shoreboy

Thanks guys. I’m working on another chapter, it just might take a while, but i appreciate the nudges.

6. Moons of Mars Reznor felt Tommy over-prepared for a simple overnight camping trip. He might reconsider this opinion since one of the many things Tommy brought, a pocket knife, has been in use ever since Reznor was dragged into Frank’s trailer. Tommy’s been prying a board off the back of the woodshed for twenty minutes. So far he’s managed to get off a nail at the top and one at the bottom. When he sees Reznor unconscious and dragged back out of the trailer by MAGA-hat man and wispy ponytail guy, he picks up the urgency of getting off the other bottom nail. His shaking hand makes him cut himself, which makes the pocket knife slippery, but after several failed attempts, he gets the second bottom nail wedged loose. The plank doesn’t come all the way off, but it’s enough to be able to push the plank to the side. It’s barely enough space for him to wiggle through, but because of his compact size he escapes. Back in the open air, he peers around the woodshed. Reznor’s naked strung up by his arms. He sees the big bear of a man, Frank, return. He’s in Reznor’s face threatening him with a chainsaw between his legs. He can’t hear what Frank’s saying because of all the noise from the chainsaw, but abruptly Frank’s screams at Reznor for him to answer him if he remembers his question. The chainsaw idles softly as Frank waits for an answer. “Yes, I remember … the question,” Reznor manages to get out. Each word muttered is painful, but Tommy recognizes a familiar, sarcastic glint in Reznor’s eye. “I’ll take ‘What is drawn and quartered’ … for a thousand, Alex.” Frank threatens Reznor with another rev of the chainsaw. “Mm-kay, Mm-kay.” Reznor spits a wad of bloody saliva on the ground. His head bobs forward and back, while Frank revs the chainsaw to encourage Reznor to continue. Reznor is one horrible, bloody mess. It’s not helping Reznor for Tommy to watch this scene from the shadows, so he scampers off to search for anything that might free his friend. Reznor raises his head looking into Frank’s dark eyes. “Drawn and quartered. A man gets each limb tied to four horses.” Reznor’s legs give out. He hangs only by his arms. “And the horses pull off his limbs in four directions.” Bloody drool strings from his mouth. “Right you are,” says Frank. “But since we don’t have no horses, I’m left with this quandary. What to do? And then it hits me. I’ll saw off each one of your limbs, tourniquet you, cauterize you, till you’re just one stumpy torso. Then I’m going to keep your torso permanently on my bed and fuck you till you—“ “Frank, that’s enough!” Dougie, pulling on his goatee, protests. “For fuck sake, you already scared the piss out of the kid.” One of the camo guys steps forward, goes, “Yeah, Frank. Fun’s fun, but you take it too far, man.” Frank’s eyebrows raise defensively. “You agree, Cosmo?” The other camo guy says, “Yeah, I agree with Vic, Frank. Look at him hangin’ there. You think he’s gonna talk?” “What about you, Lewis?” Grey ponytail guy steps forward. “I think he’ll turn on you, Frank. He’s got every reason to turn you in.” House jumps out of the bushes, fists ponytail guy’s head, sending him to the dirt. Reynold’s is right beside House filming Frank, the camo guys, Dougie, and Lewis on the ground. “Back off!” House shouts at Frank. He doesn’t have Frank’s girth (or chainsaw), but he out-matches the big bear in height and brawn. Now that he’s close enough to see what he’s done to Reznor, he’s fucking pissed as hell, too. “Now! Back. The fuck. Off!” Steve Reynolds holds up his phone. “You’ll all be wanted by morning. Just have to hit send. Best thing would be to let him go.” Frank revs the chainsaw again. “Or what, pretty boy?” He revs the blades, grounds his stance preparing to send the spinning teeth up through Reznor’s caged balls. “You gonna shoot me with your iPhone?” Reznor looks up a final time at his assailant. He prays his end is quick. He looks into Frank’s eyes. His last sight on Earth. “Nope.” Tommy aims a rifle. “Gonna shoot you with a gun.” Abruptly Frank’s face, in a split second, becomes a plume of blood and brains exploding out of his head. The head bursts like a watermelon covering Reznor’s face and body with the man’s detritus. The remnant body that once was Frank, no longer includes a head. Bits of skull, teeth, tongue, eyes—slap Reznor’s face; steaming gore drips to the ground. Reznor watches as it takes a surreal couple of seconds for Frank’s body to realize it has no brains before it tumbles in a heap to the ground. The chainsaw sputters in the dirt, then grinds to a halt. Everyone looks to the top step of Frank’s trailer where the shot rang out. Tommy eyes the remaining men around the camp not lowering the rifle but swinging the muzzle back and forth. The far trailer door bursts open and Micky-G steps out holding frantically barking pit bulls. “What the hell is all this hullabaloo?” Micky-G yanks back his dogs. Headlights flood the scene as a beat-up red pickup rolls up to the trailers. Waldo leaps out of the back and trots over, jumping playfully on top of the two pit bulls and excitedly sniffs their rear ends. Kyle and Jacob get out of the cab trying to make sense of what’s occurred. In the headlights, House and Reynolds are cutting Reznor down. “Fuckin’ hell!” Kyle says running over to Reznor. He takes off his jacket and wraps it over Reznor’s shoulders. Shamus steps out of the shadows adjusting his cap then gives Lewis a hand up. Lewis feebly tries to tell Reynolds that he didn’t he meant it about not letting his friend go. “Nah,” Lewis wheedles, “I was trying to buy some time for Frank to come to his senses.” “The fuck you were, asshole,” Reynolds fires back. “Yours is the only photo I didn’t delete. If I were you, I’d crawl back to whatever backwoods hole you came out of.” House takes the kerchief off his neck and wipes Reznor’s bloody face. “Cops I’m sure will know who you are.” “And where you live,” says Tommy, coming off trailer steps, slinging the gun strap over his shoulder. “Maybe you’ll get a day’s head start,” says Reynolds. Tommy adds, “If you’re lucky.” “But I wouldn’t count on it.” House comes up to the guy and shoves him into the shadows, with Shamus trailing after him out of camp. “Cosmo, Vic, Dougie,” Jacob says, crossing over to them. “You let him rape a kid? What’s your wife and kids gonna think about you?” “No!” The three men are panicked, trying to explain themselves all at once. Excuses fly: things got out of hand; it was just supposed to be to scare the kid; how were they to know Franks was tweaked; they saved the kid from being beaten to death, didn’t they? Jacob’s not buying any of it, and they argue all talking over each another, pleading with Jacob that they’ll take care of the body; that they never saw any of these boys in camp. Cosmo suggests, “Maybe Frank had a hunting accident.” “No one’s seen him for a while,” proposes Vic. “A bear might have got him,” Dougie adds. Vic advises Jacob to get the boys out of here. Everyone nods in agreement. “We’ll right this mess,” Vic says. “Kyle!” shouts Micky-G. “Get your damn dog off Trixie. She’s in heat.” Waldo’s humping the brown and white pit bull having the time of his life. “You’re responsible if there’s a litter, I’m telling you that right now, dammit.” *** Reznor sits silently between me and Jacob on the drive to my house. House, Tommy and Reynolds—and a very happy Waldo—ride in the bed of the truck. Jacob says tomorrow he’ll take the boys back to their Prius, but tonight everyone’s spending the night at my house. “That okay with you, buddy?” he says to Reznor. “Huh?” Reznor says, glassy-eyed, his head swaying with the bouncing of the truck over the rough road. We troop into the house, where mom, upset at first seeing one of the boy’s badly beaten, but then snaps into professional nurse mode, attends to Reznor—Band-Aids, iodine, Neosporin. Reznor’s injuries are extensive but are superficial, she says, nothing broken, some bruises but nothing worse. She sends him to the shower, where he steeps for a long time. Privately she tells me he’s pretty traumatized and wants to know why. I give her the PG-version leaving out some of the more gory secondhand details Tommy and Reynolds provided. Frank’s dead, I tell her. That little guy Tommy shot him. Good for him, she says. Frank always was an evil piece of shit. Mom! I say. Language. After his shower I see mom’s right about Reznor being traumatized; he barely speaks, which is totally un-Reznor. While she finishes patching up his face in the bathroom, me, Jacob and the other guys want to know how Tommy pulled off the shot. Tommy says he took the Ruger rifle out of Frank’s bedroom, one he was familiar with from hunting with his dad. He felt bad about how it splattered Reznor in the face, but he couldn’t see any way around it. He didn’t say anything about killing a man, and we didn’t ask. We all-too-quickly moved on to praising his smarts, bravery and marksmanship. We put the subject to bed when mom and Reznor come back in. Ultimately, mom is a mom, and isn’t satisfied until everyone’s had grilled cheese sandwiches and is sitting with hot cocoa in front of the wood stove. After midnight the guys get sleepy and crash in the living room. House has his sleeping bag laid out on the couch, Reynolds is scrunched up on the love seat, and Tommy’s happy curled up with Waldo on the shag carpet. In the darkness of my bedroom, I’m looking at the luminescent stars I’ve had forever on my ceiling. Reznor’s in the other twin bed in my room. He hasn’t spoken since Frank was shot, when House and Reynolds cut him down. Just let him be, is my mom’s advice, before she and Jacob went off to his trailer. I think he’s fallen asleep, and I’m just about to myself when I hear a very hoarse voice say, “I can’t believe you have glow-in-the-dark decals on you ceiling. What are you, Dupree? Nine?” I try not to get all defensive; this is Reznor after all, and I gotta be nice to him. “They’re educational. And they’re highly accurate,” I tell him. “Look. There’s Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, and the bright one in the little dipper’s tail is Polaris, the North Star.” He thinks about this for a second, takes in the vast array of stars on my ceiling. “Yawl are a fuckin’ freak.” At least a little of the ornery Raznor’s back. I lie shirtless with my arms behind my head. Unlike the dorm, my old trailer is warm. I can smell my pits and they’re pretty rank. We’re in the dark but Reznor’s outlined by the moon streaming in through the window. His blond hair appears blue in this light. After a long time laying on his back looking at my stars, he says, “I’ll bet you still have your teddy bear,” he says. I see his eyes are wide open staring up. “That’s what Waldo’s for.” Another span of time passes. An idea occurs to me. “I bet,” I say, breaking the silence, “that you never had a teddy bear. That’s what’s wrong with you, Reznor. Lack of stuffed animal bonding at an early age.” His response surprises me. “Yawl right ‘bout that. No teddy bear.” He grunts trying to put his arms above his head. He eventually manages to lace his fingers, and is mirroring me in his bed. “But I did have me a black Scotty dog. Use to drag it with me everywhere.” “Did it have a name?” “Yeah. Scotty.” We both chuckle. Reznor exhales, and then turns on his side. Groans. He lets an arm hang off his bed, trailing a finger over my linoleum floor. “It had red buttons for eyes. I pulled one of the button eyes off by accident one time. I would not be consoled until my sweet old nanny sewed it back on. I was worried I had permanently damaged Scotty’s eyesight but nanny assured me he could see just fine. My father took him away shortly after that. Said I was too old for it. I was seven. Second grade.” Of all people, I’m surprised I like sharing the room with Reznor tonight. Drake hasn’t talked to me much since that first night in back of the library. But this guy, who I think of mostly as a dick, there’s something I like about his Scotty dog story. Maybe it’s knowing what he went through tonight; or maybe—and I’m just spit-balling here—there’s an attraction we both don’t want to admit to, and it’s easier to just punch each other in the face then act on it. I don’t know, I’m not a psych major. “When I was seven,” I tell him, “my dad put up these decals on the ceiling. One of the last things he did. He loved looking at the stars. That’s his telescope in the corner. Story time with him was always about planets and constellation. All the stories that came from the sky.” Reznor props himself up on an elbow and looks at the telescope by the window. “What happened to him?” “Cancer.” I look at his work above me. “During hospice, whenever he had the energy, he’d get on a ladder and add on to it. Made the sky exactly as I’d see it every September first, he told me, my birthday.” “Stars don’t stay in one place,” Raznor says. “Sure they do. Once a year. It’s like Earth’s this merry-go-round, and if you choose a spot, choose one day, every year when you get back to it, all the stars will line up exactly as they were the year before. So those stars up there, they’re the same stars that appear every first day of September. Forever and always. Even long after we’re not here to look at them.” Reznor lays back down and looks up at the glowing dots. “Crazy.” “Word.” I point straight above us at a constellation. “Pegasus dominates the summer sky.” “I don’t see it.” “Sure. It’s upside down.” I throw off my blankets and flip my head to the end of the bed, so I see it right side up. “There, that bright star there is his nose. That square, those four stars, are his flank—where the wings come from. And those stars are his forward legs flying into the air.” Reznor flips off his bedding and struggles to get his head at the end of the bed, too. Once he settles, he contemplates it for a while. “Okay. I guess I see it. Where’s it back legs?” “No back legs.” “See, that’s what I hate about this shit. People just make up whatever they want to see. No logic in it.” “Yep. No logic to it.” I put my arms again behind my head. “People always make up what they want to see, what they want to believe.” “Did your dad put in planets too?” he wants to know. “I think I see Saturn. And that red one?” “Yep. That red dot right in the corner, that’s Mars—god of war.” I point above his bed where the ceiling hits the wall. “If you stare long enough, you can see two moons. Phobos and Deimos. Means fear and dread in Greek. They were Mars’ sons, fear and dread. Took ‘em to every battle, which makes sense for the god of war, right?.” “Dupree, yawl have too much stuff in your head.” I look over at him. “I would not disagree with you.” It’s nice having him in my room. “You a virgin.” He snorts. He’s propped up again on an elbow facing me. “Virgo, the virgin if you’re born September first.” I flip on my elbow to look back. In just his boxers the contours of his body are amazing. Such deep shadows define his pecs and his abs. I’m trying not to get too caught up in what a defined body he has, trying to ignore a little stirring down below. It’s funny cuz we’re in the pool in speedos all the time, and I’ve been able to tuck that little tidbit onto a back-burner brain cell—so I’m not sure why it’s now being put on the front-burner. Adjusting myself nonchalantly, I flip on my back and ask him when's his birthday? He says February third. “Aquarius. The water bearer,” I say, pointing to the constellation over my bed. “There you are, right above Pegasus.” “Stupid sign. Water bearer. What’s that even mean? What am I, a waiter? Would yawl like sparkling or tap this evening.” He cracks me up. I hear snoring coming through my bedroom door from the living room, so I keep my voice low. “No, he’s a great sign. He’s the famous Ganymede, Jupiter’s largest moon, the largest moon actually in the entire solar system—there, see it next to Jupiter? And also Zeus’ young lover.” “Shut up.” “No, seriously. He was the most beautiful mortal Zeus had ever laid eyes on. Born royalty, the son of the king of Troy, Zeus falls in love with him and snatches him to Olympus for himself. Poured his wine, a most honored position on Mount Olympus. Pissed his wife off, but she got plenty on the side, so both of them were happy gods.” “You’re saying Zeus was gay?” “Well, bi, but he’s just a made up story. But it gave legitimacy to men loving men back in the day. These stories have been around as long as the Bible, Christianity, Buddhism, Islam—you name it. It’s all stories we tell ourselves to explain ourselves to ourselves.” “Except the Bible is true.” “If you say so.” I know not to get into it with Reznor about religion. We had this fight in the dining hall many times. “Anyway, worse thing than being the most beautiful boy that the king of the gods takes a shining to and immortalizes in the night sky.” I didn't see when it started, but Reznor’s silently shaking on the bed. He’s crying and trying not to cry at the same time, which makes his sob worse. He sits up with his face in his hands ashamed. “Hey, what is it?” I ask, sitting up myself. He looks at me in with an angry and anguished face. “Or a fat hillbilly snatches you off and fucks you silly in his trailer.” He looks at me defiantly and adds, “And maybe you like it.” I’m across from him, our knees are almost touching. I put a hand on his leg. “Knocked it off,” he says in a raspy voice, flicking my hand away. I can see his face is streaming tears now, no sobs, just tears trailing over his cheeks. I switch beds and sit next to him. “Leave me alone.” I put my arm around him regardless of his protests. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “Why are you sorry? Yawl didn’t fuck me or hit me or try to cut me in half with a chainsaw. Yawl weren’t the one that saw his face explode or told all these fucked up things he was going to do. It’s shit I can’t un-hear or un-see, Dupree.” “Tell me what you saw.” “What my life was going to turn into. Maybe it was the drugs they gave me, but as he was telling it to me I saw it like it was real, was already my life. Like, he was going to keep me fucked up on meth, and fuck me all the time, and give me a cunt. And you know the most fucked up part?” I shrug, rubbing his back, encouraging him to let it out. “Part of me wanted it—wanted to run away from my life and be his meth whore. Isn’t that fucked up?” “Nah, it isn’t.” “This big hairy man was going to keep me as his personal slave—be his, what’d you call him—his Ganymede. I’d be his sex toy. And I couldn’t do anything about it. He was going to fist me every day until I had a gaping pussy. He was going to beat me raw if I didn’t obey his every word. And it’s so fucked up but part of me liked it. Wanted it. To have a real life physically-abusive daddy, not the psychologically-abusive one I got right now. I’ve been to enough shrinks to know how fucked up I am, Dupree. Even now, my dick wants to get hard when I talk about it.” He takes my hand and makes me feel his metal cage. He’s leaking in his boxers. And for fuck sake, I can’t help it, but a bulge is rising in my gym shorts once he put my hand on his crotch. Reznor notices, too. His head snaps up, seeing my shorts rise. “What the fuck, man?” he says alarmed. “Where’s yawl’s cage.” He grabs my growing erection. I hold up a finger to my lips to bring his voice down. “I only wear it at school when I have to. It’s a crumby little lock. Easy enough to pick.” “Get mine off,” he says. I hesitate. “Please, or I’ll tell everyone and then you’ll be off the team.” “You’re blackmailing me?” “If I have to.” “Reznor, given what you’ve been through, you’re still a dick.” I frown. Quietly I slip into the bathroom and grab a bobby pin. When I get back he’s slipped off his boxers, and looking at his hard body, outlined by a full moon in my window, it only gets my dick tenting even more in my shorts. “Hurry,” he says, desperately clutching himself, like he urgently has to take a piss. “You’ve had this on for months. Chill,” I say. “Dupree,” he says, like the cage is burning him, “get it off.” I kneel between his legs. It takes ten second for me to fiddle with the lock before its open. Another two second for Reznor to pull off the top casing and the ring around his balls. And there it is. His beautify penis. I have to say, Reznor’s got one of the most phenomenal members I have ever seen. Once the chastity device is off, it’s immediately hard, like one of those self-inflating rafts. It’s thick, cut, with a perfectly formed large, mushroom head. There’s little in the way of veins except a thick ridge on top right down the middle. Since I’m kneeling in front of him like I’m worshiping it, there’s nothing to do but actually worship it. My mouth does down all the way in one go to the root. “Ah, shit,” he pants. I look up at him with my tongue hanging out—he’s gritting his teeth with a look of relief I’ve never seen him express—and go back down on his shaft. He’s shuddering with pleasure. I never thought this would happen, but there you go—life always throws the unexpected at you. Which is why I’m not too surprised when he pulls me up on his bed, and spreads his legs. Two choices present itself: fuck him or rim him. I spread his bruised cheeks and lick his asshole. His breath catches in his throat, and he looks at me astonished. I dig my tongue in his hole and he tries to suppress a moan as best he can. I pull his ass lips apart and penetrate deeper. He pushes up my head to look at me. “That’s where I shit, man,” he says, in excited disbelief. “Yeah, and I was just sucking where your piss comes out.” I tell him. “Body parts can multitask, or didn’t you know that?” He answers by pushing my head back between his legs. Aside from his tight body, he’s got a glorious, sweet puckered hole. It’s so tight but winking madly. I swear his lips are kissing mine, both of us intensely responding to each other. I swirl my tongue around and into his hole, and he’s rotating his hips because of it. I give his hole a variety of rimming techniques. I flatten my tongue and give him a long, wet lap—which I can tell his hole loves by flaring out—then drill inside him with a pointed tip and flicker it till he gasps some more. “Push out,” I encourage him. He does and his hole opens like a tiny, budding flower. I take advantage and pull those petals apart, and dive inside him much deeper where the pink petals turn to a deep red well. I’ve had many teachers, most of the older men from the lake, who have over the years shared their rimming knowledge with me, and I love sharing that now with Reznor. “It doesn’t have to hurt,” I tell him looking over his luscious balls. I lick them, too. Pop one testicle in my mouth, then the other. He gives me a rare Reznor smile, albeit one that’s extremely filthy. He pushes my head back down wanting me to eat his hole more. The boy knows what he wants. He’s relaxed and it’s easy to ply his ass lips farther apart with two fingers. My tongue run three-sixty clockwise around the inside of his hole, then in reverse. I drool and push the saliva inside him, twirl my middle finger in deep until I feel his prostate. I rub it till his excited as hell, in full heat. I love playing with his body; everything's new to him. He’s drawing in breaths excitedly and I know he’s primed for cock, specifically, my cock. I reach into the nightstand between the beds and pull out my lube. I slip out of my gym shorts springing my woody, grease my pole and tenderly slick up his hole. Slowly I plunge headlong into the warmest, softest hole you can imagine. He is so wet, wanting to be fucked. There’s nothing forced. His ass lips flare as my cock penetrates him, pushing back my foreskin feeling my cockhead burrow into his hole. His libido matches mine—I want to fuck him and he so wants to be fucked. His eyes are closed and I don’t mind just looking at his features as I slide inch by inch inside him. His full lips peel apart in astonishment, revealing his bright teeth reflected in the cool moonlight. The scruff of his chin for the first time I find attractive, feel it with my fingers, gather it in my mouth, as I’m stroke my cock with his velvety sphincter. Within his body he’s clutching me tightly, but his hips rock so that I know he wants more of me. I reply with three-quarters of my cock enjoying the last few inches of opening him up. His eyes flash, encouraging me to go on all the way. As I grind my hips, swirling my cock to stir his colon, he reaches up, grabs my hand. He flings my hand across his face, smacks himself with my palm. Hard. It startles me, this thunderclap across his face. Reznor looks at me to see my reaction. I guess I’m more puzzled than anything. I want to pleasure myself in his ass not cause him harm. But as I’m fucking him down to my balls, he takes my hands and places them around his neck. “Please,” is all he says. I’m not sure what to do. I put my hands on either side of his face, but he grabs my wrists and puts my hands back on his neck. As I fuck him, I gently squeeze his neck, my thumbs at his windpipe. “Harder,” he rasps. I keep fucking his hole and, I knows it’s perverse, but my hands at his throat gets me leaking inside him. His hole is extra wet now, more slippery than before. This increased lubrication intensifies the pleasure I feel in my cockhead. My shaft is slick. I fuck him harder. I tighten my grip. Reznor’s face begins to turn red. “Hurt me, Kyle,” he gasps. He’s starts stroking his erect cock. The harder I squeeze my hands around him the faster he strokes. He nods his head as he looks pleadingly in my eyes. I choke him in earnest, seeing his face turn purple, his eyes bulging. And as fucked up as that is, I can’t stop myself from fucking him harder, and feel him shooting hot ropes of cum onto my chest, which makes me cum, hard, inside him. I hold his neck in my hands, shaking, until his eyes go blank. I release my stranglehold and he heaves hoarsely for breath. His hands reach up and grab my shoulders as he stares up at the ceiling. He’s not with me. There’s a shell of a person my cock is inside of, but Raznor’s somewhere else. It takes a moment for his breathing to coming back to normal, his eye to glow alive again. He keeps hold of my shoulders, squints his eyes with intense concentration. He whispers, “I see it.” I look at his face, then over my shoulder to see what he’s looking at. My cock oozes out of him, and I feel a small flood of my sperm dribble out. His eyes are fixed in the corner of the room. “Fear and dread,” he says, dazed, staring at Mars. “Fear and dread,” I echo.

Speaking of Raznor, exactly to that end, @tampahole , here's chapter 6.

Got to imagine Coach has some secrets he wouldn’t want exposed. First, though, some loose ends to tie up.

