguing his belly button, sniffing the musk of the boy's black bush, wetting his finger again to tease the boy's hole. Finally finding Joey's cock, he ran his mouth and tongue over the entire long and slender piece, sucking the head, tonguing down the shaft, sucking the boy's heavy hanging balls, and, then briskly, lifting the boy's legs in the air to reveal Joey's hairy hole. Duncan bathed it in saliva erupting moans from Joey. He pushed his tongue in the chute, followed by a single finger. He probed him while Joey pushed out and gaped his hole for Duncan. Duncan took the invitation and drove deep into Joey's anus. The boy had definitely been working his hole at home. A bit of red showed without effort when Joey pushed. Duncan lathered it and pulled it apart with fingers from each hand. Pleased with how far it could easily open, how ready it was for him right then, he reached up the nightstand, felt around. Condom, lube, poppers—there were always lots of left overs laying around. He drew out a half-empty bottle of lube, held the condoms for a second. "Rubbers?" he asked Joey. "I'm neg," the boy responded. "Not me. So for you, baby, to stay that way—" Duncan opened a packet. "Let me put in on you," Joey said. He knelt beside the bed, kneeling before his idol, directly in front of Duncan's cock. Duncan pulled the boys head onto it. Joey sucked on his member, getting it fully erect, loving Duncan's taste and smell. He played with his ball and ran an arm through the crack of Duncan's butt. Joey was very good at deep throating and eagerly swallowed Duncan down to his pubes. Duncan pressed Joey's head against his groin and waited for Joey to choke. He didn't. "Aw, fuck boy! Where have you been?" Duncan rocked his cock repeatedly in and out of Joey's soft mouth. He let Joey bob on my member, felt Joey trace his tongue under his balls back to his cock, then held the boy's head while he skull fucked him with increasing severity. "Christ, Jesus! You're gonna have me blow already." He released Joey, wild eyed. "I want to fuck you so bad. Finish sheathing me." Joey rolled on the rubber, then rapidly scuttled on all fours back to facing the metal headboard. He felt cold lube dribble down his crack, some being pushed into his hole. Then he felt Duncan stiff girth entering him. First in slow jabs, only the tip entering then a slow back and forth insertion, each time penetrating him just a little deeper. "How's that baby, feel good?" Duncan asked in back of him. He moaned a yes. "Let me know if it's too much." He encouraged Duncan by pushing his ass back on his shaft, taking in inches, letting him know he could go in deeper. Duncan understood and grabbed Joey's haunches, eased Joey slowly on to him in one stroke. He pulled the boy onto his shaft all the way to the hilt till Joey's butt rested against his balls. Joey gasped in pleasure and immediately began rocking against Duncan's cock. Minutes passed as hole and cock got to know each other. Once Duncan knew Joey could take it, he turned the boy on his side holding his leg in the air and ravenously impaled him. "I love fucking you, baby." "Fuck, Duncan. I want you so bad." "You've got me, baby. You got as much as you want." Duncan flipped Joey on his back and began pounding away at him. Joey looked up at Duncan, feeling him inside, frantically stroking his cock. Duncan continued to pummeled him. "Fuck baby, yessss." Duncan pile drove into the boy's ass with increasing savagery. He'd pull out and then stab back into the open hole. Joey loved it. He met each of Duncan's thrust with a thrust of his own. They met together in increasing rhythm, neither relenting in the brutality of the fuck. Joey was on the verge of cumming when he spotted the swollen head of Duncan cock breaking through the rubber. It's thick purple head tore the sheathe in half and was peeling further down the shaft with every stroke. "Fuck I love your hole," repeated Duncan. "I love you, baby. I want you pregnant, baby." He put his hands on the boy's thin neck and began squeezing. "I want to knock you up. I love you, sweet boy," he intoned, as his grip increase. In horror, on the razor's edge of cumming, Joey had a second to choose between reaching up to stop Duncan's hands on his neck or cum. He chose to cum. His body spasmed, an orgasm as intense as he'd ever had, shooting rivers of cum over his and Duncan's chest. And blacked out.