Thank you @Pozitivly

5. The Boys Go Camping The four of them stand roughly in a diamond formation. Tommy’s in front since he’s the smallest; Reznor, in hiking shorts and sporting a black eye, is in back of him on the left; Steve Reynolds’ on the right (the one holding up his phone to take the picture); then House, being the biggest, stands in the back. Tommy’s the only one smiling from ear to ear because they included him on their camping trip. The others are serious, mostly because they’re out of breath from the hike’s last mile which was entirely uphill. Tommy has, Reznor is beginning to realize, infinite, annoying energy—or so it seems the way Reznor’s looking at him in the photo. You can see in background, behind the four of them, the Appalachian Trail is at its peak fall colors this Columbus Day weekend—or Indigenous Peoples Day as it’s billed at school. (FYI: Kyle Dupree had a knockdown, all out fist fight with Marlon Reznor in the locker room the previous Thursday over the name of the holiday. Dupree—Team Indigenous Peoples—ended up with a bloody lip; Reznor—Team Columbus—a black left eye.) The cloudless blue dome lights up the silver birch’s gold and yellow leaves, while the sugar maples are at their most intense oranges and reds. The evergreens—firs, blue spruces and hemlock pines—provide the dark green contrast that set off the dying forest’s leaves giving them such intense luminosity. The boys’ brightly colored down jackets also add a dazzling array of color to the photo, so say many of the commenters on Steve Reynolds’ Instagram account. At the summit that provides the group a full 360 degree panorama of autumn colors, Reznor stops, his palms on his knees, bent over, catching his breath. “Yawl go ahead. I gotta stop here for a second.” Tommy in the lead, followed by Reynolds and House, stop and wait against some boulders. They let their backpacks ease up on the rocks. In between breaths, Reznor adds, “Whose goldarn idea was this anyway?” Steve Reynold holds up his phone checking for signal bars. “Did you actually just use goldarn in a sentence?” he laughs, taking off his New England Patriots cap to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “Fuck off, Reynolds.” Reznor pulls off his backpack and sets it on the ground. “We should just set up camp here.” “Um, no,” Tommy informs him, with as little sarcasm as he dares against the group’s alpha, “because we’re still on the trail, and on the side of a mountain?” House unknots the red kerchief around his neck and wipe the sweat from his brow. “You wanna fall into that ravine in the middle of the night taking a piss?” Reznor looks over the edge of the hiking trail at the river below. “Well, how much farther?” “Maybe a mile?” Tommy guesses. He looks across at all the burnished leave covering the hillsides and sees the sun is quickly on its decent. “Not too far, but we should get going.” Reznor huffs pulling on his pack. “Well, let’s go then.” They hike down to a level glade where Tommy hops over rocks on a wet part of the trail. The rest of them follow, hopping rock to rock. True to his word, a mile down the trail there’s a camp with a lean-to. They all unload their packs in the structure. House immediately starts gathering firewood. Tommy takes out a cooking pot and their freeze dried dinner, while Reznor lies against his pack in the lean-to, arms crossed behind his head. Steve Reynolds takes a selfie and then snaps a few more of the camp and his teammates. Everyone’s smiling in these, even Reznor. It’s peacefully quiet. A few birds chirp in the branches of the colorful forest. House occasionally breaks the silence with a violent snap of wood across his knee. Tommy looks around contented, mixing water from his canteen into the chicken mac and cheese he brought for everyone. Reznor’s picking out M&Ms from his trail mix. Reynolds and House are being pyros seeing how big of a fire they can make. After it dies down, Tommy heats up their meal, then divides it into four bowls. Reznor doesn’t like it and goes back to his trail mix, but House loves it and scarfs down Reznor’s portion. After dinner, sitting around the fire, a young red fox runs through the camp startling everyone. Reynolds’ pissed he didn’t have his phone out, but it’s all the rest of them can talk about till the sun goes down. Reznor pulls out a bottle of Jack Daniels and passes it around. Tommy gets drunk quickly and passes out in the lean-to on top of his sleeping bag. “Lightweight,” says Reznor. “Give it a rest,” House tells him. “He did good getting us here today.” Reznor looks at him in the campfire light. “I think there could have been an easier climb, is what I’m sayin’. Seems to me we did a lot more uphills than was necessary.” Reynolds takes a swig and passes the bottle to House. “As happy as I am on this trip,” Reynolds says, “I still feel bad for St. Anthony’s. Terrible reason to cancel a game because some of the team ends up in the hospital.” House grunts in agreement, and passes Reznor the bottle. Reynolds goes on: “I knew one of the guys that O.D.’d. Barclay. We went to the same Jersey summer camp when we were kids.” “Gave us a free weekend, didn’t it?” reasons Reznor. “Anyway, what kind of dealer laces coke with fentanyl? You gotta know your dealer. I heard he was just some random dude that someone knew that someone knew.” A branch cracks in the dark beyond the campfire. “What was that?” House jumps up with a stick. “Don’t yawl worry, big guy,” says Reznor. He starts to stand but wavers, deciding it’s better to keep close to the ground. “If that mister fox comes back to attack yawl, I’ll get him with this here bottle.” Reynolds snorts and leans back on his elbows. Looking up, clouds obscure the stars. He lays all the way back, watching the campfire light up the trees above where leaves flutter like a million dark butterflies. It only takes a minutes before he’s snoring in the dirt. “Probably good idea to get to the sleeping bag,” says House. He stumbles into the lean-to and passes out before he finishes unlacing his boots. Reznor watches the fire die with his back up against the lean-to’s deck. He hugs his bare knees for warmth, strokes the sparse strands of hair on his chin. A dimple emerges. There’s a rare hint of contentment to his smile, a subtle slip of his smug mask behind which most people never see. It’s not too much longer before the campfire is just red embers illuminating his unlined face. The coals blur. His eyes close. Tommy’s the first one up, too energetic for Reznor to deal with. He opens only one eye, not remembering how he made it to his sleeping bag. He watches Tommy bouncing around camp, gathering wood, building a small fire, mixing freeze dried eggs (the very thought makes him ill), and waits for someone else to get up. Reznor closes his one eye and turns over. House and Reynolds stir, and Tommy’s has instant coffee ready for them. There’s sugar and powdered milk if they want, he tells them. Reynolds tousles his hair and House grunts his appreciation as they accepts their steaming cups. Neither wants to talk until they have some caffeine in their system. After they’ve downed some eggs, they rouse Reznor, who groans half-asleep. “If even one of you even mention eggs, I swear, I will projectile vomit in your general direction.” Reznor does take the coffee, though. “You have redeemed yourself in my eyes, sir.” Tommy’s smile is so big it looks like his head’s about to split in half. After they break camp, Reznor says he’ll guide them back to the car. He’s sure he knows a faster way, he says, which won’t have as much climbing. The three others exchange dubious looks, but follow him down a path to the river. It’s somewhere around noon they realize they have no idea where they are. The sky’s overcast so they can’t get a fix from the sun which direction would point them to the trailhead. Reznor refuses to backtrack the way they came all morning since that would mean they’d be going back uphill. Besides, Reznor tells them, he’s sure all they have to do is follow the river and it’ll come out by Reynold's Prius. Tommy keeps his mouth shut but he’s pretty sure it’s a different river than the one they hiked along yesterday. By four o’clock, the sun’s broken through the clouds very low on the horizon. No one will say it, but they’re a little panicked. Reynolds suggests they make a fire to sleep around, then tomorrow go back the way they came. Reznor swears they’re close to the trailhead and convinces them to soldier on for one more hour. After the sun sets behind the mountain, dusk arrives quickly. In the gloom of the forest, crickets chirp in every direction. As night engulfs the four boys, the trail abruptly ends on a backcountry road. They hear men talking and yucking it up about twenty yards down the road. Four trailers, roughly in a square, are on the road’s far side. The boys pass some mud-caked trucks and a few old jeeps, gun racks and rifles in every vehicle. They peek around a trailer where a party seems to be going on. In the middle of the trailers there’s a campfire with a group of men in lawn chairs, sitting back, drinking clear liquid out of glass canning jars. The four boys look at each other. Reznor breaks off and comes up to the group of men. “Yawl excuse me, gentlemen.” The group is spooked by the unexpected appearance of an outsider. They lean forward in the chair staring at Reznor. He forces a smile. “My boys and I seem to have gotten lost and we were wondering if you could kindly tell us where we might have ended up.” Reznor counts nine men and two pit bulls that are growling. The lawn chair guys look at him with raised eyebrows. The pit bulls continue to snarl. “You hush.” One of the men with a scraggly grey beard yanks the leash he holds on the dogs. “Lost you say? You sound like a southerner boy.” “Yes, sir. That ah am.” Reznor really leans into his accent hoping to break the ice. “Micky-G,” a guy with a bowl haircut says to the scraggly bearded man. He’s got a very bushy, dark goatee that he strokes as he speaks. “Ask him what a southern boy’s doing this far up north? Boy must be wicked lost.” Some lawn chair guys chuckle, clanging glass jars on their aluminum armrests. “Well, sir,” Reznor says to the goateed man, “Ah attend Glastonbury College—that’d be a drive, I reckon, two hours south of here—but ma’ roots are from the Appalachian Mountains in the glorious state of Tennessee.” (Never mind Reznor’s from the swanky town of Belle Meade outside Nashville, and whose father is part owner of the Percy Warner Country Club.) The bushy goateed man’s eyes widen, impressed. “Yes, sir-ree,” Reznor goes on, “ma’ little dirt-spit of a town had a one room schoolhouse and ma’ teacher from first grade through high school was one Mrs. Irene Duckworth, and she took a shine to me from ma’ very first day. Made sure I had a scholarship the day I got my diploma. Her only stipulation being that I hightail it up north to one of those New England colleges she used to dream about. Bless-ed lady.” “Hey, Shamus,” calls out a younger guy with overlapping triple chins. He leans forward and his aluminum chair painfully squeaks. “Didn’t your Betsy have a Mrs. Duckworth at Willard Hollow Elementary?” Shamus, in a red MAGA cap, nods, and says, “Indeed she did. You, Furball, have quite the memory.” Reznor gulps. Having lifted so much of his fictional story out of Kyle Dupree’s real life, he hopes the tale he spinning isn’t overly familiar to this crowd. “’Cept that Mrs. Duckworth,” says red cap Shamus, “was an Ar-lene not I-rene as I recall. Hey, you fellas,” MAGA cap says to the three boys hovering a ways away. “Come on over here by the fire so we can get a better look at cha.” House leads the way, with Reynolds and Tommy trailing in his shadow. The old scraggly bearded guy, Micky-G, looks from House to Tommy, goes, “Well, now, you have got to be as big as he is small. How big you say you was fella?” House looks around the lawn chair men. “Uh, six foot seven.” “Yes, sir,” interjects Reznor, feeling he’s won over this crowd. “It’s why we call him house.” “Now why’s that, boy?” asks Shamus, pushing up his MAGA cap. “Um,” says Reznor, forcing himself to not roll his eyes. “Because he’s as big as one.” Shamus looks at Reznor confused. “Big as one what?” “I’m called House,” explains House, simply, “because I’m as big as a house.” Shamus takes a beat, then explodes into phlegmatic laughter. The other men rock in their lawn chairs laughing, too. A couple of them slap their thighs. “Big as a house!” repeats Shamus, before he hocks a loogie in the dirt. Reynold unobtrusively raises his camera, snaps a pic of these characters and, seeing he’s got a signal, posts it to his account. Under his breath he quietly sings the beginning of the Deliverance banjo song to House and Tommy: “Dum-du-dah-duh-dah-duh-dah-duh-dum…” Reznor gives him a warning glare. “What’s that now?” a big bear of a man sporting a full black beard asks Reynolds. He’s at the far end of the circle, darkly outline beyond the campfire. “Was you singing the hillbilly song from that old movie?” “No, sir. I definitely was not singing the hillbilly song from that old movie,” Reynold says, pocketing his phone. “I question that, boy,” says the bear, leaning forward into the firelight. The top of his head is bald, but there’s a horseshoe of long black hair that hangs down to his shoulders. There’s an evil glint in his eye when he tells Reynolds, “You sure got a purty mouth.” Some of the lawn chair guys chuckle ominously. “That ring a bell? Tommy jumps in all friendly smiles. “We were just hoping you guys could just point us in the right direction. Like maybe where does that road go to?” He points to the road they came from. “Could we just follow it into some town? Hopefully one that’s close by?” A man with grey, wispy hair in a ponytail, set down his drink, and gets out of his chair. “Fellas,” he says to the circle. “I think these boys either come for our moonshine or our meth. Either way, I don’t think we outta let ‘em leave.” The lawn chair men rise and start humming darkly the dueling banjo song they seem to be all too familiar with: “Dum-du-dah-duh-dah-duh-dah-duh-dum…” The four boys look at one another, then tear off down the road as fast as their hiking boots let them. Reynolds tosses off his backpack and double-times it straight ahead shooting past the others. Three men in camo hunting vests grab House and throw him against a rusted truck. In his struggles his backpack falls off during the melee. Tommy and Reznor right away are picked off by their backpacks, and are struggling as they’re returned to the campfire. Reznor continues trying to banter his way out of this jam. Two guys, ushering him on either side, relieve him of his backpack, then toss him into one of the lawn chairs. Tommy’s thrown into the chair next to him. Both their packs are deposited at their feet. They peer down the road where House punches one of the camo guys, but the other two throw themselves on top of him. It looks from Reznor and Tommy’s vantage point that they’ve got House pinned to the ground. But suddenly the two guys fly straight in the air and House escapes into the woods with the one guy he punched before in hot pursuit. The big bear with the black beard emerges from the shadows and looms over Reznor. He turns to the wispy ponytailed man, whose hair falls every which way after the altercation, and the triple chin young guy who’s never left his chair. “Lewis, Furball—park the little one in the woodshed. I’d like to have a word with my Appalachian buddy.” Furball and Lewis, putting his ponytail back in a hair tie, pluck Tommy up. Tommy toes never touch the ground as they escort him to the woodshed and lock him inside. Reznor’s eyes dart back and forth at the men around his chair. Two of the camo guys stumble in from the road out of breath. Five men and two pit bulls surround Reznor. Not good odds for getting away. Lewis and Furball return making his odds even worse. MAGA capped Shamus steps out of the shadows. “What are we gonna do with him, Frank?” Frank, the large bearded bear, says, “Like I said, we’re gonna start with a few questions, and then we’ll go from there.” Reznor looks around at the gathered men, then at Frank defiantly. “That’s a nice shiner you got, boy. How’d you get it?” Reznor smiles, friendly-like. “Ran into a door.” Frank smacks him with back of his hand hard enough to send him and the chair sideways. Lewis and Shamus bend down and right him. “Let’s start over. Pretend I’m dark Santa,” he tells Reznor. “’I know when you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness sakes.” Reznor rubs his face. “Dark Santa. Got it.” Frank gets down on his haunches, eyes level to Reznor. “You really from Appalachia?” “No. Suburb outside of Nashville.” Frank nods. Smiles. “Dirt poor?” Reznor takes a moment. Frank cocks his head, waiting, his hand rising a bit. “No. Filthy rich.” Frank whacks him again spilling him out of the chair. “Fuck!” Reznor shouts, picking himself up. Furball helps him back into the chair. “What’d’ya do that for? That was the truth!” “Don’t know.” Franks shrugs. “Just felt like it.” He motions to the bushy goatee guy to bring him a chair. Goatee brings one over and Frank plops down in it—knees against Reznor’s. “What’s your name? And you best tell the truth. Dark Santa can tell.” Reznor scowls. “Reznor. Marlon Reznor.” Franks says, “I should whack you just on account of your name.” “Hey, I didn’t name me.” Frank smiles at him, then leans forward and puts his palms on Reznor’s bare thighs. He sniffs. The boy has a pleasant, clean scent—not like anyone from around here. His hands go an uncomfortable distance up Reznor’s shorts. He squeezes the boy’s muscular quads, feels something stir in him. “Now, Marlon, honest injun. You come for Micky-G’s hooch or you come for my top-shelf tina?” “Honest injun, we’re lost. All we want to do is get home.” Reznor’s jaw nervously clenches. He’s praying his eyes aren’t misting in front of this asshole. He’s pissed and scared at the same time, and Frank’s thumb is a hair’s breadth away from his metal cage—the last thing he wants exposed under these circumstances. “You know, Marlon? I actually believe you,” Frank says. “Indeed I do.” He looks around the huddled men. “But you can see we can’t let you leave, now that you know what we got cooking up here.” Reznor’s about to speak, but Frank pulls his hands from Reznor’s shorts, puts a grimy finger to the boy’s lips. “Now don’t say that you’ll never tell, or that you won’t give away our little secret. We’ve heard that before. Some of us even fell for it, ended up doing time because of it. Ain’t that right, Shamus?” MAGA cap says, “Damn straight.” “Ain’t that right, Dougie?” Dougie strokes his dark goatee, says, “Two friggin years, pardon my French.” “Ain’t that right, Micky-G?” “In the eighties, I served eleven months and they destroyed my still anyway, fuckin’ storm troopers,” says Micky-G. He’s brought over a glass jar filled to the brim. He still holds the pit bulls in his other hand. He hands the canning jar to Frank, who politely offers it to Reznor. “What is that,” Reznor says. “A peace offering, Marlon.” “I’ll pass.” “Not a request,” Dougie replies, pulling his goatee. Reznor scans the men around him. Looks at the woodshed containing Tommy. Sees an eyeball looking at him through a knot in the woodshed door. “Give it.” Frank gives him the jar and Reznor sips it. He immediately sprays it on the ground. The men around him laugh. “Smooth, huh?” says Frank, with a sneer. “Good as any Grey Goose in your daddy’s liquor cabinet, I bet. Ten times as butt-kicking. Go on again, ‘less you prefer Santa gives you a piece of coal.” Reznor steels himself, and takes a large swig. It burns all the way down his gullet. He opens his mouth silently, sticks out his tongue then bears his teeth. “Second gulp always goes down better,” Shamus snickers. Frank taps the bottom of the jar. Reznor lifts it to his lips and downs several gulps in a row. After swallowing he wildly shakes his head with his tongue hanging out. The men slow-clap his effort. “You really go to that college?” Dougie asks, as Reznor composes himself. Reznor nods. “C’mon now. Only a little left,” Frank says, pointing to the moonshine. Reznor feels the moonshine starting to impact him. The men double in number as his eyes cross. Maybe he’ll pass out and be out of this nightmare. He lifts the jar and finishes it, but then Shamus is right there, taking a cork out of a jug with his teeth, and refills his glass. “No,” Reznor says, forcing the canning jar on Frank. “I can’t. Nuh-uh. Nope. Negative. Nose-spray-Jose.” The group laughs. “Okay,” Frank says, accepting the jar. He puts his thick finger under Reznor’s chin. “So, Marlon, let me ask you. You really go to that Glastonbury College?” Reznor nods slowly so his brain won’t fall out. Frank goes on, “Kyle Dupree goes there. Know him?” “Besst friends,” Reznor says trying to minimize his slurring. “Team-mate. Good buddy. Gave me this here black eye.” Reznor points to the wrong eye, corrects himself. “This black eye.” He snorts a laugh at his mistake. Lewis pulls on his ponytail, says, “That sounds like our boy.” “Guy’s a douche.” Reznor’s head bobs forward beginning to fade. “Lightweight,” Frank says. To a couple of the men around him, he instructs, “Get him inside and strip him. Once he’s tied to the bed, Lewis, give him a big ol’ booty bump from the last batch. I don’t want to fuck a passed out drunk.” Lewis and Shamus grab Reznor under his arms and take him up the steps into Frank’s trailer. Reynolds and House, having circled back, silently crouch down in the bushes. They watch Frank take sips of Reznor’s rejected moonshine. Macky-G yanks his dogs’ leashes and leads them up the steps of the farthest trailer. House nudges Reynolds as the camo guy he punched comes back into camp. He’s talking to the other two, as Furball waves good night. They hear a truck sputter off. Frank looks at his trailer and throws a piece of firewood into the flames. A cascade of sparks fly up into the black night. He tosses the remains of the moonshine into the fire, where it explodes into a small fireball that poofs back his hair. Slowly he gets out of his chair, and climbs the steps of his trailer. “Who got a point?” Franks calls up into the trailer. Wayne opens the door for him, flips his ponytail. He hands him an orange cap syringe before shutting the door. *** “You catch all that?” House asks Reynolds. Reynolds whispers back, “Afraid so.” House gives him the once over. “Didn’t take you for the heroic rescue type.” Reynold snorts. “I’m not. Came back because this is the only place I get any bars.” Reynolds shows him his phone screen. House considers this. “Well, I’m thinking if we get Tommy out, the three of us can take on the rest of these hicks. Most of them are old or fat, or both.” "Are you nuts, man? They’ve gotta be loaded up the ass with weapons. They gotta fuckin’ meth lab! And this is Vermont, for Christ sake. Live free or die, and all that.” Reynolds scurries away from the bushes deeper into the woods. House mumbles to himself, “That’s New Hampshire, doofus.” He follows the light of the phone. Once he catches up to Reynolds, he’s incredulously. “You’re texting someone, now?” “Hang on.” Reynolds punches in a few numbers. “No. Calling.” After a couple of rings a voice says hello. “Dupree?” “Yes. Who’s this?” A beat. “Steve Reynolds? That you?” “Yes,” he rasps. “Why are you whispering? You’re the last person I’d ever thought I’d hear from.” “Dupree, where are you?” “I came home after the cancelled game. I’m sitting in my bedroom with my dog. To what do I have the privilege of this call?” “We got lost camping and stumbled on this backwoods hillbilly meth lab. And they’re about to rape Reznor.” There’s a long silence. “Dupree, you there?” “Yeah. Waldo, no, we’re not playing ball. Lay down. Good boy. Yeah, well, why call me? Shouldn’t you call the police or something?” “One: we don’t know where we are. Two: they said they know you?” “Who? The hillbilly meth guys?” “Yeah, this big Frank guy, and a Dougie. Who else House?” House whispers into the phone: “Lewis, Shamus, a Micky-G.” “Micky-G? You dopes. You’re at Micky-G’s still? Hoo-wee!” Hysterical laughter erupts from the phone. “You in the deep end of the pool, my friends! Deep doo-doo.” More laughter. “It’s not funny, asshole. Reznor’s about to get raped and Tommy’s probably next. House and I are out near their trailers, but … listen, you gotta get here and talk these bumpkins into letting them go. Stop laughing!” Besides the laughter, there’s barking coming from the phone. Reynolds cover the speaker worried someone’s going to hear it. Finally Kyle returns in a normal voice. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I’ll ask my mom’s boyfriend to take me there. It’ll take a while though. There’s like four trailers together, right?” Reynolds confirms this. “Okay, whatever you do, do not try to stop them. They’ll string you up or shoot you. You do not want to mess with these guys. They might look like yokels, but they’ll drop you like a buck on the first day of deer season. You got it?” “Fuck Dupree. Get here as fast as you can!” Reynolds says. “Hurry,” House adds. There’s three beeps when Reynolds and House hang up. I reach across to the other twin bed in my room and scratch Waldo’s ears. I go in and ask Jacob to drive me to Micky-G and Frank’s camp. ASAP. I’ll explain on the way. He’s down with in, no questions, though my mom’s got plenty of them. I give her the short version saying my teammates got lost and we need to bail them out. So I might have exaggerated how dangerous those guys are. But I know those trailers house enough weapons to arm a small Latin American country. Strangers and guns are a bad mixed in these parts. And if Reznor takes one for the team, well, that’s karmic justice. I’m still kind of pissed at him for the sucker punch he threw. Honestly, those trailer guys are more formidable in a bowling alley than they are in a dark alley. Well, except Frank. Frank’s a special case, especially if he’s been partying. You wanna avoid Frank in that case. True story: One afternoon, Frank slams ‘bout half a gram of his product, and this gigantic brown bear, fresh out of six months hibernation, chooses to stroll into his camp. The bear’s ready to eat anything and everything, and can’t believe there’s this big fat meal standing in front of him. He roars, gets up on his two legs towering over Frank, gonna maul him to death and eat him—no doubt about it. And what does Frank do? Run away? Go get his shotgun? Nope. Frank, amped up as shit, picks up a nearby ax and with an even louder roar than the bear—swear on a stack of bibles—chops the animal right through his skull down to his nether regions, splits the fucker in one fell swoop right in two. Grisliest thing—pardon the pun—you ever did see. Yup, Frank is one bear you do not want to poke. My advice for Reznor: best let him do the poking. I mean, how bad could it be? *** To say Reznor wakes up naked, gagged, tied to a bed, would be incorrect. That’s because he never was exactly asleep, so technically he could never have woken up. Out of it, yes. He still is, but after something cold and wet squirts into his rectum, he’s been agitated ever since. Wired, drunk and now horny as fuck—it’s a weird combo. He pulls on the ropes that have him spread eagle on his stomach. The bare mattress he’s on is piss stained and strongly smells like it. He’s blurry-eyed looking around, straining to make sense of his surroundings. Staring at the wall ahead seems to ground him. Trying not to think about his dick straining against its cage doesn’t help. The faded blue walls at twelve o’clock gradual comes into focus. There’s a woman. It’s an old poster, torn, and tattered. It’s Sarah Palin in a red, white and blue bikini toting a rifle. Next to it is a black and white Dirty Harry movie poster. Clint Eastwood aims a 44 magnum at his head, with the words “Go ahead, make my day” surrounding the weapon. It shouldn’t be much of a surprise, then, that the wall to his right has racks and racks of guns: AK-47s, AR-15s, shotguns, rifles; wood grained, camouflaged, matte black metal. On his left, an open closet door with a chest of drawers inside, the top strewn with an assortment of handguns. He can only guess what fun stuff is inside those drawers. Behind him is the bedroom door, a light switch, and one more poster: a kitten dangling precariously from a rope under the words “Hang in there baby.” Spread eagle naked on a pee-stained mattress surrounded by an armory of firearms, and an inspirational kitten poster: Reznor thinks he must be in some absurdist’s idea of hell. This notion is confirmed when Frank enters the room. In the bright room his eyes are more menacing. He’s shirtless, two full sleeves of tattoos, both tits pierced with doorknockers, and a big belly hanging over his belt. His hair never ceases it seems. His black beard and long black hair meld into the fur that coats his shoulders and, as he closes the door behind him, Reznor sees fur that extends over every inch of his back. So why is Reznor’s dick still swelling painfully looking at this overly hirsute man, a sight that should revolt him? He’s not so deluded as to think his straight. C’mon, that would be crazy. it’s just a subject best put out of mind. In high school the Bible Club was, for lack of a better word, a God send. He enjoyed the girls in the club. They were perfect dating material, and in Tennessee, often the prettiest. Certainly demure, submissive, willing to “hold off” till marriage. The second God send came in the form of Coach Brandon’s required celibacy. It concentrated all those raging hormones on one thing, and one thing only: winning! So far he found he could have it all: he was rich, cool, hip, smart, very handsome, a drop-dead body, killer six-pack abs, a broad chest, chiseled jaw. He’d do him if he could. So why the straining inside his cage for the hairy ape? It’s the booze and drugs they pumped in him, he decides, that’s driving this perverse desire. Frank kneels in back of him on the bed. He slips a hand between Reznor’s legs and rumbles a deep belly laugh as he fondles Reznor’s chastity device. “The boys told me, but I had to see for myself,” Frank says, “you perverted little pig.” He flips Reznor over, which strains Reznor’s limbs as his arms and legs cross over. “And not a hair on you.” He bends over and sucks on one of Reznor’s tits. Reznor struggles, but this causes Frank to more fiercely suck and then to bite his nipple. He runs his tongue under each of Reznor’s smooth arm pits, then down his broad chest and tight abs. Frank grabs the metal cage, speaking to it. “How you doin’ in there, little guy?” He runs a finger along the metal strips, gliding a coarse finger over the area of skin he can touch. It stimulates Reznor and causes him immense discomfort as his prick desperately wants to enlarge but can’t. “Would you look at that? A whole bunch of drool coming out of your little guy. Hate to tell you, bud, but you sprung a bad leak.” He laughs as he runs his thumb over the tip of Reznor’s dick, making Reznor wag his head back and forth in agony. He moans loudly behind the cloth knotted around his head. He bites on the gag, saliva trailing over his cheeks. “Guess I don’t have to give you a reach-around, bud,” Frank says, flipping Reznor back on his stomach. “It’s all about daddy.” Reznor hears Frank’s belt being unbuckled, pants unzipped, boots being kicked in the corner. Naked, Frank’s large, hairy thighs plop next to Reznor’s head. Reznor watches Frank uncaps a needle and sticks it in his arm. There’s an instance of swirling blood in the vial, then Frank flushes a shitload of pure methamphetamine into his body. His head rocks back for a second before he’s suddenly back up on his feet. “Fuck, yeah,” he yells, then smacks Reznor’s ass. “Fuck, yeah. I’m gonna rip your ass till it’s wider than the Grand fucking Canyon.” Reznor feels a wet liquid running down his butt crack. “This works out, I just might keep you as my new pet.” Frank’s knees push Reznor’s legs apart. “Fuck, yeah. Fuck, yeah, make you my whore. That booty bump doing it for you, boy? I can give you more. I could make you good twenty-four seven. Keep you on a leash tied up here in this room. Keep you high and happy the rest of your days. Make you into a slammin’ meth whore. What’d’ya say?” Suddenly, Frank’s cock rams up his ass straight up to his balls. The pain makes Reznor scream, though it’s muffled by the gag. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, that’s good, that’s good, that’s very good,” says Frank as he’s humping him. He fully pulls out so he can fuck Reznor’s ass again and hear him scream. Reznor bites down on the cloth in his mouth, breathing so rapidly he on the verge of hyperventilating. His rag’s overflowing saliva. Frank pulls out leaving just the tip of his fat cockhead in his hole. He teases him, only giving him his cock’s first inch over and over. Franks rushing and caught in this hypnotic, pleasurable loop. It’s got to be the booty bump, because, unbelievably, Reznor’s slowly willing to open up for the man as he teases him. He even starts to crave more than an initial inch. Unable to stop himself, Reznor pushes up just a little of his hole up to Frank. It's too small to see but Frank senses it in his cock, like a cobra senses the smallest movement of a rodent. Reznor’s stops clenching his sphincter for a second, and Frank snaps out of his spell and strikes, his entire cock rams back in up to the hilt of the boy’s hole. Who’s to say the cobra doesn’t enjoy the mouse’s shriek. Again and again, Reznor’s in pain and screeching. Frank laughs, enjoying alternately teasing the boy’s hole then destroying it. “Boy, you’ve had got the sweetest butthole I have ever fucked.” Frank stops momentarily, with his cock fully up Reznor ass. In a conflicted haze, Reznor doesn’t know what to expect, or even what he wants, but he begins feeling heat deep inside his colon. Hot piss starts sputtering out his ass. As Franks relieves himself, he whispers his continual blathering in his ear: “Oh, yeah. Every morning this is how we’ll start. Relieving my morning piss in your sweet little hole. Love this hole. Poz you up. Love your sweet little boy hole. But I’m gonna see that it don’t stay that way. No. You hear me? Yeah,” he says, pumping away inside Reznor’s body. “I want my pussy boy to have a big sloppy man cunt. Big hanging lips. Pull out your innards. Give you a big prolapse. Fuck that prolapse. Eat that prolapse. I know you want that. Don’t you want that, boy?” Reznor’s confused. The meth and moonshine follow these babbling words. His constricted cock wants it, too. But there’s a part of him rejecting, fighting these ideas flowing in his ear. It’s his respectability, his sense of self that has him repeating no through his gag. Frank becomes aware of what Reznor’s saying quietly under his gag. He pulls out and smacks Reznor’s ass hard. “Don’t you contradict me, boy.” He rams his cock back in, pulling up Reznor’s hips so he can rapid-fire fuck him. “Tell me you want it, boy. Tell me you want me to cunt you, ram my foot all the way up your ass, all the way to your fuckin’ throat.” Talking to him like this, Frank is trying to get his cock back as hard as it was. He’s semi-flaccid but still inside Reznor. “Tell daddy what he wants to hear. Tell daddy.” “Fuck! You!” Reznor yells through his gag, his last attempt to cling to his ego. Frank abruptly pulls out. Gets off the bed. Reznor hears him pick up his pants and rip out his belt. Frank then wails on Reznor’s ass, striking him repeatedly. Reznor’s ass is on fire, flailing around the mattress trying to avoid being struck. “Don’t you disrespect me,” he says, repeatedly whipping Reznor. “Don’t. You. Ever. Disrespect. Me!” Each time letting the belt fly, taking chunks out of Reznor’s butt cheeks. In an uncontrollable rage, he screams, “I will fucking kill you if you ever speak to me that way again, you hear me?” He stops belting him. Hysterical crying comes from the mattress. He whips Reznor’s bleeding ass once more to get an answer. “I said, did you hear me?” “Yes, I hear you,” Reznor sobs, as articulate as he can through the wet cloth. The area below his face is drench in tears, drool, and snot. His tortured butt burns. He tries to suppress his sobs but loses the battle. “You going to be good?” Frank asks him, a little calmer now, out of breath. Reznor quickly nods his head, says, “Mm-hm, I’ll be good.” There’s a long silence. No movement, only heavy breathing. Somehow it’s more terror-producing than the beating. He’s not sure what the maniac will do next. But then he feels the rope around one of his ankles untie, then the other. He looks in front of the bed and sees naked Frank, one big coat of black fur, lowering himself until he’s eye to eye. He unties his gag. Reznor sniffs back mucus. “You understand why I beat you?” Frank’s face is all shamefully contrite. He wipes Reznor’s tears with a thumb. “Yes, sir. I understand.” It’s the first time he breathes freely in a while. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but you made me.” Reznor nods, even as silent tears keep flowing. Frank’s all calm reason. “I’m going to untie you, boy, and I want to see proper gratitude from you. You understand what I’m saying,” he says, stroking his hard on. Reznor sniffs again and nods. “Good. All right then.” Frank unbinds his arms. Reznor curls into a ball holding his knees and gently rocks. “Gratitude, I said, boy.” Frank’s on the bed, kneeling next to Reznor’s head, his erection an inch away from Reznor’s mouth. “Show daddy how grateful you are when he shows you mercy.” He brushes his cock against Reznor’s lips. Reznor opens his mouth and accepts Frank’s member. He runs his tongue over his drooling cockhead as Frank keeps pushing it further into his mouth. Lying on his side he sucks the man, as a palm in back of his head pushes him forward, the cock going deeper into his throat until he retches. Frank immediately pulls out and smack Reznor across the face. Reznor curls up again, while Frank verbally rages at him. The slap makes Reznor think faster now. He loudly pleads for forgiveness, realizes he needs to get on the floor, must kneel before Frank. He spreads Frank legs and starts sucking him in earnest, swirling his palm around the man’s fat member and tonguing him deeper and faster. Frank spits up pre-cum like a geyser the more submissive he gets. He licks his shaft and is pushed down to lick his hairy balls. Frank leans back, spreads his cheeks and tells him to get to work on his asshole. Reznor suppresses his desire to puke at the man’s acrid smell, and pulls his legs down so he can get back to dick sucking. On his elbows, Frank watches with pleasure having the pretty sandy-haired boy bob up and down on his cock, pushing his face into his black patch of pubes, grabbing his head, pushing it down. On the verge of gagging a second time, fearing what that will lead to, Reznor makes a decision. He clamps down his teeth as hard as he can. He’ll castrate this fucker if that what it takes. Frank jumps up roaring in pain, holding his bloody crotch. It takes a moment for the men outside to realize it’s Frank who yelling. Lewis and Shamus along with two of the camo men crash into the bedroom. They witness Frank, his dick bloody but still attached, beating the living shit out of Reznor. Frank’s in a frenzy, knocking Reznor’s head repeatedly against the Dirty Harry poster until he breaks through the trailer’s plaster wall. After Reznor's fallen, he starts kicking him. The four men restrain Frank on the bed to stop him from killing the kid. They keep him there until he regains some of his sanity. Frank assures them he’s okay, and runs into the bathroom to treat his more than injured pride. Reznor wakes up—this time actually awakens after Frank beats him unconscious. He’s cold. Aware enough to realize he’s still naked, outside, the wind blowing over him on a chilly October night. This time he’s upright, standing, or more accurately, hanging by his arms, spread eagle in the middle of a group of empty lawn chairs. The campfire’s last embers smolder, providing little warmth. What light there is comes from the surrounding trailers’ windows. A few remaining men from earlier in the evening mill about. No Frank in sight. His face heavily beaten, mouth swollen, caked blood under his nose, Reznor speaks slowly like a thousand year old man coming out of a thousand year sleep. “Might,” he says, feeling his jaw might be broken, “one of you gentlemen, please, be so kind, as to untie me?” They look fearfully in back of him. “My boys know better than that,” says a familiar deep voice coming up behind him. Frank comes around Reznor’s side, ducks under the rope. He’s in jeans, boots and a dark wool sweater now. “You are strung up,” he says pointing to the beam above him, “where we usually skin our deer.” Reznor’s struggling to come back to full consciousness, hindered by moonshine and meth, and now overlaid by pain. If he doesn’t move, the pain is bearable. He finds his legs are stuck apart, tied to stakes in the ground. But there’s something niggling at the edge of his consciously, something terrifying if he looks straight at it. He refuses to look at it. But as he’s beginning to take in his environment and his situation, he’s aware that while Frank points to the beam above his head, what he’s pointing with is a chainsaw. Frank pulls the cord and the chain saw whirs to life. Frank gives it a few good revs, until he sees comprehension and then, finally, what he’s after, absolute horror in Reznor’s face. Frank lets the chainsaw idle to a soft purr. “You know,” Frank says, walking up to him, “in olden times, when someone tried to kill the king and missed the mark, do you know what they’d do to that person?” Reznor’s piss flows through his chastity cage puddling in the dirt. “Do you know what drawn and quartered means?” Reznor sobs. Shaking. Frank puts his face inches from Reznor’s, both hands on the chainsaw’s handle that, for the moment, pointing to the ground. He gives a few revs, then tilts the spinning blade up between Reznor’s legs so he feels its breeze. Revs it loudly. “I asked you a question, boy,” he shouts over the machine. He opens the throttle to a full roar. “Do you even remember my fucking question anymore!?” To be continued…

4. Member of the Team I woke up naked covered in mud with a mouth that tasted like a sick raccoon had thrown up in it. My head felt kicked in by a moose. After the automated sprinklers went on way before dawn, I had been feverishly hot but the wetness and cold made me stir. I had no idea where I was. It was still dark. I heard hissing like snakes around me, then water gushed periodically over my skin. It took a couple of good drenches to motivate me get moving. It was a struggle, I got to tell you, just to get on my hands and knees. One palm on the ground, rest; one bent knee, rest; another palm on the ground—rising up was obviously going to take a while. By the time I got on all fours, I had pieced together enough flashes of the previous evening to realize there was a narrative, if I followed it, which led to me struggling to crawl out of the bushes, being soaked by a cold spray, and caked in mud. I had been fucked for the first time in my life. That part was now clear. I remembered it was by my hot roommate, who I subsequently fisted and jerked off in his ass. This was also a premiere event. I was in back of the library, but looking around, saw no sign of said hot roommate, good ol' fist and cock taker, Drake Chadwick. Pulling on clothes over a muddy body has got to be one of the most uncomfortable feelings in the world, but I’m not about to cross campus naked, so I suck it up and get back to the dorm uncomfortably but uneventfully. A Goth girl has done an all-nighter at the reception desk, and she wants to look at me as much as I want to be looked at. I slip up to my room, find it’s empty, and bring a towel to the group showers. I spend ten minutes just letting the warm spray wash over my head. When I get back to the room it’s still dark outside, and I lay on my bed, I swear, for two seconds, and instantly my alarm screams at me with the blinding sun shining through the open window. Still no beefcake Drake. Somehow I make it to the pool by seven a.m. For everyone but me this is first practice for the water polo team. Since I missed the tryouts, this is, by default, my tryout. I gotta admit to you, swimming’s my thing. I don’t know water polo from horsey polo. But it’s in a swimming pool, so how hard can it be. I’m wearing the Levi cutoffs from home, which is the only swimsuit I own. I stand out from the rest of the team like some Okie cousin. Everyone's in identical red speedos, and everyone’s trying to avoid eye contact, which makes me even more self-conscious. Of course it’s Reznor, with his scruffy chin beard, who’s the first one to shout out to me in his Foghorn Leghorn drawl, “Nice shorts, Daisy Mae,” which makes several of his blond boys snicker. The best I can do with my cobweb-for-a-brain is to flip him the bird. Great come back, yeah, I know. There’s an earsplitting whistle bouncing off all the white tiles. Coach Brandon descends stairs from his office on the floor above like a Greek god coming to earth from Mouth Olympus. He’s wearing white shorts, white sneakers and a clingy red tank top, which only accentuates his bronze body reflected in the glassy pool. I’m sure I’m not the only one who thinks this way. Drake, in his red speedo, follows closely down the stairs. His cheeks are even more flushed than yesterday when I first met him jacking off in our dorm room. I recognize most everyone around the pool, but there are six older guys hanging out together. I figure they’re the ones that live in one of the townhouses. They’re older—only guys that are juniors and seniors get to live in the townhouses. I’ll leave out the commentary, but they’re six of the hottest bodies I’ve ever seen. All perfect V-shapes, six foot and up range, with lat spans like eagle's wings; a half dozen perfect specimens of the male form in every skin tone the good Creator blessed us with. “Break into groups of four,” coach says. “Townhouse, split three and three. Hannigan and Fernandez, you’ll relay first and again fourth. Freestyle up and back, and make sure your team touches the wall.” The townhouse guys form two groups in lane one and two. Paxton the stutterer, wee Tommy (who looks like he's been up all night and has a happy smile plastered on his face), Rafiki and I line up in lane three. Dick-face Reznor, Steve Reynold (who also looks a little out of it, but, man, what a Gluteus to the Maximus the boy has), the towering van den Haus, and beefcake Drake form a line in lane four. I glance over at my roommate, but he’s busy studying Haus’ acned back. Still won't make eye contact. Whatever. Coach gives out a shrill whistle again and Hannigan, Fernandez, Paxton, and Reznor dive in and crawl like madmen up the twenty-five yards to the end, submerge, twist and propel themselves off the far wall. They’re coming back, my boy Paxton’s ahead, with the two older guys in lanes one and two in hot pursuit, with Raznor’s bringing up the rear. Dip-shit is as slow as he is obnoxious. Paxton taps the wall and little Tommy does a giant leap over him and is in the lead for most of the first half, but two of the older boys from the townhouse catch up to him on the turnaround, and iron butt Steve Reynolds makes a huge effort and passes Tommy right before they touch the wall. The two swimmers from the townhouse were initially breaking away, but Raf’s large hands are making up some of the difference and shrinking their leads. House, by far the biggest guy on the team, is surprisingly fast. His shoulders roll powerfully; his traps bulge, flexing amazingly with each stroke. Both House and Raf tie with the older guys in the flip turn, and all four are neck-and-neck coming up to the wall. Hannigan and Fernandez are still catching their wind from their first effort, while Drake and I get ready for our teammates to tap the wall. They simultaneously tap, and the four of us dive roughly at the same time. I’m swimming like crazy, making a big splashy mess, and I see Drake is about even with me on my right. I give it my all and am gaining ahead of Drake but not the older guys. Then on the flip turn (which you have to realize this is another of my firsts in the past eight hours), I kick against the wall as hard as I can and feel, I know it’s nuts, a little of Drake cum squirt out my non-virgin butthole. My head’s pivoting both ways to see if I’m ahead of Drake and the townhouse boys—and I’m in the lead! My lungs burn, but my adrenaline is propelling me like a torpedo, and I see the pool’s wall in sight. As I make the tap, coach blows the whistle and I realize our team wins. Yay me! Yay lane three! But before I can celebrate with my fellow lane-mates, coach says, “Okay, again.” By the fourth time we’ve gone through these relays, most of the underclassmen, including me, are ready for the showers. Our lane has won three of the four trials and I’d like to end feeling good about my first day at practice, to be told how good I did and, yes, I’m on the team, but coach says to split into two-man groups. I look over at Drake and he finds his toes are more interesting than meeting my eye. Raf slaps my shoulder and he and I line up in lane six. (Now, if you’ve been doing the math, you’d know there are fourteen of us—for those on their phones in the back of the class: eight underclassmen, six upperclassmen—and yes, this will be on the final.) We break up in our pairs and take up seven of the eight lanes. Raf gets in front of me, and we go through backstroke, breaststroke, butterfly, and then freestyle. I’m exhausted but Raf and I do a decent job, taking at least second or third and one time first in all four of the events. Pube-face Raznor swallows a bunch of pool water on his last crawl and hurls some of it back into the pool filter. “C-c-classy,” says Kenworth Paxton, his cheek scars folding into his smile. Coach’s whistle shrieks a final time. He makes a final note on his clipboard, and fans the clipboard toward the showers. I follow Raf into the locker room and he introduces me to the townhouse guys. Their six names I immediately forget mostly because I’m trying not to stare—there’s a lot of flesh packed into those speedos. It strikes me how the townhouse guy’s packages are fully stuffed while all the underclassmen I met at dinner last night (except Raf, our dorm’s Resident Assistant, who I remember is a junior) seem to have crotches as flat as Ken dolls. Now that I’m looking at them, more like Barbies. Hannigan and Fernandez—their names I do recall—flank me as we walk through the rows of lockers. Hannigan tells me they’re co-captains and boyfriends. I’m sure their names will now stick. “You’re fast,” Hannigan says, “but you can’t keep twisting your head back and forth like you do.” “Control that,” Fernandez adds, encouragingly, “you’ll get more speed. But you looked good out there.” He smacks my wet Levis, and I know I’m grinning like a goon. They strip off their suit and Hannigan's got a massive Irish sausage surrounded by fiery red pubes, and Fernandez slides off his speedo and sports, not just a beautiful, meaty burrito, but the thickest black bush I’ve ever seen. It’s amazingly how he’s cropped it right to the edge of his speedo. The four other townhouse guys pass by clapping my shoulders and one smacks my butt—this hottie with a G.I. Joe jaw—welcoming me on board. At their lockers they all reveal an assortment of fat cocks, long cocks, cut and uncut. You gotta remember, at the lake back home, all I ever seen are old guys’ fifty- and sixty-year-old wieners, so taking in these young studs, it’s all I can do to not pop a boner in my fraying cutoffs—but then I freeze. What stops me mid-unbuttoning is seeing all the underclassmen, all those guys at last night’s dinner—stuttering Paxton, little Tommy, giant House, dick-face Raznor, bowling ball butt Steve Reynolds, even beefcake Drake—slowly peel off their swim suits, and every single one of them displays a shriveled cock compressed tightly inside a metal chastity cage. Just as I’m pulling down my Levis, the coach appears and says, “Dupree, my office.” Just a second ago there was a solemn droopiness hanging over the underclassmen. Suddenly, with those three words from the coach, the whole damn team turns into hooting and hollering idiots. I feel my cheeks burn without knowing why. Drake is barking and howling the loudest of all, the first time he’s looked at me all morning. He’s got a vengeful look in his eye that I totally don’t get. “Dupree. Now,” goes the coach. The two additional words makes the locker room explode into a bench-stomping, locker-banging, towel-snapping madhouse. I ascend away from the racket, looking back at the team with growing unease. *** Apparently Coach Brandon shares his office with Coach Rocco. Anyway, that’s what the name plate on the desk kitty-corner to the coach’s desk reads. The guy’s sitting there, hairy legs up on his desk reading a magazine. He glances up when Coach Brandon and I come in. There’s all these photos of the soccer team in action on the wall behind him. Extra points if you guessed he’s the soccer coach. The guy’s more compact than Brandon, handsome in a smarmy, Mafioso kind of way. The legs of his blue gym shorts are loose and it’s very apparent, to me anyway, the guy’s forgotten to wear anything under them—yep, there’s his big Mafioso pecker—which is A-Okay with me. His dark eyes see what I’m looking at. The black brows scowl in disapproval but he also makes no adjustment to cover his wang—again, fine by me. His jet black hair is slicked straight back, and he’s got a heavy five-o’clock shadow even though it’s barely nine. I say hey. He says nothing. Nice guy. Remind me not to sign up for the soccer team. “How’d he do?” Coach Rocco goes. Seems like a real asshole if you want to know the truth. I’m mean, I’m right in the room for Christ sakes. Who does that? Coach perches on the edge of his desk, and motions for me to take the metal chair by the door. I guess I’m gonna be here for a while. I’m still wet and the chair’s cold, but I’m not going to wuss out, so I just sit and look around the room. Next to my chair is an examination table with back rest bent at a forty-five degree angle. Probably in case of sport injuries, I reckon. Behind the coach in his corner there’s a fish tank humming away; Rocco’s corner has a lit up terrarium. A brilliant red fish swims around the aquarium, and in the rocks at the bottom, peaking out, looks like there’s an eel. Rocco’s terrarium has some kind of frog sitting in a pan of water and a large striped snake draped over some fake tree branches. Couple of animal lovers, I’m thinking. “He did okay. He’s gonna need training, though,” coach says to Rocco. I just love being talked about in third person. I feel it’s my duty to give a short lecture on gender binary assumptions, but Rocco’s eyebrows tell me that this isn’t the audience for it. “A lot of training,” coach goes on to Rocco. “But the talent’s there. Wing man, I’m thinking, to start. We’ll see how he does. Might be a good hole, who knows.” Rocco hisses a laugh. Should I be aware of a double entendre in sport-speak? I’m sure I’m just being paranoid because Rocco’s eyes grow bored and they travel back to the Sports Illustrated he’s holding. “You’ll need a lot more discipline, too, son, but we’ll cover that soon enough.” Coach takes an uncomfortably long beat checking me out before he moves to his aquarium. He picks up a can of fish pellets from his desk and knocks some flakes into the water. The red fish jumps on them. “You’re a water mammal, comfortable in the water. Grew up beaver or otter country, all those Vermont rivers and ponds, eh?” “Yep.” Don’t know where he’s going with this but I’m inclined to believe he’s saying I made the team. Just have to make it through some team philosophical tenets, is my guess. “Yeah, I definitely see that in you.” Coach goes to a cabinet, unlocks it, and takes out a glass jar of what look like creepy, squirmy pink worms. He uncaps the lid, draws out a worm and drops it in the tank. The eel shoots straight by the startled fish, and gobbles the worm furiously in a couple of chomps. Ick. “But first I need you to decide something. You can stay with your warm-blooded mammal roots—and that’s perfectly okay if you do. Dolphins are warm blooded mammals after all. Very team oriented, and smart as heck. But the team can always use a cold-blooded shark. No need to decide here and now. Just think about it. Either way, though, first step is to make you a sea creature. We need to lose all this mammal hair. I’m sure you saw no one on the team has a follicle on their body. Up here,” he points to the sparse hair coating my chest, then lower. “And down there. You okay with that?” “You want I should shave it?” “I’m sure you’ve noticed all the swimmers at the Olympics are all smooth.” “His armpits too,” Rocco pipes up behind his magazine. “Armpits, too,” agrees Brandon. “Yeah,” I say. “I can do it tonight.” “No. We do it now. If that’s all right with you. Waxing is much better than a razor.” He tosses me a red speedo. “Slip those on. You’re a creature of the sea from now on. Got it?” “Creature of the sea. Got it, coach.” It’s probably a stupid question, but sometimes I’m slow to catch on to things. “So does that mean I’m on the team?” I like to clarify. Sometimes more than once. “Almost. Couple of indoctrinations that we can take care of right here, right now, and then you’ll be fully pledged.” Should I be nervous that he’s slipping on a blue latex glove? Maybe it’s for reasons of hygiene I tell myself. “You make it sound like I’m joining a fraternity, coach.” Rocco looks up as I slip off my cutoffs and pull up the team’s red speedo. I make sure I pull on my member to plump it up, for Rocco’s benefit, before tucking it in place. “I’d call it more like a brotherhood, son.” Coach Brandon lights a white candle and rotates it around watching the wax melts. “Same tradition that the soccer team has, right Coach Rocco?” “Same traditions, Coach Brandon.” “Now, up on the table on your back, Dupree.” I climb on the cold metal table and lie back. Rocco looks up, grabs his water bottle and watches what the coach and I are up to. Coach swirls the melting wax around and sets the candle on the exam table. Then he does the craziest thing: he sticks his hand into the terrarium and pulls out the frog—or toad—or whatever. I’m not a biology major. “So, this is Benjie, the team’s mascot. He’s a transfer toad from Arizona’s Sonoran Desert. This is Kyle Dupree, Benjie.” Coach holds the thing in his palm and—hand to God—the toad croaks in my face like he’s saying hello. “Tradition is all new players give Benjie a lick for good luck, isn’t that right Coach Rocco?” “It’s tradition, Coach Brandon,” he says behind his magazine. “Not one athlete’s ever decline.” “Yeah,” I say, climbing off the table, “well you just found your first one declining.” Coach Brandon puts a hand on my chest and goddamn if he doesn’t flick his tongue over the toad’s back. “See. Tastes like chicken,” he laughs. Rocco comes up in back of Brandon, puts a hand on coach’s shoulder, and also darts his tongue across the mascot. “Mm-mm. Tasty toady,” he jokes, displaying all his pearly teeth. “Every one of my boys have done it, same as all of Coach Brandon’s. C’mon, Dupree. You a pussy?” One thing about me is don’t dare me something. So I frown, then, ready to be disgusted, stick out my tongue. Coach Brandon flips Benjie over and smashes the toad’s back across my tongue while squeezing it. All its little warts pop juice into my mouth. It’s disgusting, worse that I imagined—so goddamn nasty! Like licking a chalkboard eraser that’s soaked in a urinal. A rancid, gritty slime coats my mouth. Rocco hands me his water bottle and I swig back a ton, which only washes the nauseating pustules into my stomach. The gross taste fills my stomach, and after about half a minute a feeling builds like I’m going to puke. Coach’s putting Benjie back in his terrarium, while Coach Rocco reads my face and quickly grabs the waste basket. Just in time he puts it under my chin and I hurl last night’s burgers and curly fries. I’m feel waves of nausea roiling inside my guts. I don’t thinking I’m done puking. I hope the coaches are prepared because I’m not a quiet puker. I’m dizzy and reach out a hand to Coach Rocco to steady myself. My second round ralphing is twice as violent and three times as loud as the first. I think I even hear some sympathetic groans from the team downstairs. Coach Rocco rubs my back. “It’ll pass, buddy,” he says. “Just hang in there.” When I look at him again, there’s something in his dark brown eyes that looks incredibly sympathetic. I don’t think I saw that before. When I retch a third time, a little less violently this time, into his metal trashcan, afterward I see a goddamn aura of goodness shimmering around him. My hero with a bronze bucket of puke! And when I look at Coach Brandon I see the same care and concern and—for Christ sakes!—honest to God, I see actual loving hearts pouring out the coach’s eyes, like little heart icons floating up the screen on an app. This vision feels so intense. Everywhere I look is the most wonderful sight. The whole office is the most loving, the most fantastic office in the world. If heaven was an office, this would be God’s office. I can’t get these thoughts out of my head: Jesus would be the receptionist outside; they’re would be a typing pool of angels in row after row. The pencils on the desk are the most perfect pencils God’s ever created. I gasp! That red fish is the most awesome red fish in the entire world, and I’m the one looking right at it and it’s looking back at me. It’s the red fish of perfection! “Lie back, son. Just enjoy what you’re feeling. And, while you’re enjoying it,” Coach Brandon says, running a hand up and down my body—God it feel good, “let’s relieve you of this animal hair. Set free the beautiful sea creature inside you.” Is he really saying corny stuff like this? Does it matter? All that matters is his hand running over my body. As I lie back feeling I feel all the love of the universe, all at the same time, in every inch of me. I watch the coach aim his beautiful white candle over my abdomen and lets the liquid flow out. It stings as it hits the skin above my bellybutton, and he smears it around with a flat wooden stick—but I don’t mind the pain. Pain is pleasure says the coach, and I believe whatever coach says. Either coach for that matter. Immediately, he applies a cloth swatch over the drying wax, waits a few seconds, then rips it off, pulling with it a rectangle of belly hair. “Yow!” I place a hand over the now-smooth skin. “Shit, coach. That hurts,” I say, stupidly grinning. “Exactly,” he says, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Rocco coughs a laugh and pulls off my speedo. I’m loving it, every second. I take Rocco’s hairy paw and run it over my hardening cock. “So I don’t abuse you more than necessary, let’s use clippers to trim you,” says Coach Brandon. From his drawer he brings out barber clippers, snaps it on. He buzzes over the sparse hair on my chest, my arms, my legs, but he really goes to town on my crotch. Bunches of curly brown pubes he pulls out of the clipper blades. The vibration feels so good, I start trying to hump the clippers with my pelvis, which amuses manly Rocco. Rocco distracts me by twisting my very sensitive nipples. With Coach Brandon satisfied he’s buzzed away enough of my body hair, he’s back with the hot wax. He drips over my short crotch curlies and he pushes it around with the wooden stick. He applies the rectangle swath and zips it off. “Youch!” I feel half my pubic bone is smooth as a baby’s butt. He does this several more time, none of which hurts any less. In fact, the more he does it the more it hurts and the redder my skin gets. He feels his work running his hand over my bare crotch while avoiding my cock, but it doesn’t matter. It’s hard all by itself. Then coach drips wax over my balls. I let out a squelched yelp as Rocco bends down and plants his wet mouth on mine. Brandon rips off the wax from each ball, rubs each one with his thumb, and squeezes my entire sack to make sure all the hair is gone. I lose track of time as he rips off every follicle from my body. “I need you to flip around, son.” He lowers the back rest so the tables perfectly flat. I’ve got a stiffy, but lay on my belly anyway pressing it into the cold metal. “I need you to spread your legs. A little wider.” I comply, as he pulls down my balls so their exposed. I know this is going to hurt but Rocco’s massaging my shoulders so I don’t care. If it hurts all the better as long as Rocco’s there. “Rocco,” I say with my face smashed on the exam table. “I’m so fucking high, Rocco. Rocco? I think I love you. And Coach Brandon, too. And I love all my teammates. Even ol’ pube chin Reznor.” Rocco chuckles, still kneading my shoulder blades. “That’s Benjie, our magical bufo toad talking. Do you know what a bufo toad is?” I try shaking my head but am enjoying Rocco’s touch so much I can’t move. “A bufo toad has venom that’s an extremely potent psychedelic. Even the little taste I got gives me a buzz. Nothing like the amount you got though, buddy, but I’m with you, man. I love you, too. And I love the coach. And we love you.” “You do?” When the wax hits the taint between my balls and asshole, I don’t know if the hot wax hurts more or coach ripping off the wax hurts more. Let’s call it a tie. As a consolation prize, Rocco grabs my hand and puts it down his shorts. I eagerly grab his thick member and start stroking him. I’m tripping so hard on how good his cock feels. The more I stroke him the more he likes it. Sex is the most magically thing in the universe! Coach Brandon’s busy pulling open my butt cheeks, first one side, then the other, and waxing them. Each time the hot wax is getting closer to my hole. Ripping the wax off isn’t too bad here since I’m not that hairy around my hole. But the moment he drips the burning wax directly on my anus, I yowl while at the same time Roscoe groans as I crush his cock. Coach rips the last few hairs around my asshole off, and then he applies a cooling ointment and swirls it around my hole. I’m looking over at Coach Rocco’s body: beautifully hairy, swirling circles of fur that twirl like sand dunes in the wind. The pattern his body hair makes is mesmerizing. There symmetry and geometry at play. I’m convinced there’s fractal algorithms that could be written that explains his beauty. I see those equations float by as I admire him. Sines and cosines, quadratic equations float through my head. And there’s a finger in my hole. Coach Brandon flips me over talking to me about something or other, his finger twisting in my hole. He tells me he saw my work last night behind the library fisting Drake Chadwick. I look up into his ocean blue eyes. There’s waves crashing in them, and he’s going on and on. “I have to say I was impressed. Chadwick said he’d never been fisted before, but I had to see for myself this morning. The poor boy. You destroyed that hole, Dupree. It’s almost a complete wreck. Eighteen, nineteen-year-olds. So many hormones running rampant through your body. You have so much passion in you. We have to control that passion. Lock it up.” “Did he tell you he was the first one who ever fucked me, coach?” I feel I can tell him and Coach Rocco anything. He’s sticking an increasing number of digits in my hole. He’s got three fingers inside me. “You enjoying this, son?” “Mm-hm.” I wince, then exhale as coach’s slides four fingers inside. It hurts so much I can’t stand how much I like it. The feeling of a man’s palm inside my body. I float between the pain of it and the idea of it, then the realization that a man has his palm inside me, the skin of his hand rests along the wall of my rectum. It’s just unfathomable. He lets it sit there, then starts twisting it around. What’s more unimaginable: the idea or the sensation? We’ll call it a draw and I reach over and stroke Rocco’s cock. Rocco’s fully erect, pulling off his shirt and dropping his shorts. He climbs on the table and positions his butt over my face. “I think he’s ready for Leon, coach,” he says. I pull his hips down and start rimming his dark, hairy asshole. “Aw, fuck, boy!” he cries. “Yeah, eat that hole. Suck on it.” I do suck on it, as Coach Brandon pulls his palm out of me. I feel an intense emptiness, but hear Coach Brandon’s deep voice. “Dig in there, son.” I keep rimming in the darkness of Rocco’s butt. Even in the blackness, feeling his hair all over my face, more waves of the drug crash over me, unmoors me further from earth. Every hair in his crack glides across my face. My tongue’s gotten him so wet, when he rub his ass back and forth I feel at the bottom of the sea with long, soft strands of seaweed rolling with the ebb and flow of the tide, back and forth, across my tongue. I can’t tell what’s real anymore. Am I really tonguing this tasty, musky hole or am I seeing the surface of the ocean lying in a seaweed bed? Could it be both? I feel Rocco’s fingers go over my fingers. Both of us pull his butt cheeks open. More seaweed sails across my tongue. “Get in there,” I hear him growl, as I sense him jerking his meat and splashing my hairless body with his spunk. Someone, must be my coach, licks it up. I feel something at my own butthole—a sensual pop of some kind, which continues crawling deeper inside my body. I push Rocco’s butt up to see what it is. It’s a long striped dildo Coach Brandon’s feeding me, pushing in a couple of inches, pulling out a little, then pushing in more. “You like Leon, our coral snake?” I look over at the terrarium and see the fake branches are missing its snake. “No!” I say, alarmed that Coach Brandon is pushing an actual snake into me. I could almost believe they’d fuck me with a live reptile. “Careful so Leon does bite you,” teases the coach, letting the thing slide in really far. I feel, where its head is penetrating me deepest inside, there’s a sensation of pins and needles. “I think Leon bit me,” I exclaim, panicked. “You might start feeling paresthesia, a strange tingly, prickling feeling.” Rocco’s clinical, detached, like a doctor giving a prognosis. He flips around, pressing down his cock so I can suck it. “Yeah, I feel that in my guts,” I respond. “Did Leon bite me?” He stuffs his leaking calzone into my mouth so I can’t talk anymore. Coach Brandon appears by my head with the can of worms he’d fed the eel with. “Only one cure for Leon’s bite. And it needs to slither in through your dick.” “Whaaaaa—?” Hard to talk with a cock down your throat. “Sorry, can’t hear you, son,” Coach Brandon says, gripping my dick fiercely and slipping something inside the slit. I feel whatever it is squirming into me, inch by inch, down my piss shoot. Rocco pins down my shoulders down with his legs. I’m trying to spit him out. His cock clogs my windpipe. I’m spitting up massive amounts of mucus. I’m bucking on the table, trying to get the worm out of my cock, the serpent out of my ass, as the coaches laugh uproariously at my desperation. The slimy intruder I feel wiggling, drilling deeper and deeper into my cock. It’s so far down my shaft I’m convinced it’ll never be pulled out. The tingling in my colon crescendos until it feels like knives are plunging outward from my organs. The two men mock me with laughter that reverberates demonically in my ears. My head shakes back and forth denying the reality of snakes and worms and a cock that’s plunging so far down my through it’s being eaten by the serpent coming up through my entrails. I have a vision of Ouroboros, the snake that eats itself; the ancient gnostic symbol of unity with the divine. In that instant the laughter ceases, echoes away like a thunderstorm passing into the distance. All that remains is the soft hum of the aquarium. Bubbles float calmly to the surface. The coaches both have vanished. Well, no; no one’s vanished: Coach Rocco sits at his desk, hairy legs up, reading a Sports Illustrated; and Coach Brandon’s standing at his whiteboard, assigning van der Haus to goalkeeper, me as a right wing, and Fernandez as a left wing. He continues quietly writing in names for the other positions as I run my hands over my entirely smooth body—yes, dolphin or shark, I’ll have to get back to you on that. Even smooth armpits, I hear an echo of Rocco say. I squeeze my butt. No, nothing’s in my hole, no snake crawling up it, no worm in my cock. But, shit. Wait. What is that? I push down hard on metal that’s not budging, that’s trapped my cock inside a tiny cage. Huh. Officially, I guess, I’m a member of the team. Well, at least my member is.