*** His lack of movement, him just staring at me, melted into an abstraction. I was enraptured by what he'd just done to me, like a deer bewitched by radiant lights on the horizon. It was impossible to process what had happened. All I knew was that my dick tingled; I wanted it again, or, if not that, something other that I knew only he was capable of. If I had just shot my wad with someone else, my mind would be searching for the nearest exit. With Mr. X. I felt the opposite. I wanted more of him, to know more, to discover more, to belong more to him. He was a flame for my thoughts. My mind imagined him practicing taboo and foreign arts. I pictured him overseas, entering exotic ports, each stop adding another souvenir to his body; sucking off a shipmate in some dark alley, both denying the next day anything had happened on shore; an unrepentant mercenary; a defrocked priest; he might have been a wrestler, holding high a championship belt, chest heaving, taunting Spanish at his beaten opponent, shaved, in tights, wearing a black mask. Spinning mind spun tale after tale drinking him in. Mind is a razor blade. He opened my legs, moved in to examine. In the calm of an afterglow, his snake hand ran between my thighs, pushed four fingers into my hole. “Tight,” he murmured in the direction of Riggs who’d long ago collapsed into his own reverie. I looked over at Riggs. I felt a bit of pity. He was shoving the balls that had fallen out of me, now burying the fourth ball into his ass. Mr. X pulled out his fingers and felt the welt Duncan had given me, which seemed like lifetimes ago. “He likes beating?” he asked Riggs in a detached voice. It took a while for Riggs to answer. “Ask him? I think he’s a horny little slut that would do anything for a big cock.” Standing between my legs Mr. X stared at me. “You like to be beat?” It was the first time I clearly saw how formidable he was. His cock had gone down to an impressive swaying eight inches, soft. A tremendous amount of foreskin now hung over his cockhead. There was nothing accidental in how he used his body. I know he had asked a question. I had no idea what it was. His tool's soft foreskin, rolled over my withered dick. “You like to take beatings? I don’t like to ask twice.” “Uh, I uh…” I trailed off unable to figure out how to answer his simple question. No, I did not; yes, if he wished it. “How much did you give him his first time?” Riggs, irritated to have to answer again, lolled his head on the bed, spouted, “Point three, maybe four. Can’t remember. Hard to find a vein. Boy squealed before I stuck him, but’s been loving it ever since, haven't you, pig boy?” I was mesmerized by the sensation of Mr. X's foreskin rocking over my balls. There was a tattoo of a screaming mask right above his dick camouflaged in his thick bush. Where the mask’s tongue would be instead was his swaying dick. “Were you in the navy?” I asked Mr. X. “Was I what?” He stared, puzzled. He called to Riggs, “He’s asking me if I was in the navy.” I shook again in a cold fever, my teeth chatter. For a moment I mistook him for my father's older brother, Uncle Glenn. I shivered in a forgotten memory. I felt I was living through a dream with Mr. X, or a flashback with my uncle in his pool, alone, up close in a tub with me, tepid water washing over us, he brushing up against me obscenely. Me having inappropriate thoughts of my uncle. I was lost in the memory, whether it was even true, but I was also here, wanting more of this man's touch. I tipped my torso up to feel the heavy weight of his cock brush up against my shaved crotch. “You fucked up little fucker. You want to come work for me, feel like this all the time?” “Aw, fuck yeah. I want you to feel me all the time.” The words just floated out of me. No meaning, just sounds that I hoped he would like. “I think you’d make a lot more money than working for Rigg Pig, isn’t that right, Mr. Pig?” “Most likely. But I want a finder’s fee for that sweet cunt of his.” “I need a test drive. You okay if I give him another spin?” asked Mr. X. “And what this tat on his ass?” “What?” Riggs asked, now fully coming out of his reverie. He pulled the final ball out of his ass and got off the bed. He took up inspection next to Mr. X. I liked both men checking out my ass, pulling my leg to the side to get a better light. “Oh, that’s his dreamcatcher tattoo.” “I think we cover it up with a black boot. How ‘bout that, kid? Nice big Mr. X boot on your ass, size thirteen stomping you?” “Yeah, and piercing, like yours. And nipples. Big ones,” I blurted. “Maybe eventually. But yours are small yet." He reached up to pull off the tit tubes. "Let me see.” He popped one off. The tit was blue and blistered, but for me pretty massive. He pulled the second tit pump off. I was shocked how enlarged they'd gotten. Each of the men pulled at them. “Maybe small piercings. Maybe a P.A. What do think, Riggs? A little P.A. on this pretty prick?” Mr. X picked up my dick, pinched it to open the piss slit, rubbed a finger over the soft interior skin. He reached over to a leather case on the table, unzipped it and took out one of several steel rods. He licked the rod and spit on my soft dick, slid one