For @Pozitivly and @YEGfaggot you’ve inspired me to see if there’s more in this story. Looks like the swim team is set to get back together. Cumming soon!

Thanks everyone. It’s been fun! You’re the most awesome pervy guys to write for.

Coda: The Tradeoff The clock in the center of Grand Central Station reads five minutes to six. The station is packed. People rush to catch trains, disembark from all parts of the east coast and beyond, dash for taxis, line up at ticket windows, some linger taking selfies of themselves with their friends marking the beginning of their exciting adventure in New York City. Jesse is simply waiting. He scans the crowd looking for a military-type guy he studied in one of the photos in Mac’s office—an apparently very rich leader of the largest paramilitary company on the planet. Former Navy SEAL, he’s the mercenary leader the Abbot talked about, the buyer of the star ruby now hanging between his legs. Studying the photograph, Jesse couldn’t help notice how hot the man is—square jawed, a dimple in his chin like a baby’s butt, blond hair slicked down and parted on the side, broad-shouldered, massive biceps, and wide set, fear-inducing eyes. The guy probably won’t be wearing anything hinting at his military background, like wearing fatigues like he is in the photo. More likely he’ll be just dressed like a regular dad-type guy—although hard to miss being big as fuck—passing through New York on his way from here to some non-descript somewhere else. He’ll definitely have a large suitcase with him, one big enough to hold five million dollars. The thought of that gets Jesse’s heart pumping. * So intent on inflicting Jesse with heart-stabbing pain, Lucius isn’t aware of Eros rising in back of him. It’s Eros’ eyes that are first able to move again. He adjusts to the mist fogging his sight as he watches Tommy’s final breaths. Those eyes then dart to the villain hovering over the dying body. Hatred fills him allowing him to break free of the paralyzing drug. Stiffly he rises, slow but unstoppable. He looms behind the priest. Eros glances down at T’s empty blue eyes, then with a furious yowl, nabs the unsuspecting fiend around the waist and plunges both of them into the pool. Eros continues yelling under water filling his burning lungs. The remains of the drug leaves him too wooden to move other than to coil his arms around the transformed monk, squeezing him with an inescapable death grip until they both settle at the pool’s deep end. They wrestle on the pool’s floor in an epic struggle. Eros’ last breath floats to the surface as he collapses over the monk who wildly struggles to break free. The dead weight succeeds in pinning the monk in Eros’ final embrace. The immovable body on top of him holds him fast, each breath exchanged for another inhalation of water, until he, too, expels his last wretched breath. Jesse doesn’t wait to see how the struggle ends. His heart pumps running down the staircase taking two steps at a time. He dashes past Mac coming out of his office, and darts out the back door and dives straight into the pool. He grabs Eros’ gray tee-shirt, yanking him to the surface. The lifeless body he pulls to the side isn’t Eros any longer—just a shirt, a large body, wet skin, slick brown hair, slack face, soggy shorts, barefoot, sodden with water. It’s easy enough to prop up a slack doll of his size on the pool steps. He climbs out of the pool next to Tommy’s body. It rests as before on its back, motionless, white foam caked on his lips. The priest, no longer weighted by Eros at the bottom of the pool, rises to the surface, his dead glassy eyes open staring sightless at the sun. The chlorinated water stings Jesse’s eyes. It mixes with his tears. His shoulders sag looking at his tattooed-covered friend. The guy he was initially leery of but came to realize he had no reason to be—who always looked out for him like the older brother he never had. Except for the white residue and his purple skin, Tommy could be asleep. But who the fuck is he kidding, he curses to himself? T looks dead, like some fucker strangled him till his eyes bulged out and his skin turned this unnatural shade of purple. And Eros? His head lolls stupidly to the side, a rag doll whose eyes will never open. Ash and gored wash off his skin in a red-grey puddle of muck. Jesse’s eyes turn from Tommy to Virgil. The cracked open head stopped oozing; the two silver sounds still stand upright in his sockets. But then, without cause or warning, the rods fall out of the sockets, clanging metallically on the concrete. It’s then that Virgil’s body starts to become translucent, growing lighter and lighter until it fades away entirely—only a bloody stain and two silver wands remain behind. There is a screech and the side gate opens. The shadowy figure Jesse had seen at the lighthouse, a small, ancient man with a hooked nose, enters aided by his cane, and quietly closes the gate behind him. “It’s to be expected,” Mac says, appearing behind Jesse. Jesse turns quickly around, shielding his eyes from the sun, and sees Mac staring sadly down at him. In the water Jaxton, too, is beginning to transform. His body becomes indistinguishable from glass, and the glass becomes indistinguishable from water. He, too, then vanishes from the center of the pool. “Are they in …” Jesse looks up at Mac, and asks with a shudder, “in … under the lighthouse?” “Yes,” replies the old man at the gate. “They most definitely are.” He ambles on his cane over to join them. “You are the boy that ran out of my quarters the other day, are you not?” “Yes, sir.” The man’s presence seems to have brought a sudden chill to the air. Jesse trembles as a brisk morning breeze rustles the trees around the house. Grimy, wet and naked, he shakes as now the bodies of Tommy and Eros also start to fade. “No, please,” he begs Mac, his throat tight and distraught. “Not them. You know they’re not like the others.” Mac removes his shirt and drapes it over Jesse’s tremoring body. “That’s up to Dante. Dante,” Mac says to the old man, placing a hand on the old man’s bony shoulder. “What say you?” Jesse scrambles up and clasps Dante’s brittle hands. “I know they’re not saints. But they’re good. Down deep they’re good. They don’t deserve the same thing as those other guys.” “What would you have, then, be they’re fate? If not hell and certainly not heaven, purgatory can be many things.” “Here.” Jesse falls to his knees imploring the man. “Let them stay here. I know here they’re happy.” Dante scrutinized Jesse. A puzzled look comes over his face. The boy seems to be someone he can no longer read. He presses on with what he knows. “I hold men who are known to me to account. Mac procures them, but I don’t determine any man’s fate, simply keep records of their actions. They, then, determine their own fate. If they are not good enough for their spirits to rise, nor evil enough to descend below, then yes, they may stay here. But they can never leave, you understand? And you cannot stay with them. You are among the living, not they.” “Hmm,” says Mac, eyeing the old man and Jesse. “Which means, Dante, you and I need to abandon this place, too, correct?” “Most certainly. We are forbidden to commune with them once their spirits roam free over the island. We have many places where we can go to. They do not.” “I don’t understand, Mac. I don’t get any of this.” Mac pulls Jesse up and wipes some grey residue from his cheek. “Are you like Jaxton or Lucius—whoever—and like the other monks? Like you just jump from one body to the next whenever you feel like it?” “Nope. My job is to simply procure. I’m human, a sexually potent forty-two-year-old human who loves to fuck young tail. A human who will die … when is it, Dante?” “As far as I am concerned, in the blink of an eye, at the age of eighty-four. It’s in the books, my boy.” “Eighty-four. Already half over.” He mulls the number, then shrugs. “I’m a simple mortal with an unbridled taste for the finer things. I was lucky to latch onto my own methuselian early in life. Dante’s the true eternal. Well, he is as long as people still know him, know of him at least. The monks, they’re not eternals. The only power they have is that they have access to boundless stores of money. And I, being an astute businessman, am happy to relieve them of it, no matter how dirty it is or for what purpose. I’m sure one day I’ll wind up same as them, under some lighthouse, wandering down to find my proper place in hell, moaning about what a raw deal I got. It’s a tradeoff. I can live with that. As long as I’m happy in this life, that’s my only goal.” Mac takes a towel from one of the lounge chairs, gives it to Jesse to wrap himself in before he continues. “There’s plenty of people like me. Ghislaine and Jeffrey are my doppelgangers, on the straight side of the scale—well, I should say, Jeff was, past tense. I’m sure he’s moaning under some lighthouse, somewhere, about how unfair life has been for him. Not me. I’m on the queer end of that procurement spectrum, and couldn’t be happier. For now, anyway. There’s a never-ending supply, every generation, of others like us. All any of us needs to make our way through this cold, cruel world, is to hook up with a methuselian. They hold us mortals to account, and with that knowledge I find ways to monetize what they know by—scare quotes—helping others. With our assistance we perpetuate the surprisingly same cast of characters, good ones and bad ones, over and over—for a slight service fee of course. Popes, dictators, sultans, CEOs, oligarchs, senators, luminary world leaders, lately even the slimiest movie and recording executives—you’d be surprised how familiar the usual suspects are. Eternals have been overseeing this kind of human trafficking for thousands of years, but they need grunts like me who’re willing to get their hands dirty to pull it off. It’s the way the world keeps spinning, kiddo. Am I right, Dante, or am I right?” “You have the most tiresome habit of stretching out a monologue until the point is forgotten.” Dante takes Jesse chin. “Suffice it to say, I am the world’s engine; he, unfortunately, is rudder.” Mac thinks this over for a minute. “Fair enough.” * “You’re Santana?” An impressive, bald Black man with a trim grey beard, is in back of Jesse. He’s a little incredulous, holding a photograph, looking from it to Jesse. Jesse’s startled for a moment, but composes himself quickly. The man has on wraparound tactical sunglasses that mirrors Jesse back to himself. It’s unnerving. He’s in an olive green, tight-fitting tee-shirt that clings around his arms and over his chest. There’s no mistaking his military rigidity. He looks like, with one move, he could snap Jesse in half. “I am, yeah. But you’re not Major King.” “I’m Coronel Reynolds. Come with me.” The man doesn’t wait for Jesse, but moves swiftly and descends Grand Central’s staircase to the lower level. Jesse hurries after him, following him in and out of clumps of tourists, straight into the station’s men’s room. The coronel stops at the last stall and raps his knuckle on the door—three knocks, then two. The stall’s metal lock slides open. Reynolds holds the door open. Jesse’s wary, but realizes this is what he’s here for and walks inside. Major King, the blond man from Mac’s photograph, squats on the toilet next to a large suitcase. He’s in civilian: a tight fitting navy blue tank top printed with a Captain America shield of red, white and blue. His muscular arms have a prominent vein running over his biceps, and his powerful chest, even bigger than Coronel Reynolds’, is topped with light brown chestnut hair in thick swirls going up to his collar bone. His deep set eyes bore into Jesse. He clenches his jaw accentuating his deep chin’s dimple. Jesse guesses it’s got to take hours of shaving to get that baby-butt dimple so smooth. The man’s intense stare is so over-powering Jesse can’t hold it. He has to look elsewhere. Elsewhere turns out to be him looking down at his khaki shorts resting over the largest pair of black shit-kicker boots he’s ever seen. Elsewhere is also Jesse spying a dark blond bush between the man’s legs with a fat hog hanging down inside the toilet. “Let’s see it.” “Excuse me?” Jesse asks, very distracted. “The star ruby.” King leans in intimately close in order to close the stall door behind him. The metal lock snaps shut. “Let’s see the money first.” King glares at him but puts the suitcase on his lap. He clicks open the luggage locks. Jesse lifts the lid and finds hundreds of wrapped packages of hundred dollar bills. He fans through one of the stacks, then counts the rows and columns. After doing a quick calculation in his head, he nods his satisfaction to King. King closes the suitcase and sets it aside. He pulls out several sheets of toilet paper and reaches under himself and wipes his crack. He does this several times all while keeping an eye on Jesse. Jesse wonders why he couldn’t have taken care of that beforehand. “Ruby,” King says, holding out his large, callused palm. “You don’t talk much, do you?” The man’s dark blond brows furrow. Jesse drops his drawers and lifts up his dick to show King. The major takes his cock between sandpaper fingers and twists the ruby around to observe the five rare veins that run through it. As he’s examining it, Jesse can’t help feel his dick starting to swell. He tries not looking at King’s biceps that are as big as his own thighs. The thick, defined muscles flex as he twists the jewel. Jesse focuses instead on King’s forest of chest hair, but that also seems to add to his swelling dick. So he drops his eyes and realizes Kings uncut hog is rising from the depths of the toilet. His erection appears to get hung up under the rim of the toilet. Regardless, the trapped cock continues growing, now to the thickness of Jesse’s wrist. King takes his monster out of the toilet so it doesn’t get drenched, reaches behind him and pushes down the flush handle. The roar of the water is somewhat blocked by King’s butt. Both of them with raging hard on look at each other. It seems as though they’ve arrived at an unspoken understanding. * Eros’ cock is as hard as a California redwood tree. His fingers claw at the lip of the shack’s sink. Bent over, his hairy ass presents itself shamelessly to Tommy, and Tommy takes full advantage of plunging his cock deep into Eros’ asshole. As he’s fucking the big guy he’s smacking his ass like a bronco rider as hard as he can, pummeling his cock deep into Eros. Eros growls enjoying being fucked this ferociously. Tommy throws one leg up on Eros’ back, his foot pushing Eros’ face to the shack’s floor, which allows him to plunge even deeper into Eros’ hairy pussy. “So they can’t see us?” Jesse asks at the shack’s window, dressed with a backpack over his shoulder. “You are a mere disturbance to them, like a mosquito buzzing about the room. More annoyance than presence. You’re simply not a part of their story anymore,” Dante says. He then turns to Mac. “Nor are we, so we must make haste. The longer we stay, the stronger, too, our disturbance to them will be.” “So, like, are they going to be like that forever?” Jesse wants to know. Eros’ is panting heavily and Tommy is slapping his ass harder and harder as he getting close to shooting. Mac looks in, admiring the studs in action. “Well, their bodies won’t age, their souls will though. But as long as love and lust is in them, they’ll exist on this island.” “Then I believe they’ll be here forever,” Jesse pronounces. He turns to the old man wobbling on his cane. “What about me, Dante? What’s happens to me?” Dante stares at him for the second time that day. “I am amazed but I truly don’t know. You’re unclear to me. You’re no longer part of their story but you are also not part of ours. Before I read you clearly: a boy who’d lost his parents, who was infinitely curious, and equal parts brave and foolish. But something about you has changed. I’m unsure what that is.” “First time for everything, I guess,” Mac says. “I’ll drop you on the mainland when we leave. Get yourself to Grand Central, make your swap with King, and the world’s your oyster, kiddo.” “You don’t mind that I get to keep the ruby money?” Excited howling by Tommy and Eros blast from the shack causing the three of them to look again inside. Tommy’s flipped Eros’ on his back. Eros has his legs wrapped around Tommy’s waist, and Tommy’s whooping in the air, riding him like a show horse around a rodeo rink. Eros snorts, jacking his log while pulling Tommy’s head down to plant his mouth around his. “I’m sorry. What were we talking about?” Mac focuses back on Jesse; Dante keeps spying on the boys. “The money,” Jesse reminds him. “No, yeah. I think you deserve all of it. To me, it’s a rounding error. You have to figure my procurements are in the hundreds of millions, often more. You yourself cost the Abbot a hundred million, and fortunately there’s no one to ask for a refund.” Jesse can’t help suppress a smile imagining someone would pay that much for him. “Don’t get cocky, kid. That pair in there? Ten times that.” Jesse does the math and his jaw drops. Dante pulls himself from the window and nudges Mac. “Okay, we’ll go, we’ll go,” Mac says indulgently to the methuselian. “Since you get to keep all that dough,” Jesse bumps up against Mac, “can you spot me twenty bucks so I can get a train ticket to New York?” Mac puts a hand on Jesse’s head, pushing him down to his knees. “It’s cost you a blow job first.” Dante shakes his head, then peeks back inside the shack. * “Reynolds, the little guy’s coming with us. I don’t have the tools to relieve him of the ruby. But I do at headquarters.” “Understood, sir,” says Reynolds. He leads the way clearing a path for them through hordes of tourists swarming Grand Central. Jesse follows Reynolds pulling the suitcase, with King hanging on to Jesse's backpack and bringing up the rear. In the backseat of King’s limousine, on their way to an undisclosed location, King’s got his hand on the lump in Jesse’s pants. He gently squeezes it. King studies his reflection in Reynold’s sunglasses, gives the coronel a quick wink. Behind his shades and the trim grey beard, Reynold’s eyes crinkle and his mouth parts into a large, toothy smile. King looks back at Jesse. “I can fix us something in the mess hall when we arrive. If you’re hungry.” Jesse thinks for a moment looking at Reynolds and then at King. “Ya know, I’m suddenly famished,” Jesse says, running a long tongue along a razor-sharp canine tooth. “I don’t think I’ve been hungry like this ever in my life.” What follows, well, that’s a completely different story.

9. When There Are No Silver Bullets Early Sunday morning—the day after Jaxton poisoned Eddie, and Tommy and Eros buried Father Lucius—Jaxton straight out lied when he said Jesse is asleep. Jesse is not asleep. He’s playing possum in Mac’s bed where he’s been accosted in a drug-induced state throughout the night—some things he remembers, some things it’s best he doesn’t. He squints open an eyeball. The two old monks sit naked by the large picture window facing the ocean. Through the window the sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon. The monks speak in hushed voices, lounging in the same bird-upholstered armchairs he once sat in with Mac. Geez, that seems a lifetime ago. The monks murmur to each other in Italian assuming, when Jesse awakens, he won’t know what they’re saying. Jesse most definitely knows what they’re saying. He’s been following their conversation for quite some time. The Italian his grandfather taught him when he was small allows him to follow almost word for word. And word for word, it’s scaring the holy fuck out of him! “L-Lucius, dice che puoi prenderlo … L-Lucius, he says you can take the b-boy’s body at any time,” Virgil stammers. “I prefer to wait until the drug has run its course. I don’t wish to awake in a body that is still hallucinating with methamphetamine.” “So I should go fi-first with the pool man? Lucius says he is using the paralyzing drug on the pool man and killing the ta-tattooed gardener with rat poison at breakfast. He will prepare their drugs with their breakfast.” “I think it better you go first. I have business to attend to regarding the ruby.” Santana studies his companion. “Virgil, are you not excited to be inside such a magnificent young man? His cazzo is as big as my arm!” “No, no. I am. I am. It is hard for me to believe once I see him that I will be in that stupendous body. But, no, I am very, very excited. But maybe I am a little intimidated too.” “Don’t be foolish.” Santana slides his armchair over to him. “Listen. Tonight, I want you fucking me like a filthy, dirty batana, okay? You cum up my ass so hard I weep tears of sperm!” Virgil snickers as he looks the Abbot in the eye. “The pleasure will be mine.” “Listen, before I take the boy, I wish to confirm the meeting with the buyer of the ruby—not absolutely necessary but prudent, I think. Some place public, I have told him. This evening, at the stroke of six, he is to meet me in the middle of Grand Central Station.” Virgil nods excitedly, rubbing his palms together in agreement. “So it is the mercenary, that exquisite soldier of fortune, who is the buyer?” Santana affirms this. “You get all the money at once, in U.S. dollars, I suppose?” “Five million fits easily in a suitcase. A large suitcase in Grand Central Station will not bring attention. Once I see the money I give him the star ruby.” “It’s good thinking,” Virgil says admiringly. “Ah, my dear. First thing we’ll do is take a trip. Where should we go with these attractive father and son bodies?” Virgil gazes out the window. “You think we might visit Roma?” “Ah, Roma. Wonderful! It has been so long, has it not? We have not been since … when? Early fifteen hundreds, I think. You remember Dante introducing us to the young Michelangelo?” asks the Abbot squeezing Virgil’s hand. “Yes, yes. And his b-beautiful boyfriend, David,” sighs Virgil. “No bigger hands have ever been up my culo.” “And the smallest piccolo I have ever seen.” They snicker together like snakes, then grow quiet gazing out at the sunrise. Their prolonged silence causes Jesse to squint open an eye again to see if they’re still in the room. They are. The Abbot’s black curly head leans against Virgil’s bald scalp. “This body,” Virgil suddenly asks, pointing to himself, “it will enter the entrance to hell under the lighthouse?” Jesse has trouble understanding what Virgil means. He questions his translating abilities—entrance to hell under the lighthouse. The words themselves unnerve him but might explain the moaning he’d heard the day before. It’s absurd—he must have misinterpreted. He lays his head into the pillow and closes his eyes to listen more intensely. The Abbot admonishes the bald monk, “Virgil, you know it will! Like all hell’s entrances scattered across the world, yes, the sinner in your discarded body enters at the closest hell mouth. From there it wanders half-dead beginning its journey, wandering down into hell as deep as your cast-off sins demand. You are cleansed of sin in your new body, he is not.” Jesse cocks an eye observing the Abbot scolding Virgil with his finger. “Its burden—and after this you must nevermore speak of it—is to carry your lifetime of sins deep into the fiery pit. Mine, with the boy inside, will do the same. Years and years will they relive the evils that these present bodies of ours have inflicted on the world—the children we have corrupted, the money we have stolen from the pool, the food we have taken out of the mouths of the hungry. We need not remember these sins, but they surely will as their flesh burns in punishment. Lucius, I tell you true, he was a fool letting his boy off so easy by a mere hanging. He rashly allowed death without suffering. Our discarded body’s suffering is our tribute to the Master below for the gift He gives us above. I deeply fear for Lucius, what his impetuosity might cost him.” There’s a noise from pool deck: the familiar creaking of the side gate and the metal clang when it shuts. Eros and Tommy voices greet the tall young man that looks like Jaxton, but Jesse knows is the cretin Lucius. Possum time is over—it’s now or never. “Hey!! Guys!!!” Jesse’s blaring shout startles the two monks. He’s wiggling his flaccid penis, propped up on an elbow. Did you guys wake up just as horny as me? What you guys did to me last night was sick! Those metal rods you dick-fucked me with—you still got them? I’m up for that kind of heavy metal, if you are.” Virgil, his eyes wide and pleading, looks to Santana, who smiles his permission. “Ma, no,” Virgil corrects him, very amused. Using his arms he pushes himself out of his chair. “It is not metal. Is expensive medical instruments, made with the purest silver.” He helps Santana up and they amble toward the bed. On his way he stoops to picks up his case of sounds from his satchel. He rolls the set out next to Jesse. “Abbot,” says Jesse, acting all coy, patting the bed next to him. “Maybe both of you can play with my little cazzo. I think, last night, you stretched out my hole enough to fit in two silver rods. Can both of you play with my wiener?” “Such a vulgar child,” says the gleeful Abbot. With great effort, he climbs over Jesse so he can sit by his side. In passing, Jesse pinches a few of Santana’s plump teets, which causes the Abbot to chortles with pleasure. He begins stroking the boy’s cock with his furry fingers. Virgil parks his butt on Jesse’s other side. Both the Abbot and Virgil’s wrinkled cocks grow steadily. A sneer raises the right side of Abbot Santana’s lip. His canine tooth elongates along with his erection. The razor-sharp tooth glints blood red off the morning sun. * The Sunrise Motor Lodge has a gazebo that Tommy’s waiting in. He’s supposed to meet some guy named Frank. He guesses Frank’s not his real name. Whatever. The skateboard he rode on from his house lies on the gazebo’s wooden flooring. His worn out sneaker toes it forward and back. He’s bored and anxious at the same time. He just wants to get on with it. A big, nervous-looking man in a Scout Master uniform comes out of the unit next to the soda machine. He looks around. It’s got to be Frank. Tommy questions if he’s really going to do this, steels himself, then signals to the man. The guy shades his eyes, then makes small motions for Tommy to come over. Tommy grabs his board and passes the humming soda machine and follows him into his room. “So. You must be Oscar.” Tommy says mm-hmm. Frank’s the shape of a large egg, and seems ashamed to be taking up so much of the small room. “Mind putting this on?” Frank asks, holding out a brown grocery bag. Tommy takes the bag and looks inside. “A Boy Scout uniform?” “Yes, if you wouldn’t mind.” Tommy scowls, then drops his cutoffs on the floor, slips off his Motörhead tee-shirt and puts on green shorts, buttons the tan shirt laden with Boy Scout patches, and knots a yellow and red scarf around his neck. The guy fusses with the scarf for a long time. Tommy stares at his jowly, stubbly cheeks, smells the odor of cheap aftershave. To his disgust it’s the same one Conrad, his mom’s boyfriend, wears. Finally, Frank places a scouting cap on his head. “Oh, wait,” Frank says in alarm. Manically he searches his gym bag finding a merit badge sash and hands it over to Tommy. Tommy examines it and drapes it over his shoulder. Satisfied, the Scout Master gets on the bed and unzips his pants, pulls them along with his yellow-stained underwear down to his ankles. “Okay, Oscar. Scout Master’s ready.” Tommy goes and sits on the side of the bed and starts stroking him. Frank remains soft. It could take all afternoon, so Tommy leans over and combines sucking and stroking him with a slippery hand. This seems to do the trick. Most of the time the guy stares at the ceiling, but occasional glances over at Tommy. Frank asks, “Could you not using your hand, just suck?” Tommy wipes his palm on the bedspread and picks up the pace, bobbing up and down on the penis. Perry taught him to slobber plenty so the cock will go down his throat. Frank’s not large but big enough that he has to suppress his gag reflex when his nose gets buried in the man’s pale pubes. Scout Master Frank groans and starts rocking his pelvis in time with Tommy’s bouncing head. He rests a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, then runs his hand down the sash, and promptly cums in a series of quick, short bursts. Tommy swallows the discharge and perches back up on the side of the bed. Frank tells him how nice that was, then shifts his large body back up to sitting, and slides up his underwear and pants. As he’s leafing through his wallet he asks for the uniform back. Tommy changes, hands him back the grocery bag. In the bathroom Tommy washes his hands and rinses his mouth, spits. When he reemerges, Frank’s gone, but there’s two crisp twenties sitting on the dresser. Closing the motel door behind him, Tommy searches his pockets for change. He inserts quarters in the vending machine and pulls out a Mountain Dew, then glides serenely through the tree-lined streets of suburban Massapequa. * Thanks to Oscar’s initial outings, the next time Tommy shows up at the park to meet his crew, he’s sporting an expensive pair of Nikes. Nice kicks, one of his friends tell him. Where’d he score the money, asks another. He says his mom, and no one presses him, but no one believe him either. She’d never shell out the bucks for the high-end sneakers Tommy’s wearing—not on a receptionist’s salary. It isn’t even that hard, these early tricks. Perry arranges all the meetings: twenty for hand jobs (2), and forty for blow jobs (3). The cash is Perry department, but he gives Tommy whatever he wants. Sneakers out of the trunk of a guy he knows, say, or a bag of excellent weed to share with his crew. If nothing else, Perry has a surprisingly number of shady connections. After the next dozen tricks, the team of Perry and Oscar get new flip phones. Tommy exchanges numbers with a few of the guys in the park and gets texts during the week from a couple of them. Mostly, though, the messages come from Perry giving him various logistical instructions. Room numbers, times to show up, e.g. It’s also a way for Perry to keep an increasingly tighter leash on Tommy without him knowing it. what r u doing? who u with? that loser! ditch him! want 2 cum over - hehe? His solo hookups with Perry definitely pick up after the flip phones. Also it begins Perry weening Tommy off his skater friends. It’s not just for sex that Perry gets Tommy to come over. It’s also Tommy’s becoming his go-to party bud. Tommy thinks Perry’s a fun guy to be around, especially when they’re high—and they’re almost always high. Perry’s the worldliest guy Tommy knows. He’s been to places all over, like Europe and Asia, Hawaii, Brazil—he’s even been on an Africa safari. Perry promises to take him to these places someday. Tommy can even choose the country. Tommy even likes Perry controlling him in a weird kind of way. It’s sort of cool, he thinks, to have someone tell him he should have another beer right before he’s finish his first one. Or, like they should smoke another joint even though they’re already wasted. Perry in charge of what movie they watch, and the movies, man! It’s fucking amazing and sometimes revolting how sick men can be with one another. Tommy starts to notice when something really nasty is about to be on the screen, Perry starts sucking him off. Inevitably he’ll nut at the most disgusting parts in a movie—an amputee fisting a guy’s hole with his stub, or, not just fisting, but a guy pulling out another guy’s rectum. It’s completely sick! Contrasted with the good times at Perry’s with the fights escalating at home with his mom and Conrad. They get more frequent and increasing more nasty. Since Conrad struck him at Thanksgiving, Tommy despises him. Since the incident erupted from him being snotty to his mom, his relationship with her is for shit. Over the last few months he’s ceased to care about her. Perry reinforces this alienation. He always is on Tommy’s side—what a cunt she is to him, what a leech that fucker is. This, in turn, justifies Tommy spending more time at Perry’s, usually trashed, sometimes crashing on his couch, or increasingly waking up in Perry’s bed. Two month after they first met at Jones Beach, Tommy’s hanging out in the parking lot waiting for Perry to pick him up. He’s late as usual. Tommy, in ripped jeans, sleeveless Metallica tee-shirt, with his now broken in Nikes, practices a kickflip. He executes a couple of three-sixty back shuvs on his board as Perry coasts the Triumph into the lot. Perry revs the motorcycle as a kind of hello, but Tommy ignores him. Perry balances the Triumph between his legs and pushes up his face shield. He takes the camera hanging around his neck and clicks a few photos of Tommy in the air jumping off the curb. Perry shuts off the motor and saunters over. His white tee-shirt’s ridden up his chest on the way over. He pulls it down beneath his new leather jacket. Tommy slyly glances around to make sure no one he knows is around before acknowledging him. “S’up,” he says when Perry’s in range. “What’s up with you? Your trick thingy looked awesome.” He scowls at Perry. “I suck.” “Yeah, but you suck so much better now,” Perry tells him, pulling off his helmet. “Shut up.” “No, really. The skating, you’re like, what do you call it—like, some sort of skating Zen master. I never realized that.” “Nah.” Tommy feels his face flushing. “I’m average. Not even.” “Accept a compliment graciously, dip shit.” Tommy smirks, kicks his board up into his arms and pushes a knot of hair behind his ear. “Speaking of how hot you are … the last shoot.” Perry whistles. “The pictures, they’re awesome, especially a couple of you in that harness. You are one sexy fuck. And I bet these—,” he pats his camera, “—these are going to be doubly awesome. Every daddy on Long Island will want to suck my skater boy’s cock.” Perry shades the camera so Tommy can see the LCD display on the back. “Hard to see in the sun, I know. But look at these.” Perry flicks photos across the screen: Tommy lying back on the couch gripping his cock; another on his stomach showing his white bubble butt; a few portrait shots in a leather harness and a dog collar. “I got a big nose,” Tommy comments after the last close-ups. “Yeah, right. You’re talking to the king of schnozzes.” Perry holds his head in profile, which amuses Tommy who tries to hide it. “I bought a GoPro so we should do some point-of-view videos. That’d be hot on your profile. What’d’ya say, pupster? Hot skater boy fucking his sling daddy? Oh, and I have a little surprise a friend left behind.” Tommy shrugs, whatever. Perry puts his helmet back on and Tommy rides his board to the motorcycle. He pops a little Ollie in the air to show off. “Aw-rooo!” howls Perry behind him. Tommy bursts into a big smile that he knows Perry won’t see. Strapped to the back of the bike hangs the helmet Perry bought him. Perry revs up the bike, while Tommy stows his board in a side case and adjusts his helmet. He climbs on wrapping his arms around Perry as they roar out of the lot. Tommy holds on tight. His fingers travel inside the open jacket feeling the soft white tee-shirt and Perry’s prominent ribs beneath. He feels secure hanging onto him with such ferocity. The faster Perry races down the road, the stronger he clutches him. When Perry gets on the Southern State Parkway, he weaves the bike recklessly between passing cars. It feels like they’re practically at forty-five degrees to the asphalt, leaning one way then the other. Tommy coils his arms around Perry’s abs and chest, inclining his helmet against Perry’s shoulder, letting the world cruise by feeling it’s only him and Perry in it. He’s never allowed himself to trust someone as much as he trusts this man. No one’s ever made him feel special like this. There’s a mad symbiosis at play: the faster Perry speeds dangerously ahead, the harder Tommy holds him; the harder Tommy holds him, the more chances Perry takes regardless of risk to them both. After the parkway, Perry take a side street and they coast into a KFC drive-through. Perry decides what they’ll have, pays, and Tommy holds the plastic bag as they tear down the street. Inside the apartment, Perry takes the food to the kitchen, throws keys, smokes and wallet on the kitchen pass-through. The computer monitor’s on with Tommy’s face on the screen. He hasn’t seen this before so of course he’s drawn over. “Oscar,” Tommy reads,” PNP-yes. Unsafe sex-only. Poz, not on meds.” There’s other stuff he’s never heard of, and other stuff he’d never go near in a million years. “PNP is partying, like coke and meth?” Tommy asks Perry. Perry pops his head through the kitchen pass-through. “I put the chicken and mash potatoes in the fridge for later. Unless you want it now?” “Watersports. That’s playing in piss, right?” Tommy scrolls down his page reading about someone he doesn’t recognize. “Did you see what my friend left on the coffee table?” “Hey, why is there a picture of an asshole? That’s not even me. Look. Dark hair.” Perry dances into the room and plucks a small bag of white powder off the coffee table. He waltzes to the computer and plops down. “It’s all part of upping your game, pup. Guys like to see assholes. I didn’t have one of yours, so I plucked one from someone else. If you don’t like it I’ll take it down.” Perry opens the baggie and dips in a finger and rubs it on his gums. “This is just an update I’m working on. So chill. None of it’s posted.” “What’s that?” Tommy points at the baggie. “Something I got from Jerome, one of my top. It’s for us.” Perry scoots over on the desk blocking Tommy from seeing any more of his profile. He swings the white powder in from of him like a pendulum. “What do you mean, one of your tops?” “Just that. One of my tops. What?” He hadn’t meant it to sound so caviler but he sees his mistake immediately on Tommy’s face. It crumbles as Perry’s words land harder than Conrad’s Thanksgiving smack ever did. “Oh, baby,” he says, putting both hands on Tommy’s heated cheeks. Perry’s instinct is to feigns disbelief in his defense. “You didn’t think we were exclusively—” Tommy whips his face out of Perry’s hands, cringing at what he knows should have been obvious. “But I thought …” He can’t even finish. “Fuck this.” Tommy clamps down his face. Expressionless, he pushes away from the desk and storms to the door. Perry’s urgency gets him to the door first. He block it so Tommy can’t leave. “Knock it off. Don’t be like that!” he reprimands him. Then adds, more gently, “You know I see guys. I never made that a secret. Hell, you see guys now, too. I know, I book them. And, for god sakes, you get paid for it. You should be grateful. I wished I knew half of what you know at your age.” He puts his hands on Tommy’s shoulders. “It took me another ten years to have the balls enough to suck a dick.” “Let me go.” Tommy shrugs him off and makes for the door handle. “Then go. You’re being a child. I thought I was dealing with an adult, but you’re acting like an immature girl.” With his hand is on the doorknob, Tommy asks, “This Jerome guy, he’s like a … your—?” Tommy’s desperate not to put a name to what his mind’s racing toward. “What? Boyfriend? Lover? No. As much as Scout Master Frank is one of yours.” Tommy stares at the door. “This guy is just a guy. Personally, I don’t even like him—he’s dumb as that doorknob—but he’s got a great cock and knows how to use it.” Perry tries to get Tommy to turn around and look at him. “There’s lots of guys I play with, but you’re the only pupster in my life. The one who has my heart. What? You don’t know that?” He pulls Tommy’s chin around so he’s looking directly into his eyes. He sees Tommy’s eyes are misty and that makes him want to kiss him, but Tommy defiantly turns his head. Perry doesn’t relent, just wraps his arms around the boy and rocks him. Once his hand falls off the door handle and turns around, Perry toys with him, grinds his crotch into Tommy crotch so he knows he feels his bulge. A minute goes by till he feels the boy fully give in. He whispers in his ear, “I’m sorry it’s a guy like me that loves a guy like you. Tommy from Massapequa.” Tommy can’t hold back his fear, his insecurity, his youth, and lets tears silently stain the white tee-shirt. His fingers dig into the Perry’s jacket. “You are the center of my world.” Perry clutches him tight. “You’ll always be the center of my world, no matter how many men you’re with or I’m with. It’s just the two of us, understand?” The more Perry talks the more tears flow. Tommy pushes back and give him a hard punch on the pec. Perry grabs his fist and kisses it. “What about those things on my profile. They’re not true. I’ve never take it up the butt. And you wrote I’m poz. You fucking made all these things up. Guys are gonna expect things.” Perry leads him to the couch. On the way he pulls off his jacket and drapes it on the desk chair. He collapses back, pulling Tommy so he flops with his back on Perry’s chest. Blond hair spreads out on his tee-shirt. He rubs Tommy’s chest. “I put them there so they’ll get you more money.” Perry kisses the back of Tommy’s head. He brushes his hair behind an ear and speaks softly. “I didn’t know when I would tell you this, but I’m thinking of changing our game plan.” Tommy twists he head to look at Perry. “What if … you and I … left Long Island … and move to New York?” Tommy abruptly pushes off him and ends up at the kitchen pass-through. “You want me to live with you.” It’s not a question, but he's trying to take in all Perry is proposing. Tommy feels his heart racing, the drum in his ears of both fear and excitement. “Okay, listen. Hear me out.” He looks at the Perry sternly from across the room. “You’re fuckin’ with me.” Perry motions that he wants Tommy to come back to the couch, but Tommy hovers stubbornly out of reach. Perry’s head flops forward looking down at the coffee table. He begins, “Okay. I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I’m thinking we should get into a bigger market. One where you could make a lot more money. The only place like that is the city.” He looks up and sees Tommy’s turned away. “But to do that—look at me.” Tommy lights a cigarette, listening, but won’t look at him. He leans against the pass-through, exhaling smoke through his nose. “First of all, most men who respond on the site you’re looking at, especially men that’ll spend for sketchy sex, they like danger but not risk. They’ll settle for a blow job from a poz boy—makes them think they’re playing with a young rattlesnake. But—would you fucking look at me?” Tommy paces over to the desk and perches on the back of the chair, smoking, arms crossed. He meets Perry’s eyes defiantly. “But in the this city, you’re going to run across some men that are just fine going all the way—could be poz, could not be, might not even know one way or the other. Fact is, they just want to fuck or be fucked. And, to play in this sandbox, if we take this leap together, move in together I mean, I want you to be prepared for that.” “What’d’ya mean prepared?” Perry laughs a little, reaches over the coffee table and grabs him with both hands. He drags him reluctantly back to the couch. Twisting him around so his back is once again on his chest, he takes the cigarette, inhales off it, the leans over and snuffs it out in the ashtray. He takes his palm, slips it under Tommy’s shirt and grazes his smooth belly. Slowly his hand makes its his way down his pants. “I mean, when we get an apartment together—and I’m not saying we’ll getting a palace on Fifth Avenue. More like a place in the Spanish Harlem or maybe, like, the Bronx—” Tommy traces his hand down Perry’s wrist into his pants. He laces his fingers across Perry’s fingers. Perry squeezes Tommy’s swelling cock. “By upping our game, I think you need to be willing to put out, to flip when it’s called for.” Perry traces his fingers under Tommy’s balls and lightly grazes his hole. “That means … sometimes … taking it up the butt.” Tommy’s quiet with Perry’s hand leaving his hole and finding its way up to his chest. His hearts still racing. He knows Perry can feel it pounding: how scared he is by the proposition, and the temptation. It’s not like he’s never thought about it. Perry brushes away his hair and kisses his neck, his ear. “But I’m like a virgin, like, that way.” “Yeah, you and Miss Madonna.” “It’s not funny.” “I know. I know that. And this,” Perry says, pointing to the bag of white powder, “is the way we remedy that.” Tommy wiggles to get up but Perry holds him so he stays put, planting another kiss on his neck. “Listen, I never want you to do anything you don’t want to do. But if you want us to move in together, I have to know we’ll have the means to afford it. It’s expensive, anywhere in the city. My disability checks and your twenty dollar hand jobs won’t cut it. We’re not playing in the minors, and that calls for hundred dollar fucks. So. What do you think? It’s completely up to you.” “Taking a cock. In my ass.” Again, not a question. Tommy ponders the idea, staring at the smoke cinder Perry failed to fully put out in the ashtray. “You’re poz, aren’t you?” Perry nods once, his chin poking Tommy’s shoulder. “On meds?” Tommy twists around to look at him. “No, I am not. Don’t believe in it. Never will. Listen. We can put in your profile you only play safe. That will always be your decision.” Tommy takes a long moment looking in Perry’s eyes. “Okay. Only safe.” “And that’s what we’ll put.” Perry clutches the baggie. “Now this, I’m telling you right now pupster, will put our past parties to shame. Guar-an-teed.” Perry kisses his forehead and runs a hand through his hair. He moves into the kitchen and for several minutes goes through drawers, turns on the tap, goes through other drawers, reemerges, an excited smile on his face, holding two syringes. Tommy shoots upright. “Uh-huh. You didn’t say that.” “Just to get you over the speed bump. I promise, it’ll open horizons you won’t believe. Faster than ten years of tepid little steps that I took.” Tommy backs up to the end of the couch away from Perry. He clutches a leopard print pillow to his chest. “Baby, I would ever let anything hurt you. You know that. This, I promise, is the opposite of that.” Tommy pulls his legs up on the couch sitting in a fetal position, knees pushing into the pillow. “Now just stop it! Your being a pussy.” He lets up a bit, seeing Tommy’s scared, exactly what he doesn’t want him to be. Tacks a complete one-eighty, asks playfully, “Where’s that daredevil that flies skateboards straight into the air? Who risks going into strange men’s motel rooms and does god-knows-what in a scout uniform?” Perry smirks, seeing this type of persuasion is more effective. “I swear, Tommy from Massapequa, you’ll thank me for this. I know you will. I bet you’ll do more than thank me once you get flying.” As Tommy takes the first few tentative steps to uncurl on the couch, Perry praises him. “Good boy.” Perry waits. Tommy looks nervously at him. Gently, Perry sidles up next to him. Perry sets the two needles on the coffee table. He lures him seductively. “You’re such a good boy.” Perry brushes back the hair hanging down in Tommy’s face. “I promise I’ll with you every step of the way. We’ll start looking for apartments this weekend. How’s that?” Tommy sets the pillow on his knees. “What do I do?” “Nothing. Put your arm on the pillow.” Tommy does, while Perry glides his fingers over Tommy’s forearm. He twists the arm over and back, finds a ridge and pushes the tip of the syringe into his vein. Pulls it back. The vial flashes dark red, and Perry give Tommy his first slam, the first among the incalculable number of slams he’ll keep administering over the next six years. * Perry’s GoPro video focuses first at his own cock. The cock’s hard and making its way between Tommy’s white cheeks. On the leopard print bed, Tommy’s holds open his legs. His balls and his dick are shriveled. He’s rushing hard, caught up in how sexually alive he feels. His rapid breathing causes his chest to rise and fall. Perry’s purple head leaks a drip of precum. It glistens out of his erection, teasing against Tommy’s virginal barrier. Background audio picks up Tommy’s wordless mutterings, cries that vacillate between frenzy and splendor. You don’t see Perry but you hear him. “What do you want?” He’s plucking Tommy’s small nipples. The GoPro tilts up to Tommy’s face. A blindfold is perched across his forehead. He wears a thick dog collar. His eyes are wild. He answers Perry not a robotically, but full of intense, desperate desire. “I want your raw cock inside me.” Perry’s tells him what he can’t see, won’t hurt him, as he pulls the blindfold over his eyes. Tilting down, you see Perry again toying the tip of his large head against the boy’s puckered hole. “What do you want from my cock?” Gently he rubs the head slightly in and out, tempting Tommy with more to come. “I want your cum.” Perry get off the bed and applies more lotion on Tommy’s hole. There’s a dark stain on the bedsheets where lotion is already oozing out, but this is Tommy’s first cock and he knows it’s already going to hurt. He squats down so the pink clenched sphincter winks at the camera. A single finger goes in and comes out. Goes in, comes out. That alone brings moans of desire off camera. We’re back to a bird’s eye view of a hard cock and a black triangle of pubes pushing into a virgin. There’s a gasp and you see Tommy’s mouth open in surprise. His head turns on the pillow, turns back with grimacing satisfaction. “What kind of cum is it?” Perry distracts him, seeing he’s in pain. He’s taken his first inch of cock. “Toxic. Cum.” Each word reflects the pain he feels. Looking down at Tommy’s shriveled cock and balls, legs spread, you see him pulling his cheeks apart desperately bucking his pelvis upward. His flaccid cock points up like a stubby pen, balls almost nonexistent. He continues pulling his cheeks apart, pushing his hips up to his unseen violator. “You want me to knock you up with my charged load?” Perry’s half way in, making his way quicker than he thought. Tommy’s hole is exceedingly wet and receptive. “Please. Yes. Knock me up.” There’s a subtext of doubt in what he’s saying. Then his mouth tightens. Perry pulls out slightly. Tommy’s next words contradict the tentativeness of his previous. With assurance, he says, “Yes, fuckin’ charge me.” He thrusts up his hips wanting back the inch Perry withdrew, and now wants more. The GoPro buffets wilding around the room as Perry flips Tommy on his side. The red chili lights dangle over the sling next to the bed. Above the headboard there’s a passing view of a large tapestry of a lion. Swinging back down, Perry pulls one of Tommy’s legs in the air. We track back focusing on Perry’s long cock going back inside the white butt cheeks. Perry leers over Tommy’s shoulder seeing him pulling on his soft cock. “Take it. Take what you want.” Tommy hips thrust back and you hear the cameraman’s moan as his cock is milked. Closer, he’s inching in so his entire cock’s inside Tommy. He fucking is increasingly more violently against Tommy ass. “You want me to knock you up, don’t you?” he says in his ear. Tommy’s stopped listening, submitting completely to the intense feeling he’s never felt before deep in his body. He has no reference for this. It’s not like he’s shitting with the turd fighting to get back inside. No, it’s Perry’s cock buried deeply in him. A man is fucking him, saying in his ear: “No turning back. My DNA is going to be your DNA.” Rather than verbally responding, Tommy pushes his hips repeatedly into Perry’s crotch. “You’re going to be New York’s finest cum-dump whore and put your ass out for every fucker in the city. I know you want that. Show me how bad you want it.” Tommy bucks wildly against Perry, and squirts white cream across the leopard sheets even with his flaccid prick. He keeps breathing rapidly in the same rhythm that Perry’s fucking him even after he’s nutted. It’s a sensation he loves as much as he loves Perry. His big cock pummeling inside him. How it makes his insides satisfied in a way he never could have imagine. He begs Perry to fuck him harder, for him to cum inside him, both hands gripping the side of the bed and frantically pushing into Perry. “I’m close,” Perry groans. Tommy’s grunting in Perry’s rhythm. “I’m not pulling out.” In post-production, Perry slows this final section. You see Tommy gnaw at his bottom lip so hard it starts to bleed. One of his hand launches slowly into the air, blindly searching for the fucker inside him. The camera tilts and the hand finds Perry’s hip—a wasted, wiry leg fucks hard into his ass. Tommy’s hand grabs Perry’s stringy ass not allowing him to pull far away. Perry’s climaxing, while Tommy begs to be pozzed, wants Perry to breed him. He begs Perry to shoot his poisonous cum up his hole so far it’ll never find its way out. Tommy’s voice slows mechanically, unnaturally deep, the audio slowing even as his rant picks up with unintelligible insistence. A series of measured, hard, violent fucks confirms Perry has unloaded in him. Perry grips Tommy’s hips, straining against his no-longer virgin hole, his emaciated hipbones locked into Tommy’s bubble butt. Off camera, ropes of sperm entangle in the boy’s entrails, absorb into his body, enough to alter his negative status. On camera, you see the aftermath: long stringy hair plastered onto Tommy’s face. One frame at a time, his heaving breath puffs a blond lock forward, back, forward, back, forward. And right there, with a strand of hair suspended, the last frame freezes—under the straw-colored hair, contours of a contented smile. Six years after that moment, Perry will be out of the picture—breaking his promise of being there forever—by way of a malignant brain tumor on the temporal lobe. Difficulty speaking; forgetting words; short-term memory loss; not knowing Tommy: it’s textbook stuff. Unmanaged and destitute, Tommy will be evicted from their Bronx apartment, living—if you can call it that—in an alley where there’s a mattress to crash. Strung out, high when he panhandles enough, until one night when he feels warm, salty piss hit his face, and his life, yet again, is transformed. * Jesse bites down so hard on his lip that it starts to bleed. Two small medical sounds are down his urethra and Brother Virgil has the bright idea, since it seems Jesse can tolerate two sounds, a third, even larger, is in order. Abbot Santana poppers the boy while Virgil slowly lowers a third sound between the other two. The dreadful sensation of his dick being ripped open from the inside is mitigated by the poppers, which finds pleasure amidst the pain. Stronger even than the popper’s odor is the unmistakable aroma of seared flesh. Grilled steaks Jesse hopes is what he’s smelling, but in this house you never know. Still the smell makes his mouth water as the wild sensation of having his prostate poked from inside sends mixed signals to his body. From the open sliding door poolside, sounds of dishes and silverware clatter. Jesse hears Eros and Tommy complimenting Jaxton for their breakfast. He can't wait any longer. Jesse takes a deep breath, then grabs Virgil and Santana’s hands and yanks the sounds out swiftly and painfully. This violent action confounds the monks. Jesse picks up the sounds, one in each fist, and jams them up into Virgil’s eyes. All the old man’s breath shrieks out of his lungs. Blindly he flies forward off the bed, stumbling, tripping over used dildos, plops sideways through the sliding door’s screen. He hit the balcony railing, fumbles, twists round, hands clawing at his face. He leans too far back, flips over going headfirst, straight down until his bald head cracks open on the concreate. Abbot Santana, momentarily stunned, his sexuality at its bestial peak, is transformed completely into a lupine form. Furious and yet cock stiffly engorged, it bares its fierce teeth, eyes bloodshot in lust and anger, its cock drips as it turns to rip Jesse to shreds. They roll together off the bed. On the floor, arms flailing in fury, Jesse kicks the feral thing in its soft underbelly right between its teets. It falls back under the sling while Jesse backs up to the upholstered chairs at the ocean window. The thing’s snout arches to the ceiling. It produces a wounded, ferocious bay that is at once heartbreaking as it is enraged. Its red eyes glare at Jesse with the hatred fitting a creature of hell. In one bound, it leaps across the room pinning Jesse down. It snarls and snaps at his throat. Several times the razor-sharp teeth snap a hair’s-breath from his neck. His youth, combined with pumping adrenaline and resuscitated by his own anger, he dodges the creature’s lurches, and rolls to the far side of the bedroom. He looks around frantically, but there’s no weapon he can see to protect himself. The beast growls low, paces in a semi-circle so there’s no escape. It manages to speak with an inhuman voice, barely discernable, and yet it makes Jesse tremble: “You are not long for this world, pitiful child. So young, your fate as one of the hollow discards will last for eons and be full of agony. I will personally see to it. Your eyes myself will take from you as you have taken from my beloved.” Enraged by its own speech, it shakes its head, then vaults across the floor, trapping Jesse against the sling. The beast arches its back to deliver a decisive blow to Jesse’s tender neck. Jesse reaches above to the sling and finds a horse dildo and shoves it as hard as he can into the creature mouth. The rubber dong stuns the beast, but only for a second. Jesse crab-walks back but is stopped against the bed. There’s nowhere now to escape. The creature flings away the rubber toy, and stalks slowly toward his prey, its eyes red and radiant, the fur on its back standing up. Under the bed Jesse’s palm feels something cold and hard. Watching the creature crawl up his naked legs, its front arms push his torso back against the bed. The unearthly fiend’s jaw opens poised at Jesse’s protruding veins. Its lips bare back, saliva dripping from its knife-edged teeth. Jesse grips the cold silver rod and drives the third large sound with both hands directly into the beast’s heart. It howls in torment. Blood gushes down Jesse’s arms. The beast roars at the effrontery of what a mere boy has done. Jesse pulls with all his might down the creature's body ripping open its chest, spilling the contents out in a heap over his bare torso. Its eyes momentarily meet his. It looks down at the carnage. In one instant, the millennia it has evaded the grave sweep over its body. Red eyes turn to white, dark fur and pale flesh crumble, then become ash. Dust combines with the gore coating Jesse. His mouth hangs open agape. He spits out the ashy residue, but the Abbot’s bitter rancidness lingers on his tongue. Not wasting a second, he sprints to the balcony to warn Tommy and Eros, but at the railing he’s struck by a new horror: Virgil lies dead by poolside, but it’s Tommy clutching his stomach, seizing next to him that pierces his heart. Eros looks on from the breakfast table, eyes fixed, body and face paralyzed, tears trail across his stubble as he watches helplessly Tommy convulses in death throes. White foam froths from his mouth, draining poison from his lips, spilling into the water. Lucius, in his stolen youthful form, oversees his work, flips Tommy onto his back. The tattooed gardener, Tommy, T, rented out as Oscar, worshipped by Eric, the love of Eros’ life, seizes less and less. The demon below looks up at Jesse above, and offends all decency with a glint of devilish pride.