of the rods in only slightly and let it fall into my slit on its own weight. The sensation felt close to what his tongue had done to me, and produced in me a low growl. I began to rock in Mr. X's hand. “Hang on. Let’s get you slutted up. Another slam and see what surprises we can get out of you." He pulled out the rod and released my cock. "Wait, what?" The last sentence tugged on an alarm. "Wait. No, no, no, no" I stammered realizing what he had in mind. "I'm so fucked up. I can't even." Riggs completely ignored me. "He's a fast learning, you'll see." To me, Riggs said, "You’re not ready for home yet, are you? Don't you want to stay and play with Rigg Pig and Mr. X?” “I do. Fucking A,” I said, “just...but I don't need to slam again.” He and Riggs went over to the table with hushed voices. “I want to bond with him. Now,” Mr. X whispered to Riggs. “I’m in a sharing mood.” He showed Riggs the needle in his pocket. "This is the Czech shit I brought back. There is nothing purer." "I hear you guys," I said, trying to imagine getting even higher than I was. "Please, I'm shitfaced." “If I can’t finish," Mr. X continued, "you’ll need to do him.” All I could see was Mr. X's ass. As distressed as I was, my attention span was that of a flea. Mr. X removed his vest now stood naked with his back to me. The tail that began at his hand I could now see the detail of how it slid over his shoulder, slithered down his back, undulated with his breath and ended between his cheeks. I admired Mr. X’s broad back, a giant V that ended in a surprising small waist. I loved the dimples on his butt. The tail of the striped snake disappearing. While they quietly bartered, I obsessed how far the snake tail went if I were to spread his cheeks apart. That's all I thought about, spreading his muscular butt apart. “That means we finalize the contract then," whispered Riggs. "You've had three weeks to read through his background.” Their words were distractions I wanted to bat away. I only wanted to dig in to Mr. X’s ass, find out how the snake tail ended. “Contract," however, echoed in the air, buzzing like a fly, raising a modicum of interest. A quiet siren launched, however far back it was in my lizard brain, buried beneath a heavy blanket of static. I remembered I was cuffed. I rattled my arms to see how secured I was. The answer was very secured. “Fine,” Mr. X said, coming toward me wiping his arm with a wet pad. “The paperwork later. I want him now, just in this state. Have him sign it at some point.” Seeing that I was now quietly watching him, he addressed me directly. “Okay, this is what happens. You might remember some of it, probably not all of it, doesn't matter. No, I was never in the navy but I was a medic a long time ago. So, you put yourself in my hands. Okay?” He said over his shoulder, “Secure his head.” I saw Riggs carrying over a belt, which he strapped over my forehead, turned my head, smashing my left ear down into the pillow before I had time to think. When I caught up with what was happening, Riggs secured the belt under the sling and trapped my head sideways looking at Mr. X’s torso. I struggled, but realized escape wasn’t an option. Mr. X bent down, talking into my face. “Like I said, I think you can make a lot of money. In my bar, I have video studio and dungeon in basement. Much more equipped than this," he said indicating Riggs' playroom. "Many friends, too, and financiers and customers. Some not so nice but I protect my property. I specialize in a very select product. My talent also entertains for me, some very powerful clients. Some in government, some in police, some we don't talk about. Riggs convinced me you are a good investment. We are above board, totally legal, legally binding once you sign. And yet to see if we work out together, we need to...bonding,” he said, holding out the needle. He used a wet pad to clean my neck. Then he lay he cheek next to my ear. “Just you and me, Boy Scout. What you say?” he asked. “Riggs can slam if he wants, watch us, film us, hell, join if he wants. But this is our party, and how we know if we have chemistry.” He rose and displayed the needle, gazed at it lovingly, brought it straight to my face. “Exactly one gram of finest crystal. Pure, like you. You won't believe it.” Riggs circled to the other side of the sling, a video camera in hand. He pushed my greasy hair out of my face to make sure none got on my neck or in the way of his shot. “A full gram,” Mr. X continued. “Half of this point is mine, the other half yours. I want us have the best slam of your life, bring you into my world on beautiful magic carpet.” He ran his snake hand over my neck. “Why the neck? Not the neck.” I was as coherent as was possible and trying to be lucid and calm. "Do the arm. Arm's good." “You’re starting to make