8. Oscar Sunday, the day after Eddie’s death and Father Lucius’ suspicious disappearance, is a warm summer morning. High above the island, a few gauzy clouds caught in a light breeze stretch across the deep blue sky. Wave crash softly beyond the dunes on the empty beach. Out at sea, miles east of the lighthouse, a regatta of sailboats race each other blissfully unaware of the horrors that have fallen or are ready to fall on a few residents of this cursed island. Jaxton knocks on the shack door. Peeling flakes of pink paint fall from his rap onto his sandals. A few moments go by before Tommy answers. The door creeks open and Tommy stands naked, rubbing his eyes. The slightest suggestion of crinkles in the corner of his eyes show his thirty-five years on this earth. Over his shoulder, Jaxton zeros in on Eros’ hairy ass lying face down on the futon. “What’s up?” Tommy scratches his hanging balls. Jaxton looks down at all his tattoos focusing on the red demon above his plump cock. Points. “That one is definitely your finest.” “Oldest one I have. What’s up?” Tommy repeats. “Mac says he doesn’t want the steaks he had for Eddie and Father Lucius to go to waste.” “Uh-huh.” “I can grill them for you guys. If you like.” “Hey, Eros. You up for a steak breakfast?” “Course,” he says, stirring from bed. He sits up with an impressive morning wood. “When?” Jaxton calculates in his head, slightly distracted by Eros’ enormous erection. “Um, maybe twenty minutes? I can fix them with some eggs. Uh, steak and eggs?” Eros yawns. “Sounds good. How’s Jesse?” “Sleeping,” Jaxton lies with a smile. “See you in twenty.” Tommy nods and closes the door. “No way that’s the same dreadlock bro from yesterday.” “Nope.” Eros gets up, goes into the bathroom and lets out a powerful stream of piss. “So he get brainwashed or something?” “Dunno.” Eros emptying in the toilet bowl makes it sound like Niagara Falls. “We should check on Chewy.” “C’mere first. I need my dick sucked.” Tommy is nothing if not accommodating. He walks in the bathroom and kneels before Eros’ dripping cock. Looks up. “You gonna drink my piss after?” “Course.” * Dante swings opens the pink shack’s freshly painted door. “Lasciate ogne speranza,” he says with his ironic smile. “Say what?” a fresh faced, twenty-five-year-old Tommy asks, peering inside. It not a bad place. Small, maybe, with a boyfriend the size of Eric. But it’s better than hiding out in the Bronx apartment avoiding Eric’s brother like he has for the past six months. “It’s something I wrote long, long ago: Abandon all hope,” says Dante, sweeping his hand into the shack. He’s the same height as Tommy, has the nose of a falcon, sad, alert eyes, and a cruel, straight mouth. “Lascia—uh.” Eric tries to repeat Dante’s phrase. “Lasciate ogne speranza,” pronounces Dante slowly, fingers pinched together, gliding through the air like he’s threading a needle. “Hope—it means—forget about it,” he laughs. The two boys’ stare at him curiously then scrutinize their possible future living arrangements. The taller one is dressed in a blue shirt, grey slacks, and white Converse sneakers; the blond one with long stringy hair is in jeans and a black t-shirt that reads, “FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING FUCK.” Dante sometimes questions Mac’s hiring choices. Both are nice to look at, though. The taller one is strong, but afraid of looking unintelligent—no, Dante thinks, mulling the adjective “unintelligent.” No, his fear is looking crazy. (Dante, if nothing else, is specific in how he writes about people.) The tall one is very beautiful in a very masculine way. His father, Dante muses, is a good father, wrestles with his sons after a hard day riding on the back of a sanitation truck. The mother, however, would be an exquisite beauty, the youngest and prettiest of three sisters, but extremely neurotic. Dante imagines the taller one’s family is allowed only to patronize restaurants that have male waiters, no waitresses—the mother wants no competition. There are no mirrors hung anywhere in the house. This neurosis would grow worse over time as her looks fade. Eventually she cannot leave her home lest people think her not still beautiful. Even her family would be discouraged to lay eyes on her. “What, what are you looking at?” she would say to a violator of this unwritten rule, her fingers fluttering in front of her face. It would be ingrained in him, this fear of growing old, of being judged by others. Like a bit of sand stuck in an oyster: a quality that becomes, over time, either a beautiful pearl or a malignant cancer. Pearl or cancer—TBD. The smaller one, quite defensive, is even more damaged, with many sharp edges to his personality. An early loss of a father is written all through him. He imagines life, Dante observes, squinting his aged eyes to read him deeply, life to him is a poker game and he has to get through it with only four cards to play whereas everyone else has been dealt five. Why? When did the damage occur? What becomes of him? * A teenage Tommy holds his skateboard in one hand while washing beach sand off his foot with the other. A few feet away there’s a middle-aged guy in sunglasses, slim but not skinny, shirtless, alone at a picnic table eating a burger and fries. Tommy, nose burnt and freckled from the sun, sets his skateboard down; his bare toe pushes it back and forth. He’s staring at the burger when the guy suddenly says, “Want one?” Tommy realizes the guy’s speaking to him. He didn’t know he was staring so intently, but he didn’t have breakfast—rarely did. He’s taken to slipping out of the house before his mom and her boyfriend, Conrad, get up. Extremely wiry kid back then, looks at most fifteen even though he isn’t. He still gets carded buying cigarettes, but his I.D.’s legit. The middle-aged guy doesn’t know that—just sees a skinny kid staring at him. Tommy rides the short distance over to him on his skateboard. The rubber wheels crunch over the gritty concrete. “Alright,” he says, taking up the guy’s offer. Guy gets up and puts in an order to a pimply girl at the snack bar window. While he’s away, Tommy sits at the table and shoos off an aggressive seagull trying to steal the guy’s last remaining fries. After a few minutes he comes back with a burger and fries in a plastic basket. Tommy lodges his long, straight hair back over his ears, says thanks, and then gobbles the burger noisily. That amuses the guy, the noise Tommy makes. Tommy’s downing a couple fries at a time when the guys asks his name. He looks over the guy in sunglasses for a second. “Tommy,” he says between French fries. “Perry Rosen. Esquire. How come you’re not at school, Tommy?” “Cause it’s Wednesday and I don’t go to school on Wednesdays,” he ad libs. Really he hasn’t gone to school since winter break on account of all his D’s and F’s. When Conrad smacks you for being snide at Thanksgiving dinner, you kind of lose interest in the future. Besides, what fucking business is it of this guy? “What are you—a truant officers? Why aren’t you at work?” “Because I’m on disability.” Perry tosses his last fry to the pushy seagull who nabs it mid-air and flaps off. “You like video games?” Perry lights a cigarette from his pack and offers one to Tommy. Tommy accepts it and stashes it behind his ear. “Gee, mister, what kid doesn’t like video games?” he gushes sarcastically, finishes his burger. “You gonna offer me candy next?” Perry laughs and raises his sunglass onto his brown wavy hair to get a better take on the kid. Tommy sees his brown hair matches exactly the color of his eyes. He presents Tommy with an appreciative smirk behind those watchful eyes. Tommy doesn’t trust this clown one bit, even if he is grateful for the meal. “You’re a smart ass, huh?” Tommy dangles a fry over his mouth and lets it fall in, not answering. “Fact is, I bought the new Grand Theft Auto.” “Awesome.” Tommy says sarcastically, but that tidbit has his attention. “You like some [banned word] picking up young guys at the beach?” “Nope. Just bored playing GTA by myself.” He flicks his ash, which tumbles over the concrete. Tommy senses what he says might be true, but still eyes the guy suspiciously while he finishes his fries. “C’mon. Let’s go.” Perry gets up. “I’ll drive you home afterward.” He puts the empty baskets on top of the trash bins. “You live around here?” “Yeah. Massapequa.” Tommy skates trying to keep up with Perry. He’s not all that bad looking, Tommy thinks, as they wind through the parking lot. Making an effort to get beside him, he observes his strong jaw, pointed chin, and a sly cat-like expression whenever he glances at Tommy—and he glances at Tommy a lot. On the skateboard he’s almost as tall as the guy, otherwise he’d probably be up to his nose. “You skate all the way to the beach?” Tommy nods, says, “Yep.” He takes the cigarette from behind his ear, cups his hands to light it. “This is me,” Perry says, as Tommy looks up. They’re stopped at a silver Mazda Miata. An older model but still makes an impression. Tommy skates around to the passenger side and gets in holding his board. There’s a blue Mother Mary plastic statue glued to the dashboard. He raises a dirty blond eyebrow at Perry. “Not guilty. Well, I am Jewish so I’m always guilty. But Mare was there when I bought this off an old geezer. Bad juju I figure if I break her off. Besides she’s looking out for me at the road. So what harm could there be?” He releases the roof hook on his side then reaches over Tommy and unhooks the other hook. “’Scuse me,” he says, leaning very close to Tommy. Tommy catches a whiff of coconut-smelling suntan lotion mixed with the musk of sweat. When he pushes the roof back, Tommy spies a small tufts of wet dark curls in his armpits. Perry pulls his sunglasses down, starts the convertible, revs the engine, then squeals out of the lot. Tommy hastily buckles in and hugs his board like a security blanket. The Miata roars down Ocean Parkway, taking the roundabout faster than any of the other cars. Perry pushes in the lighter and pulls a cigarette from his pack with his full lips. The ashtrays he opens overflows with butts. “So how old are you, Tommy from Massapequa?” he hollers as he guns the engine passing one car after another. “How old you think I am?” Tommy yells back. “Thirteen.” Perry eyes wrinkle with a smile behind his aviator frames. “Fuck you. Eighteen.” “You don’t look it. No hair in your pits that I can see.” He looks over at Tommy. Tommy lifts an arm to show him. “Some. It’s just blond. Why you care?” “I don’t. Prove it.” “What, that I’m not thirteen?” He gets out his I.D. and pushes it in the guy’s face. The lighter pops out and Perry press the glowing coil to his cigarette, glances at Tommy’s I.D. “Looks fake.” “It’s not.” Tommy slides it back in his cutoffs. The wind does a number on his hair making it flick in his face. He tries to put it behind his ears without much luck. He takes a hit off his cigarette and blows smoke into the turbulence. Looks out as the beach houses, scrub brush and dunes as they zip by. They drive for a while not talking. The guy seems to like weaving in and out, overtaking cars, which scares and exhilarates Tommy. He gives Perry a couple of sideways glances. Doesn’t look like a predator. Figures he’s in his forties, seems to keep in shape, has a few random dark hairs on his sternum, but smooth and deeply tan otherwise. He could be a high school track coach, if a high school track coach chain smoked. They pass over the Great South Bay Bridge. At the top of the bridge they’re flying so fast Tommy feels like any second they’ll take off and soar into the sky. Construction on the other side of the bridge and a stalled truck cause Perry to hit the brakes. As they squeal to a stop, he puts up a hand over Tommy’s chest to protect him. His hand falls back on the gear shift after he makes a detour to feel Tommy’s thigh. “Didn’t scare you, did it?” “Fuck no.” Tommy picks up the pack off the dashboard and takes another cigarette and light his old one with this new one. Perry looks at him and tries not to laugh. They ride the streets of Islip for several minutes, until they pull into the driveway of a two story apartment building: open garage parking on the first floor, apartments on the second. Tommy tosses his cigarette as they pull into a parking spot. Perry crush out his butt in the ashtray. “Be it ever so humbles,” Perry says, getting out. Tommy climbs out of the convertible, notices a Triumph motorcycle parked next to the Miata, wants to know if that’s Perry’s. It is, Perry confirms, as Tommy follows him up the back stairs. With the sunlight fading, Perry hold his set of keys close to his sunglasses, finds the right one, and unlocks the door. He usher Tommy and his clutched skateboard inside. It’s stuffy and smells like stale beer and cigarettes. Not surprisingly, on the coffee table there’s an ashtray brimming with butts. There’s an old, green couch with leopard print throw pillows and a La-Z-Boy over in the corner; a big screen TV sits on a stand opposite, with a DVD and VCR players underneath; unmarked DVD cases and video boxes are stacked on the sides. A swivel chair sits in front of a monitor on a desk, with game controls, and a PC tower adjacent on the floor. A framed Lion King poster adorns the hallway leading to the bedroom. It’s one of the only movies he love, a movie his mom—pre-Conrad—took him to when he was eight. “You like the Lion King?” Perry doesn’t answer. He’s quickly trying to clean up. Above the monitor there’s a huge framed photograph of the Savanna with a lion, lioness, and their cubs lying on a vivid green plain. He gets up close to it. In the corner there’s a small signature. Perry Rosen, 1999. “This really Africa?” Perry says it is as he’s closing a draw. He sets down his sunglasses and pack of cigarettes on the kitchen pass through. Tommy’s uneasy with what he sees in the dining area. A camera on a tripod, and in back of it are two stand holding up a dark grey backdrop. The backdrop spools to the floor behind a stool. A light on a stand aims at the backdrop, unlit. “What’s that?” Tommy wants to know. “What’s it look like?” Perry answers. “Like something a [banned word] would have in his apartment.” “Guilty as charged. But just a hobby.” Perry takes a cigarette from his pack and lights up. He turns on his monitor, boots up the game, and sits in the swivel chair and starts racing around the screen being chased by police cars. Tommy stands in back of him, still holding his skateboard. He’s familiar with the old 2D version of the video game—he’s played it often at friends’ houses—but this version is the new 3D one, and is so much cooler. For an old guy, Perry’s a pretty impressive gamer. He’s on it for a long time, screeching, shooting, before his avatar gets killed. He makes a big deal as he ceremoniously hands over the controls and the chair to Tommy. “Show me how it’s done, champ.” Tommy climbs in the chair and Perry watches him play. He cheers him on as he goes through various levels racking up wanted stars, money and guns. When Tommy fucks an in-game prostitute—racking up his health score—he turns around and shoots the whore to get his money back. Perry roars in astonishment and claps him on the shoulder. “You are one sick little fuck.” Tommy smiles in spite of himself. “I didn’t know you could do that,” Perry says. “I didn’t know I could do it either. Until I did it.” Tommy’s got a line of cop cars and helicopters chasing him. He gets distracted by the sound of a click, wipes out and his game character dies. He tosses the gaming controls on the desk and hears another click. Perry has his camera taking photos of Tommy. “My bubbee would have said something just like that.” He continues taking pictures of an increasingly annoyed Tommy. In a Yiddish grandma voice, he says, “’You never gonna know what you can do…unless you do it.’ She was all about taking changes, my bubbee.” “What are you doing, man?” “Taking a chance. Look how serious you are. Like a cross teddy bear.” Perry clicks several more times. Tommy holds up his hand to block Perry. “Ten bucks,” says Perry. “Aw, come on. Let me take a couple more.” He flips on the light on the stand. The brightness highlights the dinginess of the room: pale blue walls; a yellow water stain on the ceiling; burn marks on the checkered blue and grey linoleum floor, with a few more burn scars on the coffee table. “You serious? Ten. Just for some pictures?” Tommy asks distrustfully. Perry opens his wallet and takes out a ten dollar bill. “I said it was my hobby. Look.” He hands Tommy a photo album, dangling the ten out of Tommy’s reach. Tommy opens the album and flips through it. Page after page is of boys. None of them particularly good looking, just pretty average Joe’s; a few chubby ones, some even skinnier than him, like boys he goes to school with. Toward the back of the album he comes across a red flag—shirtless men, some with tattoos, some showing their hairy butts and, on the last page, some full frontals of pretty rough looking guys that look like they’re about to pounce on the photographer, fists clenched. “I knew you were a [banned word].” He gives back the album. “No. The boys are all legal. I have learned my lesson, your honor. Like I said, it’s just a hobby.” “Yeah, well, I gotta go.” “Five minutes and you get a ten spot.” “Not interested.” “You don’t have to, like, take anything off. You’re cute just in your trunks with your angry teddy bear face.” Tommy frowns and snatches the bill from Perry’s hand. He clutches his skateboard as he climbs on the stool. As Perry positions the camera framing Tommy tight, he says, “Would a smile kill you?” “Yes.” He grips his skateboard tighter to his chest. Perry takes a couple of photos then pleads with him to lower the skateboard, an inch, two inches. Tommy reluctantly does, looking stern and a little embarrassed. “Mind if I put on some music?” Perry asks. Tommy shrugs. He pops in Green Day, holds the camera close and moves with the music. Tommy thinks he’s such a doofus, the way he dances with his camera. It makes him sneer. “That’s it.” Perry starts clicking rapidly and sings with the song, “Don’t know where it goes. Yeah, curl that lip.” Tommy can’t help let escape a small smile at how dorky Perry is. “Gorgeous.” Perry’s really getting into the music and teasing Tommy with the camera. “I walk alone,” he sings getting the camera up in Tommy’s face. Tommy pushes the camera away and Perry swings it right back, taunting him. Perry falls to his knees looking up at him. “That’s it. Show me that distain. How fucked up is Tommy’s world?” Scorn is easy for Tommy to fall into. “That’s it. More. I walk alone.” Tommy leers at the man. “Go ahead, spit on me.” That takes him by surprise. “Say what?” “Yeah, or like you want to." Tommy considers what he asks. He feels the guy’s completely serious, so he spits on him a little just to see what he’ll do. It pushes Perry to a new passionate level. He starts clicking away like mad. “That’s it, that’s it. You think I’m some kind a loser, don’t you? Disbarred lawyer living in a shit hole like this. Come on, spit on me, motherfucker! Take it out on me—your fucked up little cunt!” Tommy sees he really gets off on this—and he doesn’t like what he’s saying—so he builds a big wad of saliva and hocks it at him. It lands on the guy’s forehead and runs down his face. “Wonderful!” Perry looks up from his camera. “That’s going to be a great one.” Perry puts the camera back on the tripod, shaking his head, more than a little embarrassed. He gets out a tissue and wipes his forehead and cheek. Tommy honestly doesn’t know what to make of this guy. Something reminds him how he drives his car, the fast-shifting moods. Something exhilarating being around him. “You’re a freak, dude,” he tells him. “Yes, I well aware of that.” He lights a cigarette. “I think you got a little freaky-deaky in you, too, Tommy from Massapequa.” He throws him the pack. Tommy pulls out one and lights it. He tosses the pack back to Perry. “What you said about being a disbarred—” “Yes, yes. I plead the fifth, your honor,” he says. Going into the fridge, he pulls out a couple of beers, offers one to Tommy who takes it. “What’d you, like, do?” Tommy pops his beer while exhaling smoke through his nose. Perry turns red face. He pulls the corners of his lips down in a mock sad face. “Uh, moral turpitude,” he says. Tommy doesn’t know what that means, but seeing Perry’s expression after he releases his lips—it’s a complex face he doesn’t know what to make of: angry, embarrassed, defiant, challenging—he knows he should drop it, but he persists giving Perry a quizzical look. “What’d ya do?” “Okay-okay-okay. Let’s just say, it’s why I wanted to see some I.D. from you. I’m not going up the river on a second offense.” There’s something shady, almost criminal, in way the guy’s eyes dart back and forth looking at him. It looks like he’s weighing what he’s going to do next. That same fear and thrill Tommy felt in the car. Tommy’s trying to decide if he should be wary of this guy or if he’s attracted to this side of him—he definitely feels danger coming off him. He’s never been presented with a choice like this before. Sure, he could walk out, but he decides he’s not going to. The guy could be a little deranged and he might like him more because of it. Perry smashes out his cigarette. “So,” he says, frighteningly normal-looking again like none of the past few second ever happened. “May I have my last two and a half minutes, please?” he asks, holding up his camera. Tommy shrugs his shoulders, puts out his cigarette. Perry pivots and puts on an old, scratchy Supremes record. As the music takes a hold of him, it seems to make him more stable, more average Joe, thinks Tommy. As Perry adjusts him on the stool, he sings to him: “Baby, baby…baby don’t leave me.” Tommy can’t help grin, if for no other reason than he’s relieved the guy’s like he was before. Perry is ready to shoot, but with his hands on his hips, the camera hanging on a strap around his neck, he says patiently, “Ya know, as much I love the street urchin look, can I get you to just brush your hair? Just a little?” “No,” says Tommy. He’s back to comfortably frowning at Perry. “Okay, wear this then.” Perry hands him a green knit hat. Tommy pulls it on. “Ah, you look like a cute little elf.” Tommy pulls it off. Now his hair is mussed at all angles. “Perfect,” says Perry, and starts shooting. Tommy gives him a disapproving glare, which Perry eats up. “Yeah, yeah. Right. You are so fuckin’ beautiful, Tommy. Has anyone ever told you that?” He stops, expecting an answer. Tommy’s not about to respond. Deeply scowls instead. “Well, you are ab-so-lutely stunning.” Perry grinds his hips to the music. “I’ve got this burning, burning, yearning feelin’ inside me.” He grabs his crotch and tease Tommy. “Ooh, deep inside me.” He pumps his hips at Tommy. “And it hurts so bad.” He steals a kiss. “Hey!” Tommy hops off the chair and pushes Perry backwards. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry,” Perry shakes his head in shame. “I know. Bad Perry. Perry very, very bad. Never do it again.” Tommy’s more in shock than mad. He can’t tell if Perry is acting or really is just a complete mess—he’s on his knees begging for forgiveness. “Here,” he says, pulling out his wallet and handing over a ten. “I promise you. Won’t happen again. You can hit me if I do.” “I don’t want to hit you, dude. I need to go.” “No, don’t go. I’ll put away the camera. I got some dynamite pot. We’ll watch a movie. I’ll order Chinese.” Tommy purses his lips. Perry turns off the music and the light on the stand. “Really. Any movie you want.” He pats the couch. “Come on. Sit.” Tommy sits at one end and Perry flops down at the other. He digs in his cigarette pack and produces a rumpled joint. He lights it, takes a big hit and hands it to Tommy. He pushes off the couch and goes through the DVDs under the big TV. “So, what do you feel like? Girl on girl, boy on girl?” He gives Tommy his sly-puss sideways glance. “Boy on boy?” “Straight,” say Tommy, as nonplused as he can. Perry pops in a disc and sits back on the couch. Tommy tokes and leans in to give him back the joint. The movie comes on. Cheesy graphics spin in the title: Anal Angels. Tommy throws him a disparaging look. “What? It’s Charlie’s Angels except they like it up the butt. Where’s the harm?” They watch for a while, passing the joint back and forth, while busty babes get rammed by a tattooed biker and an immensely endowed Black guy. Five minutes into it, one of the “angels” take both guys up her ass. It’s in extreme close-up, right between their pumping dicks. Perry starts rubbing his trunks where a rising lump is building. “I don’t’ know about you, but this is making me really horny. It won’t bother you if I rub one out, will it? I promise, line in the sand.” Perry draws an imaginary line between the couch cushions, between himself and Tommy. Tommy acts nonchalant and makes like he’s cool with it, even though he’s getting horny too. The double-dicked angel seem to be really enjoying how much it’s ripping her ass apart, and, with the pot loosening him up, and Perry beating away, he thinks he should lighten up, too—maybe pull out his dick. Never mind he’d be jacking next to a guy. Honestly, he’s done it a few times before at a few different buddy’s sleepovers, after they’ve been drinking, looking at Penthouses, and getting trashed on weed. Doesn’t happen often, but it has happened. So why not? Tommy guzzles his beer, then pulls down his pants and starts whacking along with Perry. He focuses strictly on the screen getting himself hard. He knows Perry’s looking over at him but he stares straight ahead. Then Perry stops jerking, leans over, and slips his mouth over Tommy’s cock. This first time a warm, wet mouth takes in his dick makes him almost cum instantly. With his palms pressing into the couch, he looks up at the water stain on the ceiling and then down at dark wavy hair, feeling the man’s soft tongue swirling around his cock. How good it feels, how stoned he is—Perry’s spittle sliding down his shaft, wrapping around his balls. As Perry bobs, Tommy places his hands gingerly on the man’s hair. His dick’s really wet and Perry amazingly manages to slide his cock deep down his throat, all the way down till he’s swallowed his cock down to Tommy’s sparse blond pubes. Perry wraps his hand under his balls and plays with them, then strokes Tommy’s cock with a clench fist. He looks at Tommy. “Feels good, yeah?” Tommy moans lightly as Perry swirls his palm around the head of Tommy’s cock, gripping him harder. “Like it, son?” Something about calling him son triggers him. “I’m cumming,” Tommy breathes a second before he releases. Perry increase the pressure of his palm and takes in Tommy’s dick head and swallows all the cum Tommy’s gushes out. Tommy claws the edge of the couch and buck wildly with Perry continuing to swirl and suck as he continues to spew. He thinks Perry will stop after he finishes cumming but he’s still slurping away way long after he’s climax. “Stop. Dude!” He pushes Perry’s head off him. Perry picks up his beer and lies back. “Time was,” Perry says, swigging some beer, “back in the Jurassic age, I’d have charged you twenty for that.” Tommy sucks back some of his beer, too, and looks at the screen avoiding Perry’s eye contact. The man’s evaluating him, he feels it. Doesn’t know what more he could want. Perry finally turns away and watches a new “angel” in a sling, legs spread wide, pussy lips hanging and red gaping butthole pushing open. The Black guy is greasing up his hand and slides grease in her butt. Slowly he slides this entire hand into her red gape. Perry starts beating off again. Tommy sits there stunned that the girl can take a hand as big as the Black guy’s. Tommy sits with his mouth open and his trunks still at his ankles, his dick hard as metal. The angel writhes and shrieks, encourages the Black guy to fist her harder. Tommy’s mesmerized, eyes glued to the screen with Perry’s spanking his cock beside him. Perry reaches a hand over and fondles Tommy’s cock while he beats his own. “Payback time,” Perry sings. He turns to Tommy. “Twenty bucks, you do that to me.” “Huh?” Tommy looks at him confused. “No seriously. I want you to stick your hand up my butt. Fist me just like that.” “That’s not possibly.” “Well.” Perry pauses masturbating, and begins to cross-exam Tommy: “First of all, your initial response is you didn’t say no. Secondly, see, she’s doing it, so you can clearly see it's possible. And finally, I like it. More than like it. I love taking a guy’s fist. But if you don’t feel like it, I can always get online after I take you home, and find someone who will. But I’d really like it if it was you. Easy twenty.” “I doubt if I can.” Perry claps excitedly. “Sure you can. I’ll lead you through it.” Perry steps out of his swimsuit, very erect. “Leave you trunks on the floor. God you’re hot!” He takes Tommy into his bedroom where a sling’s set up, one very much like the one in the movie. A can of Crisco is clipped to one of the poles. Perry plugs in red chili lights strung around the sling, and climbs in placing a leg in each of the hanging straps. The room is all reds and shadows. The sling’s chains sparkle. Perry skin shines, his pits and crotch are dark as midnight. “You’re going to be great. Okay, put Crisco all over your hand. Now take a wad and push it into my hole.” Tommy follows his instruction, can’t believe he’s about to do this, but completely intrigued by the idea of fisting someone. Pushing the wad of Crisco into Perry, it’s the first time he’s ever touched a man’s asshole. He can’t say he’s repulse—actually the opposite—it’s the softest thing he’s ever felt. He hears the actress in the other room continue to screech in what sounds like pleasure and agony. “You sure about this? It’s gonna hurt you.” “Yes, and?” Perry says. “Now make your hand like this,” he instructs, pointing all his fingers together. “Slowly push on my hole. No, don’t let up. That’s it. Keep going in.” Tommy loves how silky Perry’s hole is, like velvet. He takes two greased fingers and traces the asslips in a full circle, much to Perry’s satisfaction. The guy’s gushing him with praise. “Like a duck to water,” he’s says, as Tommy penetrates his entrance. The hole relaxes open as he pushes in. He penetrates him without a bit of grimace from Perry at all. “Aw, fuck baby, you make my hole sing!” Perry reaches up to a hanging sack dangling from a support bar. It clanks from a number of bottles inside. He pulls out a brown bottle and takes a hit from it. He offers it to Tommy, who doesn’t know what it is, but follows Perry’s lead. Perry holds one of his nostrils as he sniffs, then the other. There’s a cloud that forms in his head that overwhelms him, a desire to push his whole hand inside Perry hole, a relishing at how nasty this is, amplified by how much he loves the filthiness of this. Perry’s lying back looking at the ceiling coaxing Tommy to continue going in. Tommy doesn’t need any encouragement. He loves the way Perry’s sphincter opens for him, creamy as rose petals the touch of his skin. He’s up to his third knuckle before Perry says to wait a second, let him get used to his hand, but Tommy ignores him and keeps pushing in. Perry’s breathing rapidly through tight lips, murmuring obscenities, when Tommy breaks through. He glides his palm in, diving straight into a cavern up to his wrist. Perry’s sphincter clamps around him like a handcuff—he’s captive in a way he’s never been. Perry’s breath slows, his face melts in total bliss. “Fuck,” Tommy says, surprised at the accomplishment. His hidden hand feels all wet and warm, slimier than anything he’s ever felt. When he wiggles his fingers, Perry’s eyes roll up in his head in painful pleasure. Perry uncaps the bottle again and Tommy leans forward wanting another hit. Perry gives it to him, as he instructs Tommy to fold his hand into a ball. Tommy does and Perry tells him how good he’s doing, what a natural he is. “A star is born, baby!” Perry heaves in ecstasy, sniffing his bottle. “Streisand’s got nothing on you!” Tommy tries variations he witnessed in the movie. He pulses in and out of Perry’s hole. There’s so many cross-currents of tissue rubbing across Tommy’s fist, like he’s guiding his hand through a spongy cave, ramming his hand through a winding tunnel of flesh. He withdraws his fist almost out then pumps back in. “Aw, fuck me, you own this hole. Anything you do, just remember I feel it times a hundred.” Tommy pulls his hand out, slides more grease into Perry loose asslips, and follows through with his fingertips re-entering the hole. “Yeah. Go deep. Yeah, deeper.” Tommy does and finds Perry’s rectum is an amazing, pliable object that has its own set of rules. It’s like he’s suddenly handed the game console that controls another man’s body. With his fingertips, he twists them one way and then the other, which makes Perry twitch and cry. He lets the palm of his hand glide against the walls in a one-eighty, then reverses. He feels a bump at the top of this man cave. He lets his fingers dance against it. Perry is twerks on his hand like crazy. “You found my prostate. No! Don’t squeeze it,” which of course makes Tommy squeeze it. Perry jerks in the sling. Tommy feels powerful, in command for possibly the first time in his life. It starts to get a rise out of him. His dick’s straight out, aimed at Perry sloppy hole. As he pulls his hand out, he replaces it with his erection. It slides in like he’s fucking warm butter. It’s like his cock is in warm, viscous mud. Like he’s fucking mucous. All the imagery bombarding him makes him harder. “Slide your hand inside with your cock, if you can,” Perry suggests, looking up in Tommy’s direction. He’s cross-eyed in exaltation, unable to see the boy in the red shadows, but feels every inch of him. “Aw, fuck,” he exclaims, as Tommy slips his hand inside, surrounding his penis with his hand. “Jack off in me, baby.” Tommy does. The act is sick and feels so good, and brings such pleasure to Perry who hitting the poppers like a maniac, offering Tommy some on occasion. When he does get a hit, he goes crazy deep into Perry, whose loving every second of it. Perry starts jacking again, hard as a rock. He gives Tommy the three-second warning and points his dick straight up. Tommy, straight off a hit of poppers, eagerly bends down and takes the man’s cockhead in his mouth. Perry explodes his semen immediately, which Tommy swallows. The clenching rectum spasms as Perry orgasms. Tommy’s first swallow of cum and how good his cock feels whacking inside a sloppy hole, makes him gush again—a second time within an hour. Tommy pinches off every last drop, then slowly pulls out a slick hand and wraps his fist around Perry withering cock. “No, please don’t.” But Perry’s begging makes Tommy smirk and stroke his cock harder. Perry bounces like a marionette in the sling, jingling all the chains, pleading to Tommy to stop. He takes pity and reluctantly lets him off the hook. Tommy jumps up hanging from the top bar of the sling with his non-greasy hand, swinging back and forth making monkey sounds. “I knew you were a freak, baby. Saw it in your eyes the minute you skated over to me.” Tommy drops to the ground, scratching his armpit, still making monkey sounds. “No really, you could make some serious coin doing what you do.” Tommy still feels the saltiness of cum in his mouth, the buzz of the poppers, the lingering euphoria of the pot. Looking at Perry resting in the sling, he wonders what it would be like to switch positions. He smiles, beaming contented for the first time in a really long time. Perry’s focusing now, finally coming back to earth. “Baby, you got a knack. And I’m not just yanking your chain.” He awkwardly reaches Tommy’s cock and pulls on it. He flops back, looking at Tommy admiringly. He needs work, he realizes, but the raw talent is there with a little dash of crazy. “Listen, I get fisted all the time. Sometime I’ll pay for it, sure—and I definitely will pay for that. But you must think bigger. You have got the right amount of nasty and recklessness that some men like, that some men seek out.” He leans forward as much as he can with his legs still suspended. He grabs Tommy’s ribs. “Come here.” Perry reels him in. Tommy flops like a ragdoll over Perry sweaty, slick torso. He allows himself to be kissed repeatedly by Perry all over his face—doesn’t kiss him back. He grins smugly, regarding him like he’s full of it. Perry notes his reticence. “Alright. I can work with that.” He releases Tommy who stands there, even now, with his half-hard eighteen-year-old constant erection. “We need a name on your profile. Tommy's too boy next door. We need to get you geared up in leather, introduce you to a little S&M, get pics of you on a few nasty sites. I bet there’s a ton of men to hook you up with. They’d gladly line up to be disciplined by a hot skater boy like you, grovel at your feet. You put them through their paces, all right, and they’ll be happy to pay for the privilege.” Tommy scowls at him, thinks this is all bullshit. “Yeah, just like that. That cross teddy bear face.” He inhales suddenly. As if his name appeared to him on a movie marque, Perry sweeps his hand across the ceiling for Tommy to read: “Oscar. You’re garbage to him.” Perry lies back dreamily grasping the chains above his head. Tommy spies the wet dark tufts in his armpits. He slips his semi-rigid dick back in Perry’s dripping hole, and leans over to lick his pits like he’s wanted to since the car ride. “That's right.. Get piggy, boy.” Perry takes control of Tommy’s head, holding it tightly in his pit while Tommy sucks on his sweat-drenched curls. “Clean it up. Lick all of it. Oscar, we are going to make one hell of a fortune, you and me.” He guides Tommy's head over to suck out his other pit. “We need just one tweak.”