me think Riggs had it wrong, Boy Scout. Shake no if this is not what you want. I will respect your decision.” I tried, but of course, he knew it was impossible. I snorted and heaved resigned. Snot ran down the pillow. Mr. X came in close, licked the snot. He flickered his forked tongue up my nostrils. His eyes lusted vulgarly. “Your body tastes good, damn good. Mine tastes good to you, too. I see this. We will have good chemistry. I'm sure. We’re going to have the most fun you’ve ever had this side of dead. I promise you.” Directly in my line of sight, all I saw was Mr. X testing his veins. He chose one that was the least bruised, held his needle against it at an angle, stuck it in, drew in some blood causing the clear liquid to turn red. He slowly pushed the plunger down to the .5 marking, then quickly withdrew it and raised his arm in the air. His large torso swayed for a second, then he grabbed the chain violently rattling the it. I thought for a second he was about to bring the whole apparatus down. He let out a roar. "FUCK!" He held tight to the bars, rocking me in the sling. His body quaked. Breathing rapidly, his head bent, he shook again. “Fuck yes!” he hollered. "Fuck boy, come here." My line of sight was now directly facing his rising cock as he bent over me. I steeled myself for what was about to happen. He held the needle, though his hand shook as he felt around on my neck. I tried impotently to plead again, but he bent down and looked into my eyes. He whispered, “You’re not going to fucking believe this sh....” He couldn’t finish the sentence. His eyes rolled up in this head and he steadied himself with a hand on my chest. "Fucking hell! Yes!" he yelled, almost a death rattle. He still held onto my neck. He focused intensely on me. “Not a muscle.” He found a pronounced vein, and emptied the remaining contents into my neck. "Now you with Mr. X." Though when he withdrew the point, I felt something cold press against my neck, my eyesight went blind. I heard severe pounding in my ears, but made out nothing in front of me. I heard myself in my mind repeatedly saying "Fuck" as before, but couldn't hear myself speaking. A tongue entered my mouth, his tongue. It was the last thing I could remember. His tongue. I don't know how long I remained suspended, but someone had release my hands. I reached up blindly and felt his nipples. I crushed them and as I did so I felt fiery hands do the same to mine. The sensations of flicking tongue and fleshy tits drew me out of absolute blindness. I coughed several times. At one point, between coughs, I wasn't able to gasp in air. I heard a voice like a dark demon taunting in my ear, “Ride the fucker!” Hearing voices in dark corners, hoots and hollers, cackles and cries, indistinct, unrecognizable words, crazed in lust and mad laughter. As much as I tried to adjust to an unnatural amount of electricity coursing through my body, all I could feel was the rush of pounding in my ears, now in my heart, now in my groin, now in my asshole. My head was released from the belt, someone lowered my legs one at a time. I was falling forward, trying to stand upright, but unable. A moment of weightlessness, then giant arms caught me. Hairy arms. I stroked the hair. Some sort of animal's arms, a beast, strong and powerful, lifted me up, cradled me. A warm chest with a heart beating wildly, my heart beating wildly. I stroked the chest. Warm breasts, strong shoulders. Movement, moving through whiteness, fluorescent lights blinding overhead. Then a switch and darkness fell. Darkness clung to everything. Then falling, descending, lowering much lower than the room I remembered. Now red, burning my skin, feeling electric. The room was black and red. Unable to focus on anything but feeling I was more powerful than I'd ever been in my past life. A back that held me. Running my hand down a back, my other hand running down an abdomen. A hand sliding between my legs. No images, but a sense that the descent had stopped, replaced with being laid out on something soft, fetid, crusted, smelling. Someone moving an arm out and a leg. Another hand coursing over my body, through my legs again, diving into my anus. The room was not coming into focus, though something familiar was. My body felt everything at once: it was a rag doll under someone’s control. Definitely not my control. Whatever took control I knew I wanted. My brain started to form around the words: fuck, fuck, fuck, until I found my voice mouthing it, then vocalizing it. Words in ecstasy. I felt someone lift up my prone torso. Coming into consciousness I saw in double vision Mr. X propping me up on the piss-stained bed. I threw my arms around his neck, frantically feeling up his body, pulling his tits, stroking his hardened cock, felt under his enormous balls, through his legs to his wet, creamy, moist hole. “Stay with me, boy,” he whispered. He slithered his tongue into my ear, then lay me down again and rolled onto me. His erection slid on my stomach as he maneuvered my legs apart. He spread and lifted them, and with one stab, popped the piece of metal on his cockhead into me. His length of shaft felt infinite. The pain I’d anticipated from the bars on his shaft instead created the fiercest pleasure I ever felt. I felt my anus rip apart in heat. Every metal bar rolled over my sphincter elicited another rush of pleasure. I was enjoying each notch as small destructions to my hole. There was no end to him driving ever deeper into me. His girth flayed me open farther than I thought possible, more than the balls that Riggs shoved in me. My hole only wanted to swallow him up. I repeated over and over in his ear to fuck me. My eyes were out of focus but there was a moving light above me. Riggs was up there, somewhere, moving with a camera. I forgot him in an instance. All that mattered was what Mr. X wanted and he wanted to descend into my hole. A voice behind the light prodded me to say what I was feeling. I found words to whimper, beg, demand Mr. X to rip me open, fist my hole, own me, take me, pull me into hell with him. Floodgates opened. A watershed of repression, tabooed yearnings, came flooding out. His massive size hit new depth inside my body. If not for the purple rush coursing through my veins it would not be possible to accept such a demon cock. Ring after ring he penetrated. At the point when I thought I couldn’t take anymore of Mr. X’s metal or flesh inside me, I started urinated uncontrollably. I heard Riggs call out, “Fuck, yes, boy. Look at him fuck the piss out of you! Be a pig I know you are.” I rubbed my hands over my belly, thinking I could feel Mr. X’s cock pound away like a creature ready to break out through my heart. I sucked my piss-covered hands, offered them to Mr. X, but got no response. He was in a delirium of his own, sightlessly fucking. I bucked up against him, pound for pound sharing his fevered pitch. The rhythm of his fuck intensified. He slammed my ass in every way possible. He twisted my body at an angle and fucked away. He growled in my ear frenzied foreign words of lust. I returned the intensity licking inside his ear, licking each nostril. I was facing him, legs in the air. He pounded even harder, slamming deeper, pulling fully out, cum shooting everywhere, plunging right back in, not ebbing a bit as he came. He quivered at his furthest point of penetration, but kept bucking, pulling out then stabbing forcefully back in. His frenzy caused me to gasp in tormented pleasure. He reacted by finally looking at me, ordering me to keep my hole open. I felt the heat of Riggs' camera between my legs. “Hold your ankles,” Riggs directed me. I complied. Repeatedly, Mr. X pushed up his torso, revealing his full eleven-inch torpedo, before driving it back down, balls deep into my gaping hole. Not only had he found a more than will receptacle for his massive tool, but Riggs filming the act inspired me to beg for him to destroy it, to breed me and make me one of his boys. “Convert me,” I pleaded. “I want your toxic cum. Take every swimmer you have. Knock me up, Master X.” “Yes, yes,” hissed Riggs. “That’s it, boy. Invite him to own you!” Mr. X, at his peak arousal, quickened his pace. No longer fully pulling out, but only fucking me with the top few inches of weapon, then without warning, drove the entire fuckshaft deep into me. He repeated this pattern, first a few inches until he felt my hole relax, then punishing me with everything he had. I hollered in pain, and then begged him to fuck me again. This went on until he fell back into a less spastic, more steady rhythm. The intensity was still there in our fucking, but the regularity of it, the hours it felt like we were driving away, lulled me into a fugue state where all I was aware of being was a fuck object. All I knew of the past and what I could see into the future was being fucked by him. I was delirious. More hours passed in this state. I was fucked and rocked until I was sitting up fucking myself on his huge shaft. He ordered me to count down from ten and thank him every time I impaled myself. I forgot the order of things. I tried to remember numbers, gave up and, crazed in desire, I jacked him off with my stretched out colon. Riggs told Mr. X to spread my legs and show him my cunt. I was on all four over Mr. X. Riggs gasped. Mr. X turned me on my side, resumed pounding me, holding one leg in the air. I started bucking against him. I said I wanted to milk his monster, for him to plant his seed in me. I was ripe for him, ready for him to sew in fertile ground. Where these words came from I didn’t