I hear you @bottomboyam Trust me, we'll get there. But first you have to know about Oscar.

Love it @Yultidelog2009 @YEGfaggot @pozpopperpig @pigwest ! I'd jerk off now AND later. I’m in the middle of a slight detour, but I won’t Abandon Jesse. Thanks for your encouragement! Oink!

7. Prey for the Sinners It’s night. He’s naked and disoriented. He stumbles barefoot through the swamp. Toads croak all around him. Snakes slither through the bog. Gliding by, one caresses his bare ankle. Dark outlines of lifeless trees everywhere. Each stride is a slog. Loud, slurping sounds accompany each step. Is he going the right way? He keeps falling deeper into the mire. Black ooze surrounds him up to his thigh and getting higher. All too quickly his cock and balls touch the mud and then, with his next step, are sucked down, invisible below the surface. He feels things down there. Unseen things. There’s a large creature beating overhead, a demon hovering with a massive wings above the treetops. It creates great gusts of wind over the brackish water. The disturbance bring up waves that crest over his chest, splash over his collar bone, get in his mouth. He’ll drown, he frets. The night might swallow him whole. Something rises from the center of the swamp. A face discernable only by the shape of a skull, is bone only. The sockets have eyes but there is no skin. A cowl hangs around the figure’s neck. The cloth, a muddy robe, drips with muck. The skull glides toward him. The wings above grow louder, closing in. The skull opens its mouth with an eyeless serpent slips out. It plops into the water. He feels it circling his body. It pokes and prods, searching for an orifice to penetrate. He feels it wrap around his chest, crushes the breath out of him. Its head surfaces, writhes before his face, swaying in an eyeless dance, weaving its lips across his. The serpent’s darting tongue violates his mouth, tunnels in before he can stop it from slithering down his throat. Beating wings crescendos into a scream. It's him. Screaming. Eros and Tommy shake him, tell him to wake up, what’s wrong, it’s okay. It’s a cascade of words he clings to, uses them to climb out of the terror. Tommy and Eros kneel on the futon, each holds one of his a bare shoulders. Jesse recognizes their faces, dives his arms around their necks, clutches them so tight he could snap them off. “Okay. Christ!” Tommy says, pulling off Jesse’s strangling arm. He coughs a mirthless laugh weighted by concern over the dopey kid. A strong wind bangs the blinds; cold, misty daylight seeps in. Jesse eyes ricochet around the shack. He’s alarmed because he still hears the same sound of wings beating from his dream. Eros searches his face, holding it reassuringly. “Just a dream, Chewbacca.” His perfectly imperfect smile is soothing, a balm to his fears. Jesse realizes Eros’ face is wet, his dark hair dripping. “Can’t imagine why you’d be having nightmares…or day-mares.” He poses the question to Tommy, seeing if that’s a word. “Day-mares?” “The fuck should I know. At least he stopped yelling.” “What’s that whopping sound?” Jesse crawls on his knees to the windows—the noise comes from the beach. “Rescue helicopter landed a few minutes ago,” Tommy says. He points to the dunes. “This morning just keeps getting better and better. Gleason’s being airlifted out by that chopper.” Eros joins Jesse at the window. “He had a heart attack at breakfast. Right when we got back from…you know.” “All that fucking coke he did last night. And he’s a cow,” Tommy adds. “They’re about to fly him out.” "And you owe me a pair of work boots.” Tommy points to solidly caked boots at the door. Next to them sit Eros’ muddy—formerly white—sneakers, the ones he wears when he cleans the pool. “We’re in the outdoor shower when we hear shouting.” “Shamu keels over, clutching his heart and falls into the pool. He’s lucky Eros and Mac think they’re deep sea divers. They jump in and fish him out.” “Mac's puts in a bunch of calls. Gets the Coast Guard out here. And then you starting screaming like a banshee. Helluva morning.” Suddenly the pool area comes alive with commotion, voices, rattling metal wheels. The side gate opens. Jesse scrambles to the door with Tommy and Eros right behind. Two EMT workers wheel Eddie down the path strapped to a gurney. The actor’s frozen, his fingers claw the rails, an oxygen mask over his wet face. His eyes open wide in terror and pain. He glances at the three of them, pleading—something—with his eyes. Mac and a newly-clipped Jaxton follow directly behind the gurney. Eddie’s lifted off the walkway ready to be taken to the helicopter. One of the EMT guys holds up his hand. He’s too far away to hear what’s being said, but it’s enough to turn Jaxton and Mac away. Jaxton, with his new short blond hair, is almost unrecognizable lacking the curtain of dreadlocks always covering his face. “They’re taking him to the county hospital,” Mac says to the three of them. “Why can’t I go with him?” Jaxton petulantly demands behind Mac’s shoulder. Mac shakes his head. “I’ll call the hospital. Once he’s stabilized we’ll take the boat over.” “You’re too kind, Mr. McPherson,” Jaxton says, glumly. Jesse scrutinizes Jaxton’s new look and recognizes Mac’s handiwork. He was never of fan of Jaxton, but, man, the guy looks like he could be one of those Calvin Klein poster boys now. Not jacked, but one of those really thin models, all cheekbones, like no one ever is in real life. He doesn't even slump, which of course makes him even taller. Mac puts a hand on the gangly kid’s shoulder. As he’s taking him back to the house, he stops, turns back to the shack and asks if any of them have seen Father Lucius? Jesse, Tommy and Eros begin a chorus of huh-uhs, nopes, and head shakes. “Odd,” Mac says, studying their faces. “No one’s seen him since he went upstairs with you, Jesse.” “I noticed there’s a missing kayak.” Eros helpfully points to the rack of canoes and kayaks next to the side gate. Mac pauses. Considers it. He looks up at the milky sky with the trees rustling in the wind. “Not really a great day to take out a kayak. Really choppy ocean, I bet. Seems he would be back by now, though, don’t you think? All this aerial activity.” He points at the Coast Guard helicopter taking off. All three again are all shoulder shrugs, don’t knows and maybes. Mac gives them a quick sideways glance. Shakes his head. He smiles at Jaxton and tweaks his nipple. Jaxton returns a breezy smile. He stretches his arms in the air like he’s just waking up, and they go back through the side gate. Tommy gapes his mouth at Eros. “’You’re too kind?!’ The fuck was that? * The morning mist never really burns off. After Eddie’s evacuation there’s a calm pervading the compound. It’s almost too quiet. The filter hums while Eros skims leaves from the pool. He looks uneasily at the monk’s room’s wall of windows. Twigs crunch underfoot as Tommy picks up armfuls of broken branches scattered around the yard from last night’s storm. Inside the silent house, Jaxton and Mac huddle in the office, lowering their voices when Jesse walks by. He changes Eddie and Jaxton’s bedding, disinfects the monk’s rubber sheets and replaces them with a paisley cotton percale. Then, an hour later, Mac’s office phone rings. The hospital regrets to inform that Eddie is dead. Mac gathers Jesse, Tommy and Eros together to let them know about it, and that they can take the rest of the day off. If they wouldn't mind, he asks them to watch after Jaxton while he makes calls on Eddie’s behalf. The sky’s steely gray when the three of them get to the beach. A sedate Jaxton in the long swim trunks that Eddie hated, tags along. He keeps his beach towel a little away from theirs. It’s like he wants to be alone, but there’s not much point on an empty beach. Eros and Tommy body surf in the rough water, and Jesse, in his white briefs, lies face down on his towel between their two beach chairs. He listens to the breaking waves for a while, then hears, “You know what a usurper is?” Jesse looks up from his towel—Jaxton’s propped up on his elbows watching the guys attempting to ride the waves. “Huh?” Jesse gets up and turns on his side. “What’d you mean?” Jaxton studies the two men. “That kind of turbulence isn’t made for catching waves.” He pauses. Looks at Jesse. “You’re like a fifth wheel. I think they tolerate you, maybe even feel a little sorry for you. But they’re definitely not into you. Not like you think.” Jaxton thinks for a moment, then adds, “except maybe to abuse you.” “What do you know.” Jesse gets up and flops into Tommy’s chair, near Jaxton’s towel. He digs into their Yeti cooler and pops open one of Eros and T’s beers. “You don’t know anything.” He sips. Tommy and Eros are bobbing in the waves, splashing each other in the face. “Why, did they say something?” “No,” Jaxton says. “I can just tell.” Eros and Tommy trudge out of the surf, then happily race back dripping with sand-crusted hair. “Gnarly,” Eros comments to Jaxton. “Am I right?” Jaxton give him a wan smile. “I suppose.” Jaxton stares at Eros’ naked body as he dries himself. Tommy eyeballs Jesse in his chair. “Out.” “And who says you could take a beer?” Eros barks. Jaxton throws Jesse an I-told-you-so look. Hurt, Jesse offers the beer up to Eros who tells him to just keep it, but ask next time. Jesse rises from Tommy’s chair. He toes on his flip flops, throws his sandy towel across his shoulders, and shuffles off toward the lighthouse. Maybe Jaxton’s right, he thinks, sipping his beer. He does sometimes feel like he overstays his welcome. Like the other night, hanging out with them, watching a Frasier re-run on Eros’ phone. Did they mind him falling asleep, spending the night with them? There’s gulls screeching on the rocks of the lighthouse. A trawler bounces near the coast line; seagulls swirl and dive around it. He drains the rest of his beer. Mist overtakes the trawler and grows thicker. By the time he hits the rocks it’s disappeared in the rolling cloud. He rarely comes to this end of the island. No one does. The lighthouse lantern lights up and a fog horn moans ushering in the bank of fog. He rattles the dregs of the beer and tosses the can between the rocks. Looking up at the tall structure, he watches the fog encircles the catwalk. The lamp's beam slowly rotates. With the fog rolling in, it seems he hears the ocean crashing on the rocks rather than sees it. The fog chills him and, though it does little good, he pulls the towel tighter around his shoulders. He tries the lighthouse door and discovers it's unlocked. “Hello?” he says cautiously opening the door. Met with silence, he inches into the room. Inside it’s murky but there’s still a bit of afternoon light remaining. He feels for a switch but doesn’t find one. Instead he discovers the table at the entrance holds an old kerosene lamp and matches. He lights it and the hollow space illuminates with the lanterns yellow glow. A winding staircase extends around the walls. It loops around twice before disappearing into the room above. Below the staircase there’s stone steps leading to a basement. He’s never visited a lighthouse before and he’s curious about what’s upstairs. The metal steps creak as he ascends. Twice around the interior walls he climbs before he enters the kitchen-living room area of the upper level. Light comes through the vertical window slats the color of Vaseline. Someone lives here—he can see that. He puts his hand on the cold potbelly stove. A coffee pot sitting on top is slightly warm. There’s an unmade single bed, with a piss pot next to it. A desk has writing papers scattered about; several journals are stacked; one lies open. Jesse shuffles in his sandy flip-flops over to the desk. Holding up the light he reads words in the open journal. The Hung Priest, it starts. After a few sentences he stops, incredulous—he’s in it! Jesse takes the stairs two steps at a time, it reads. Eros is in his beach chair watching Tommy chase him down the beach! Even the part where he gets a hard on from Tommy sitting on top of him! His arms suddenly prickle with goosebumps; the hair rises on the back of his neck. Someone’s watching him? But why? He’s not at all interesting. Footsteps clanks above on the metal grating—someone’s descending. He quickly scrambles down the stairs as quietly as he can. He’s about to slip out the front door but something stops him dead in his tracks. It’s a soft moan, or more exact, several moans. It comes from the stairs that lead down to the basement. It’s definitely a group of men, bass voices, muffled cries, rasping groans. He moves to the stone steps. In the living space above someone prepares a fire—twigs snap, a match strikes, the potbelly stove’s door shuts with a clank. A voice in the room seems to be debating himself. Jesse peers down into the gloom where the moaning voices softly reverberate. Holding out the lantern he makes out a thick wooden door. Treading lightly down the steps, each wet and slick with algae, he reaches the door. The whimpering is clearly coming from the other side, yet still they seems far off in the distance. Slowly he twists the knob but it’s locked. Part of him feels relieved that it is. “Hey,” he breathes through the door. “Hey,” he repeats. The murmurs continue unresponsive, seeming not to hear him. He promises himself he’ll come back but next time with Eros and Tommy—if they’ll believe him. Jaxton’s right, though, that they’ve probably had enough of him. Why should they do anything more for him after what they’ve already done? He climbs the stone steps unsure of anything—their friendship, his place in the world. On the top step he slips on algae. He crashes to his knees. The lantern snuffs out and clatters noisily across the floor. He picks himself and dashes to the entrance. “Who goes there?” an authoritative voice booms from the top of the stairs. The figure holds out his lantern but the weak light shows only a small, shadowy figure dart out to the entrance. Outside, front door bangs shut as Jesse sprints into the fog. After putting enough distance between him and the lighthouse, he slows to a brisk walk. Looking over his shoulder he sees the glowing light rotate but growing dimmer the farther away he gets. The moan of the foghorn stay next to him, however, like a phantom he has yet to escape. For several minutes he strides along the beach, his heart beating rapidly in his ears, the surf pounding. Several times he thinks he should head away from the shore and cut inland. He’s most worried though about getting far away from the lighthouse, so when he finally does cuts away from the waves, he find high dunes blocking the way. Regardless, he marches over them hoping to find the wooden walkway that will lead him home. Sliding down the other side of the dunes, he discovers the fog is thinner but he’s overshot the compound and is in the swamp. He’s not crazy about walking back in the direction of the lighthouse but he’s sure the path will take him back to the house soon enough. As he walks further he loses track of the ocean’s constant roar. He should be walking parallel to the surf, but now he’s afraid he’s walking deeper into the swamp. There’s no reliable direction he can discern in the remaining light. Sound is his only guide, but that’s now quieted, leaving only the marsh choir of croaking toads. Vapor off the swamp mixes with the mist in the air. It’s all wrong, and too close to his earlier nightmare. He thinks better of going deeper into the swamp, turns around and goes back the direction he came. An owl hoots directly overhead startles him. The sounds of the marsh grow louder—croaks, rivets, peeps, more hoots surround him. Then he hears something that freezes him to his core—a low growl. There aren’t any dangerous animals on the island, he’s sure of it, or has never heard of any, but a growl’s a growl. He makes out waves crashing straight ahead, which convinces him he’s heading in the right direction, but it’s also the direction of whatever made the noise. Step by step he makes his way in the dark; his thin flip flops test each board trying not to draw attention to himself with a creak. He comes to an intersection with a larger walkway, the road he’s familiar with that’s between the dock and the compound. This feels right. He sighs a small relief. The sound of waves resumes on his right, so he’s fairly certain he now headed back toward the house. Then, abruptly, he bumps into something upright and furry. He looks up into glowing red eyes. A large creature peers down at him. It snarls menacingly, large fangs glistening as its lips pull back. Jesse’s mind races—fight or flight rears its head. Flight, he’s out of there, no question about it! He pivots and there’s a loud crack: a fractured wooden plank snaps in two and he falls several feet through the walkway, into the cold wet swamp below. As his feet hit the mud, he cracks the back of his head against the plank with an audible thwack! * Jaxton furiously rides Mac’s cock on the dining room table. His swinging dick beats out four-four rhythm like the baton of a crazed band leader. He grinds his ass on Mac’s gargantuan cannon of a cock, pulling his ass lips apart straining to capture Mac’s slick balls into the bargain. Just as Jaxton’s on the cusp of blowing his first wad in this new body, the front door chimes. He yowls with unrestrained frustration. He and Mac sourly scramble off the table. Jaxton finds his swim trunks and Mac pulls up his khakis. They answer the door and two extremely old and frail looking monks peer back at them. “Abbot Santana,” Mac says, pulling down his tank top. “I didn’t expect you at the earliest till tomorrow.” He ushers the elderly pair inside. The Abbot, a small man with a pointed salt and pepper beard and a mop of curly dark hair, hobbles on his cane into the foyer. His petite assistant, bald and spindly, carries a large satchel. “Plans changed so quickly, I didn’t realize you would—,” “Yes, yes,” Abbot Santana interrupts with a wave of his hand. “Bueno sera, signore. Bueno sera.” He points his cane at the other monk. “My attendant, Brother Virgil.” The Abbot looks Jaxton in his swimming trunks up and down. “Lucius, is you?” "I'm Jaxton, Mr. Gleason’s personal—” “Ridiculous, I see you Lucius.” He jabs the rubber tip of his cane up into Jaxton’s chest. “You make a terrible mess of things.” Mac and Jaxton exchange a look. Jaxton pleads, “Forgive me your Eminence. It was spur of the moment decision. I was caught off guard by the boy’s regal—“ “We no do ‘spur of the moment’ nonsense. Idiota!” The Abbot taps his cane, looking over the house. “Signore,” he says to Mac. “I must sit. The walk, it is long, and coming here, we were accosted by an animal.” Mac motions to his living room. “Please, your Grace.” With a flick of a switch the living room brightens and the gas fireplace is set aflame. “Can I get you something? Water? Some tea?” Virgil aids the Abbot toward the sofa. “What sort of animal accosted you?” “An animal animal. I know not what kind. Scotch, for such a cold night. Single malt, not your blended rot.” After sitting he leans toward Virgil, patting his hand. “What will you have, my dear?” Virgil murmurs he’ll have the same. “And the same for Virgil!” Jaxton follows them into the living room and sits across from the two monks in one of the black strap chairs. “I’m astonished how fast you got here.” “Your impulsiveness demanded it. But, I confess,” the Abbot takes a moment to appraise Jaxton, “it is a most pleasing form. Michelangelo never did better, eh, Brother?” Virgil eagerly nods in agreement. “Oh, bless you,” Santana says, taking a glass from Mac. Virgil also expresses gratitude, mumbling a hushed grazie. “So this Jaxton fellow. You vetted him? And he was the personal assistant of who?” He takes a sip. “Ah, bellissima. Mille grazie.” “An actor who passed away earlier today,” Mac replies, then goes back to fix himself and Jaxton a drink. Jaxton bows his head. “A tragic heart attack.” “I’m sure it was. Not induced by you, I hope.” The Abbot frowns at Jaxton. Jaxton doesn’t reply. “At least not traceable to you and one of your experiments in chemistry.” Mac brings Jaxton a bourbon. “Thank you. Nothing that would be suspicious in his already taxed circulatory system. Severely obese, doing cocaine all night—it’s not too surprising.” Jaxton takes a sip of bourbon. “In the morning he knew I wasn’t his assistant any longer, so I might have had to hurry things along a smidge,” Jaxton says with a glint of pride. “An extra little push laced in his coffee, perhaps mistaking a gram of amphetamine for a packet of Sweet n Low. Oops.” Jaxton puts his hand over his mouth. “Might I trouble you for another, signore?” Abbot Santana bows his head humbly to Mac. “A water back, I suppose wouldn’t hurt. An encore, Brother?” Virgil stammers an assent. “And another for Virgil. I suppose this accelerates things, does it not, signore?” On his way to the bar Mac replies over his shoulder, “I suppose it does. But I’m sure you both can still be accommodated.” He quickly returns with a tray of water glasses and refilled scotches, and sets them on the glass coffee table before sitting next to Jaxton. “If your Grace approves the boy’s body, my housekeeper Jesse, and if Brother Virgil is amenable to the pool man, I believe the transference can be accomplished quickly.” “I will, of course, need to test the boy’s body.” The Abbot’s wrinkled face pulls back into a painful smile. “It will be fun, Virgil, will it not? You being the older of us this go-round. It will be—what do the young brothers say?—a hoot!” The Abbot raps his cane excitedly on the floor several times. He clinks glasses with Virgil. They both take a long quaff of their drinks. “Mi scusi,” Virgil bashfully says so softly that Mac and Jaxton have to lean forward to hear him. “The p-p-pool man. I understand he has a marito—?” His voice trails off to being completely inaudible. “Speak up, Virgil!” Santana demands. Virgil clears his throat. “Si, the pool man has husband. What is to become of him?” Jaxton adds, “Tragically, he, too, might succumb to another tragic overdose.” “Only if we can watch,” chuckles the Abbot, to which the Jaxton joins in with his droll humor. “Ma—” Virgil holds an index finger in the air. “Is two overdoses too many overdoses? To the authorities, I mean?” Jaxton leans toward Virgil conspiratorially, “Not if a body isn’t found.” Virgil is confused, but quickly catches on, nodding his head with a snickers. Mac looks at his glass before taking a sip. “Thomas Price has been an addict ever since his mother kicked him out as a teenager, Lucius. I’d go down that road with caution.” Jaxton scoffs. “All I’m saying is that junkies can surprise you with their tolerance.” Jaxton waves his hand. “I know the limits of the human body. Three times the actor’s dosage—no one can survive.” Mac shrugs his shoulders, but then turns his attention to the Abbot. “Your Grace. I understand—” Mac pauses, not sure how to broach the subject. “I understand you have a…condition.” “Ah,” says the Abbot. He and Virgil share a look. “Si. A thing I pick up—” He gives Jaxton a stink eye, “—before we begin vetting more carefully. Back when we do a thing in haste.” “In Romania,” Virgil adds, bobbing his shiny head. “M-many centuries ago.” Mac leans toward the Abbot. “Will the boy…” Mac isn’t sure how to phrase it, “…inherit this condition?” “Si. Not at first, but it always come back over the years.” The Abbot starts lifting his robe. “Let this be the lesson to you, Lucius.” As he lifts his robe, he reveals a massive amount of dark body hair on his tiny frame, with a perfectly normal old man’s wrinkled penis. He continues raising his robe and above his navel, first two, then four, then six, and finally eight plump nipples run from abdomen up to chest. “I believe it was a transference in the eighteenth—” Virgil shakes his head correcting the Abbot. “—oh, si, seventeenth century. Tainted boy before we make habit of checking more thorough.” “Werewolf?” Jaxton says in disbelief, to which both Abbot and the Brother chuckle. “No, no, no. We rule out Lycanthropy,” Abbot Santana says, “long, long ago.” “Old w-wives tale,” Virgil stutters. “Wolf-man n-n-nonsense.” He clears his voice. “Supernumerary maladaptation, is science name for Abbot’s condition.” Mac leans over the coffee table and brushes one of the lower nipples with his fingertips. “Oh!” gushes the old Abbot. “Sensitive.” “And on full moons?” Jaxton asks mesmerized by the surplus of teets. “No worry about full moons.” The Abbot laughs. “But no come up and surprise me. Ah grrr!” He and the Brother exchange a laugh, playfully clawing at each other. “Only thing that brings on condition is emotions that are strong. Passion, fear, anger, et cetera, et cetera.” He turns to Jaxton and Mac with a sneer of his upper lip and a laugh. “Ah grr!” he growls at the two of them. The doorbell chimes and the four men exchange concerned looks. The Abbot drops his robe covering his nipples. They sit in silence until the chimes urgently ring several times. Santana turns to Mac. “You answer your door?” Mac warily approaches the entrance. “Yes?” He cracks it open to see who it is and Eros pushes in, knocking him backwards, holding Jesse in his arms. Jesse shades his eyes from the sudden brightness. His legs drip mud. “We need get him to a hospital.” “Eros, knock it off! I’m okay,” he says. “Just let me down.” “I need the keys to your boat.” Eros shakes Jesse in his arms, scolding him. “You need to be looked at.” “We found him on the marsh,” Tommy quickly fills over Eros. “I guess he fell through some planks. He was up to his neck, shaking, whining—” “I was in mud, T! Of course I was shaking.” “What are you talking about? Slow down.” Mac says, his hand on Eros’ chest. “Don’t tell me to slow down.” Tommy continues speaking over Eros, “He went off at the beach and didn’t come back.” He checks the back of Jesse’s head. Jesse swats his hand away. “When it got dark, we went searching for him.” Tommy points to the lounge chair in the living room. “Put him on that. We thought he got lost in the fog.” “I was lost!” “He just now is coming round. I think he was knocked out. He was dazed when we got him out.” Eros sets him on the lounge chair. He and Tommy realizes there’s others in the room. They give the monks a cursory grunt but are obsessed with Jesse. “I wasn’t knocked out. I was stuck in cold mud.” The two sit on the ottoman, fidgeting. Eros says, “See, there’s a little blood back here.” He twists Jesse’s head to show a dried patch. “Hey. I’m not a mannequin!” Jesse squawks. "Oddio!” says the Abbott rising with Virgil’s help. “The fault is ours. We are terrible—how you say—scaredy cats. Something frighten us walking from the boat. We think it an animal. We are afraid and hurry to the house. We don’t think to find out what it was.” “Apologies,” Mac says to the monks. “Eros and Tommy, this is Abbot Santana from Father Lucius’ monastery and his attendant, Brother Virgil.” Tommy and Eros give them distracted greetings. “Fortune smiles, gentlemen,” the small Abbot says, putting his hand on Eros’ bicep surreptitiously squeezing it and exchanging a gleeful look with Virgil. “No need for hospital. Brother Virgil is registered nurse. He see to your friend.” “Si, Concussion, very serious.” Virgil is again barely audible so Tommy and Eros have to lean toward him. “But he no pass out, so is good.” Virgil takes his glass of water and offers it to Jesse. Jesse grabs Eros’ forearm. “See, they heard an animal, too. It had red eyes. And before that, back at the lighthouse, I heard voices under the floor!” “He might wish something stronger,” the Abbott suggests to Mac, softly. “And, guys, someone’s writing about us!” Mac brings back a whiskey. Virgil takes it. “Here,” he whispers to Jesse. “You drink.” Jesse sips then grimaces from the taste. “Come. Once more.” Jesse takes a second reluctant sip. “Gees,” Tommy says. “You poor guy. You musta really knocked your head.” “It doesn’t sound like he was unconscious,” Mac assures Tommy and Eros. “But he could be in shock.” “Let’s get him to the shack,” Tommy suggests. “You can. But you’ve got a registered nurse right here,” Mac suggests. “Are delusions a sign of a concussion?” Eros quietly asks Virgil. “Eros. I’m right here. You know I can hear you? Jesus Christ! Sorry Father,” he says to the Abbot. “I’m cold, wet and upset, not delusional.” Jesse takes a deep breath, then adamantly states his case: “There’s voices in the lighthouse basement. There’s someone in the lighthouse who’s writing about us. And there’s some red eyed monster in the swamp.” “Just listen to yourself,” Tommy says, aggravated. "Total nut job." “He got a big conk on his head is all.” Eros says to Tommy. He scans the room and sees everyone is skeptical. “You know where you are, don’t you, Chewy?” “Of course I do,” Jesse says impatiently. Then seeing Eros clearly wants him to answer. Rolling his eyes, he says, “Okay. I’m in Mac’s living room. But there really were voices—” Tommy and Eros are nodding indulgently. He sees they’re just humoring him. “Someone was writing…In the swamp, there was—” He takes in the concerned looks of the monks, and sees Jaxton’s behind them smirking. He leans back into the lounge chair and exhales. “Okay. Forget it. I guess I am totally…” He twirls his finger around his temple. “He should stay here tonight.” Mac puts his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Jesse, why don’t you go upstairs, take a hot shower and wash off all that mud?” Jesse nods. He gets off the lounge chair, scowls at Tommy and Eros, then trots up the stairs. “C’mon, Eros.” Tommy elbows him. “We’ll check on him in the morning.” Eros sees the small bald monk is beaming at him adoringly. He snarls not liking that one bit. He jabs his finger at him savagely. “You just make sure he stays okay. You hear me?” Virgil cringes from Eros’ hot breath. The Abbot cuts in front of Virgil, “Oh, most definitely.” He places his hand on Eros’ chest. “We will be with him throughout the night. I assure you this.” Eros pushes off his knees and rises. He confronts Mac, poking his finger in his face. “You got Gleason airlifted. You’ll do the same for the kid if it comes to that. Got it?” “Got it,” Mac replies. His eyes shine from Eros’ insolence, but he keeps his cool. Eros and Tommy get ready to leave, but Eros turns back giving the group a last menacing look, before slamming the door. “Most unpleasant fellow,” says the Abbot. “Not for much longer,” Mac says under his breath. “Another statue of Michelangelo, eh, Brother Virgil? But the teeth, they will need repair.” Mac climbs the stairs and finds Jesse relaxing under the streaming shower. The last of the mud swirls down the drain as Mac slips off his khakis and top and joins him. He gently washes Jesse’s shoulders and back, soaping up his chest, under his arms, between his legs. Jesse unwinds in Mac’s arms. He turns the boy around and kisses his lips lightly. “I’ve so enjoyed out time together.” “Me too.” Jesse wraps his arms around the man and clutches him tightly, tasting the saltiness of his skin. Mac soaps the boy’s groin and gets a rise out of him. Jesse smiles as he’s being stroked. Mac rinses him off and turns off the shower. He grabs a warm towel and dries him. “Like our first time, isn’t it?” Mac says. He leads Jesse into his bedroom straight to the sling. Jesse eagerly climbs in letting Mac slip his legs into the straps and positioning his butt at Mac’s crotch. He places his hands above his head grasping the chains ready for Mac to slide his cockhead into him. Slipping quietly through the door, Jaxton grabs Jesse’s right hand and puts it in a restraint, while Mac quickly cuffs Jesse’s legs. “Motherfucker!” the boy shouts at the top of his lungs, thrashing wildly. Jaxton tapes his mouth with duct tape and Mac secures Jesse’s other hand. No matter how hard he bounces he’s held in place by his cuffs. Abbot Santana and Brother Virgil enter naked, Santana rubbing his hands together excitedly as Virgil sets down his satchel next to the sling. They both leer at the helpless boy, whose eyes widen in fright taking in the hairy Abbot surplus of nipples. The aged monk seems to grow taller as he bares a wolfish smile, his teeth unusually large and his ears, under dark ringlets of curls, appear pointed. His shoulders and flanks are black with thick fur as are his arms and legs. The Abbot walks between his parted legs, running his hands on the inside of Jesse’s thighs. He has grown larger than Mac and Jaxton, who close rank on either side of the hairy Abbot. They stroke the Abbot’s many nipples causing his wrinkly dick to swell to attention. As the veiny dick rises it pokes Jesse in the balls; the boy, revolted by the canine monstrosity bearing down on him, redoubles his effort to try to escape. He hollers and yells behind his tape, shaking his head, kicking his arms and legs in every direction. The sling clangs away in his frantic struggle to get away from the beast. “Can you not calm him down?” the Abbot says to Jaxton. Jaxton produces his zippered drug case and removes a hypodermic. “Hold his head to the side.” Mac presses down on Jesse’s ear so that his neck is exposed. The veins pop out prominently as Jesse strains against Mac’s hand. Jaxton finds a suitable candidate and injects the fluid. Mac releases him as Jesse coughs behind the tape, begins breathing rapidly and starts trembling violently as the drug directly hits his brain. The men around the sling watch the alteration of the young boy, from rebellious captive to writhing slut. “Virgil, we start with il cazzo. See what he can take, but mind the ruby.” Virgil, eyes lit up with excitement, pulls out a set of sounds from his satchel. Staring with one of the smaller one, he coats the silver rod with lubricant and places a drop on Jesse’s piss slit. The old attendant expertly inserts it. Jesse pumps his hips up into the sound, wanting it to penetrate him faster. “Slow, slow, child,” says the Abbot amused. “You have much time to enjoy your impaling.” Virgil holds his cock, squeezing and releasing it as the weight of the sound drills deeper into Jesse’s urethra. The tip disappears and reappears as Virgil pumps his dick. A happy look of enchantment blooms across his face as he nods to the Abbot. Virgil extracts the sound and replaces it was a much larger one that has multiple ridges. He coats the new sound and lets its weight fall much more quickly down into Jesse’s erection. Almost vanished, the Abbot grabs the tip and pulls it out and then pushes it quickly back in. He masturbates the boy from the inside out. Jesse eyes roll up in his head at the overwhelming agony and ecstasy of the sensation. Virgil coats a huge sound, one thick as his finger, and gives it to the Abbot. The Abbot removes the medium rod and attempts to insert the new gigantic one into the narrow piss slit. Just the tip is difficult for Jesse to accept, but the Abbot teases the boy’s small opening until Jesse, his eyes filled with dark cravings, pushes his pelvis to force in the sound. He can’t help himself. The pain is great but his corrupt desires are stronger. In pure anguish, notes the Abbot, he still keeps pushing up on the impaling rod. For several minutes the men watch the dance the Abbot and Jesse perform—almost out and then all the way in. It makes the boy crazed and amuses the ancient monk. He loves the exquisite torture he’s giving the boy. Mac brings over a brown bottle, uncaps it and places it under Jesse nose. Whether he’s aware or not, Jesse hits the bottle hard, and then relaxes into the sling and lets the Abbot glide the enormous sound in and out, as he shudders in the Abbot’s hand. “Magnifico,” the Abbot says, as he molests the boy. “Decidedly a masochist. We can only pray he also displays a sadistic side.” The Abbot extracts the sound and slaps Jesse’s balls. The boy spreads his legs inviting more abuse from Santana. “Stupendo,” breaths the Abbot, and continues the slapping, harder and harder, until the hand turns from palm to fist. Jesse rams his crotch into the man’s clenched hand, tears streaming from his eyes in his desire for more pain. “Molto bene. Now we fuck,” he says, leaving the sling and moving to the bed. Mac and Jaxton release Jesse’s cuffs, help him out of the sling and lead him to the Abbot. The old man sees the boy’s eyes are dark and corrupt. He plays with his many nipples to increase the young boy’s debauchery. Jesse’s dick rises at how perversity of what he’s offered. He climbs on the old man who rips the tape off his mouth to allow him to bend down and suckle the many plump choices. The Abbot writhes in delight as the boy nurses him. “Ah, ciccio. Fantastico. Sit, sit,” he says, wiggling his erection. Jesse climbs over his hips, while Brother Virgil slicks his butt with lube. Jesse lowers himself on the hairy mutant’s penis and squirms down on it. His hands on the headboard, he winces in perverted pleasure as he accepts the cock sliding inside his body. Mac strokes Jesse’s cheek and offers him another hit of poppers. Jesse grabs Mac’s hand and pulls it to his nose and hits it hard. He moans, doubling down on the Abbot’s furry crotch. Virgil lubes his own bloated cock and crawls behind the boy. He introduces his member to Jesse hole, and Jesse bends over presenting his sloppy cunt to the Brother. Virgil happily grinds himself in, rubbing his cock against the Abbot’s. Jesse feels his sphincter incredibly stretched as he maniacally pounds his hips against the two old perverts. He gives in to the foul scene and pinching the nipples of the abnormality below him. Santana pants, his tongue lolling to the side, a long red tongue. His pace of fucking his cock into the boy grows faster as the boy pinches his nipples harder. He snarls, grabs Jesse’s head and gnaws at his neck, growls viciously and explodes his load into the boy. The slick wet hole triggers Virgil, knowing the Abbot sperm engulfs his cock. Jesse growls himself and bites the Abbot’s neck in return. He rubs his hand up and down the Abbot’s chest and abdomen, pinching them pitilessly till the Abbot howls in pain. The pure depravity of the act makes Jesse cum all over the Abbot many teets. He rubs his sperm into the old man’s pelt. Looking down into the Abbot’s face, he sees blood red eyes glowering back at him. The Abbot bares his fangs, growls hungrily at the boy, quite ready to devour his soul.