know, possibly Riggs whispering in my ear, but they kept spewing from me. Became my words, my intentions. It remained a dark red room, a room of hellish pleasure. Hallucinations of being in a meet market, of being a puppet whose strings had broken, of men sitting in the dark watching me and Mr. X consummate our bonding, blended together. I came back to a semi-consciousness, not knowing how long it had been or what had transpired. I was flattened on my belly, unable to get out from under the enormous weight of someone relentless humping of my ass. I enjoyed the sense of futility and pleasure I was receiving by not being able to resist the cock forced in me. I found the pleasure of giving it up for my Top pushing up against Him, telling Him I was His. I forgot who was in the room. The fucker who was in me, flattening me out, a large figure who pulled out at once, bathed me in cum and returned inside me to pump out what remaining orgasm he had. He didn’t stop but continued to hump, first a dry hump between my butt cheeks, and then with my prodding and maneuvering him to reenter, and again I felt his tip spewing warm ejaculate at my entrance, warming my crack, and then stabbing me once again to make sure all his cum was received in my bowels. He paused, my guts warming up to a now familiar afterbirth of urine, feeling my entire tract fill with liquid waste, until finally I leaked and wet the bed beneath me, dripping with another man’s piss. This latest chem piss, I knew I was going to black me out, ramping up, in my unconsciousness, an even greater lust that nothing could slake. The figure rolled off. It was day, maybe afternoon I saw from the window. Time was only a vague changing of light. I saw a hazy figure of hanging nipples, piercings I tried to reach up and tug. Another cock was offered and I greedily sucked it. As I sucked, I said with my mouth full, it tasted of shit and cum. “It’s good,” I murmured. There was some deep laughter, and then I felt another stiff dick enter me. Arched to suck the one man in from of me, I felt the second man twist my pelvis so I was upright on all fours. My ass was slapped and fucked, and I moaned and thanked whoever was in me. I was told to turn around, and the man I sucked was now fucking me, someone larger and almost painful, but it provided me with such infinite bliss to have my hole used by this nameless satyr. I reached back and felt his fur-covered legs, reached under and felt his heavy, slapping balls. I pushed my genitals back in order to have my Satyr spew some of his leakage on me. I felt a bit of ass juice running down. I caught some and rubbed it over my puny nub. It felt incredible yet I knew I was infinitely years away from cumming. The Satyr pushed my face into the crotch of the other to suck his cock. The cock was large but only semi-erect. I did my best to provide him pleasure, but suddenly my mouth was flooded with piss. He instructed me to drink it, to suck it all down. I drank, but his piss was endless. My head down, he pissed his remains over my head, which ran down my back. A puddle formed on the bed with my face in the middle of it. My Satyr yanked my legs up so I fell into the puddle. The man in front rubbed his piss into my scalp. My Satyr lay on top of me, now humping slowly, his mouth next to my ear. “Suck the piss out of the mattress. This is where I'll keep you.” With slop in my mouth, he flipped me around so we could taste the mixture of piss, cum and ass slime together. I wrapped my legs around my Satyr, pulling him into me. Feeling my inner thigh slide along his hairy legs, my feet gliding down his legs to his feet. Only they weren’t feet, they were hooves, cloven hooves where his feet should have been. “Let me take you,” he growled. “Let me have your body. Surrender to me.” I wrapped my legs against him again, not letting my ass separate from him as I felt his cockhead bulge. He slowed only for a moment to pop one of his huge balls into my canal, then the other. “You take my knot. You need your reward!” A lava of cum scorched out of him. My matted hair, his sagging breasts, his gap tooth gums chewed on my tits. I reach down and felt his dried rutting mat of hair between my legs scrubbing against me like sandpaper over my useless nub. As he flooded me to the point I gushed out between and around his mountainous member, I came with him, limp dick but shaking in orgasmic delight. The scorch of his cum oozed out of my hole, burning its way down my legs. He lay inside me for minutes or maybe it was hours. I couldn’t say. I didn't want him to leave my ass. It was quiet. Everything was bathed in red light. Every so often he would spasm within me. Always hard, always leaking down my leg, I was so filled with him inside me. It would take a long while for us to unwind.