6. Two Oranges Jaxton teeters at the playroom door taking in all the bondage and S&M equipment. He points. “Birthing station.” Mac is at his ear explaining the device at a forty-five degree angle with two large stirrups. “It’s for fisting.” Jaxton points several times, a little distracted by the trails coming from his fingers. “Fuck bench. Suspension bars, for stringing someone up. Good for a lash. Stocks, for clamping someone down. Fuck ‘em from behind.” “All that stuff. Next to the dildos?” Jaxton can only take in so much—this world is opening too fast. “Besides those dildos,” Mac continues, “collars, whips, tit clamps, riding crops, canes, floggers, harnesses, masks, hoods, bridles and mouth bits, ball gags, and of course various size butt plugs, finger thin to skull girth.” Jaxton starts stroking his cock in excitement. Points to another area. “That’s a medical examination table with equipment for medical play: urethral sounds, human speculum, horse speculum, forceps, e-stim equipment, dental mouth opener and cheek retractor.” Jaxton’s body quakes from over-stimulation. Mac massages his shoulders, pushes his long dreadlock to one side. “Sling with requisite ceiling mirror, but I’m sure you’ve seen that before.” Jaxton shakes his head no. “My barber kit. Where did I leave that?” Jaxton points and takes his first steps into the room intent on getting to a black leather mattress on the room’s far side. He looks around but Mac has disappeared. He’s sure he can make it on his own even with the room bending in odd shapes. The walls are black, the floor padded with black rubber mats like a gym. Red lights strung around the room makes him feel like he’s inside an inferno. He makes his way past the sling, past a whipping post, past a St. Andrews cross, finally to a black leather mattress. He flops onto the bed and rolls his head around looking for that hot ass he was boning a couple of minutes ago. There he is at the door, that Mr. McPherson. That hot daddy’s now wearing a leather vest and nothing more. Fuck yes he is! There’s a crack of lightning outside and the red lights flicker once then cut out. An electrical sizzle comes from the breakers close to his mattress. His body feels like it needs its own breakers because of all the neurons firing in his brain. The rooms pitch black for a lifetime of heartbeats. He’s relieve to be sightless. Wherever he looked the psychedelic trails were becoming too intense. It’s better to let his hand roam across his body, plucking his nipples, running his hand over his bush and stroking his big cock. It’s familiar and soothing and charged with intense sensation. He begins to run a hand under his heavy balls, over his taint and fingers his asshole. Then harsh emergency lights kick in; two strong beams pointing in opposite directions now illuminate the space. Residual smoke from the blown breakers spread across the room giving it a misty haze. It’s like he’s on some porn set complete with fog machines. He smiles to himself—it’s where he’s always wanted to be. His Leather Daddy emerges through that smoke, big, hard dick swinging, open leather vest still showing those silver nipple rings his mind’s fixated on. Leather Daddy grabs Jaxton’s legs, spreading his thighs apart. The stud rims his tongue deep inside his spread butt cheeks. Jaxton’s mind and body are ricocheting sensations and thoughts, but nothing overcomes this feeling of a powerful man tonguing his asshole. He’s fingering him and lubing him at the same time—the hot Leather Daddy can do anything he wants; he thinks he might even be saying that out loud. There doesn’t seem to be any difference between what’s inside him and what’s outside—he’s the universe and the universe is him. It can do with him whatever it wants. What Leather Daddy wants is to stick his amazing huge rod up his hole. He takes Jaxton from the rear, both of them on their sides. The man has one of Jaxton’s legs in the air and is slowly sticking his massive member inside Jaxton chute. It’s hard going at first because of its girth, but they both have the same goal in mind. Jaxton pushes back to impale himself, while Mac pushes in deeper. Jaxton’s got a long, deep hole and Mac is taking full advantage of that fact. It’s a complex journey, full of twists and turns, and Jaxton is enjoying every second of it. A thunderclap of immense proportion explodes over the house. The storm’s power charges his body—it’s majestic, terrifying, a breathtaking force of nature; a cyclone sucking the house and everything into the stratosphere. Fuckin’ Dorothy’s on her way to Oz. The storm shakes the house down to its foundations. The playroom has no windows; the crash reverberates through the walls like they’re inside a drum. Jaxton fingertips claws the mattress as he’s being fucked; he feels the tempest’s vibrations, but nothing compared to the fury that’s firing deep into his hole. It’s incredible how desperate a cock can want an ass. He thrusts back each time driving it in deeper; their balls clacking as they collide; testicle punishment becomes its own reward—he never knew something could hurt so good! Through this mesmerized pounding, felt all the way up to his small intestines down to his scrotum, he spies on the far side of the playroom Eddie lying on top of the exam table giving some scruffy tattooed guy his little jackhammer fuck. Eddie twists the guy’s butt back and forth. He’s glad it’s not him—but everyone should be happy tonight. He’s enjoying the night, all control of his bowels now lost. He’s totally into how hard Leather Daddy is crushing his battering ram into him. Leather Daddy’s so big it makes him piss uncontrollably. The only impediment standing this way of his complete enjoyment of the nigh is appearing through the fog, a massive, brutish guy kneeling in front of him. He’s not even sure if he’s real or imagined, but Daddy’s lifting his head indicating he wants Jaxton to suck this figure’s big, smelly, uncut dick. Fuck that noise! Jaxton does only what Jaxton wants to do. He shakes his dreadlocks in resistance. Daddy smacks his head. “Bad dog, no treat,” he barks at him. No. Fuck no! Now Jaxton wants to get up and fuck all this shit, but Daddy’s holding him down, pinning one arm back, still holding one leg up fucking the shit out of him, demonstrating that if he won’t suck the guy, the guy is going to join in the fuck. The hairy gorilla reclines holding his shoulders, pressing his hairy chest against Jaxton’s. He feels his slick cock painfully prodding his balls, searching for his chute. He should know Daddy’s already got that fully occupied. Jaxton is trapped with a new hard cock sliding under his balls and encroaching on his already stretched ass. The fucker doesn’t seem to care; he’s going in whether Jaxton wants it or not. Jaxton’s never squeezed his sphincter as hard as he is now trying to ward off anything more going inside him. Occupied, thanks anyway! His squeezing seems to please Daddy, which isn’t exactly what he’s going for. The gorilla’s slimy member is rubbing his taint, and he feels its head gliding alongside Daddy’s big dong. With a strong lunge the ape’s cockhead pops in. Jaxton wails and clamps harder pushing it out but the man’s massive foreskin remains. The man roars savagely and plunges his cock in deeper, shooting pain directly into Jaxton’s brain. The pain triggers endorphins that not only accepts the intrusion but relishes it. How can that be? His internal circuitry is sparking, his breakers blown. The ape rests for a second seeming to appreciate Jaxton’s submission at least of his cockhead, watches the sparks in his eyes. But just as Jaxton stops struggling, the guy starts up again pushing his massive cock in deeper. “Wait! Wait!” Jaxton yells, but Daddy grips him tighter, claps his hand over Jaxton’s mouth, and the gorilla stabs his ass again, until he’s got a good length of his meat buried. “Okay, okay,” he struggles to utter through Leather Daddy’s palm. “Let me get used to it, okay?” He’s trying to be reasonable, seeing he’s pinned in this position and can’t move anyway. Some part of his brain remains rational—he’s done with the cosmic bullshit he’d been attuned to—pain is real time. He just wants to negotiate his physical surrender, slowly. Daddy and the ape have other ideas. The hairy brute starts fucking him with half his cock inside, but each thrust puts him in deeper and is stretching Jaxton more painfully open. He can tell on an animal level that his captors are getting off rubbing their dick together with Jaxton’s colon as the object that’s jacking them. The more excited they get—Jaxton senses it by their increased rigidity and girth—the harder they drive their cocks into him. The two men are totally in synch with Jaxton screaming into Daddy’s salty palm. But there’s something driving Jaxton, too. A part of him enjoys it, craves this stretch, this hard fuck ripping him apart, grinding his inhibitions into complete submissions. It’s like when he falls inside a pitiless wave, has no choice in direction, gives himself up into the ride. The dopamine flows throughout his whole body. He’s easing into the pain and, in accepting it, becomes part of this duo making it a trio of bodies rising in exaltation. Sensing Jaxton starting to writhe in synch with both of them, Mac releases his hold of Jaxton’s arm, and Jaxton twists his head and slips his tongue in Mac’s mouth. Now Jaxton twist back and rubs the dark pelt that’s in front of him. “Good dog,” Mac says in his ear. The face isn’t bad looking; vicious, though; bad teeth. The brute’s looking right through him as if he’s not there, only a hole to be fucked. He likes this indifference. He seems to fuck him harder the more Jaxton warms up to him. He crushes Jaxton’s face with his big hands, spits, saliva running off Jaxton’s cheek, which he also likes. He opens his mouth and the hairy beast spits again. He and Mac pound his hole violently and Jaxton accepts it, pushes back defiantly on their cocks. His cock and balls nestles in the ape’s pubes, a black hair jungle his genitals rub against. The animal, teeth bared, grabs his man-bun and thrusts savagely several times leeching his cum deep inside. Mac’s right there, too, hot breath pitched in rapid breathing, straining his hips into Jaxton’s ass in rhythm of the brute. Jaxton feels the sudden extra slickness in his hole, hot spunk dribbling down a thigh. Rubbing his cock against the jungle of hair he spews his load unassisted into the dark forest, his colon clutching the two objects he feels he owns. “You like that, boy?” Eddie bellows across the room, Jaxton only now realizing he’s been yelling fuck my hole over and over. Not seeking a response from Jaxton, only commenting, Eddie turns back to the tattooed guy on his exam table. “Sit and spin, sit and spin,” he sings to him. Eros slips out of Jaxton, looks over to Tommy’s face seeing a strange combination of humiliation and boredom. He’ll make sure Jaxton pays for that. After oozing out of the boy, Mac tells Eros to get him in the sling. Most of the electrical smoke has dissipated, but the two emergency headlights cast the room in sinister shadows at the same time it illuminates skin too blindingly white. Eros leads the surprisingly affable kid to a sling and easily cuffs his arms and legs. He sits on a stool between the leg straps, take off the Crisco lid and slides a large wad of phosphorescent white paste into the kid’s dark crevice. “You be careful with my property, Eros, and I’ll be careful with yours,” sings a delighted Eddie. The kid will pay for that too. Eros slips in a thick finger into the kid’s wet hole causing him to grunt. Mac returns to the sling with hair clippers, scissors and a straight razor. A second finger goes into Jaxton stretched hole. Jaxton realizes what Mac has in mind, and starts building a crescendo of no-no-no-no, his bound hands waving back in forth in an impotent attempt to delay Mac’s mission. Mac approaches the sling answering amused, yes-yes-yes-yes. He bends down, whispering to Jaxton, “Eros takes care of one end, I take care of the other.” Panicky tears well up in Jaxton’s eye. The more fingers Eros adds the more tears, but it’s not the stretch of Eros’ big mitts that produces the tears. It’s the years of cultivating his image. It’s the snip-snip of each lock of hair that drops to the floor. “Eddie,” Jaxton cries out from the sling, “tell them they have to stop!” Eros jams in four knuckles. “Oh, fuck!” Mac has shorn most of his dreadlocks off. Now the clippers flips on with a horribly loud click and buzz. “Eddie!” he bellows. Eddie’s coked out of his mind—ignoring him or liking the sound of panic in the air—Tommy twisting on his dick like he’s the agitator of a washing machine and Tommy is a bundles of clothes. The boy cries in distress as Eros breaks through his sphincter with his thick palm, his hand fully inserted to his wrist. Jaxton’s colon clutches Eros’ huge hand in torment, pleading out loud to let him get used to it. He begs repeatedly, but Eros hears Eddie’s sing-song tune in his head, and balls his hand into a fist and spins it side to side pulling shrieks out of the boy. “Ease up, Eros. Ease up,” Mac says in a calming voice. “You’ll make me nick him.” He calls over to Eddie. “Hey Eddie, think this is short enough? A nice, clean cut blond boy for you, Eddie. Now about these tufts.” He takes the clippers to Jaxton’s left arm pit and glides off his hair. Eros pulls his hand almost out, then pistons back in. He repeats this again and again as Mac finishes one pit and moves to the other. Eros gets off the stool, lining his meat with his wrist, savoring how Jaxton is being transformed before his eyes. His erection is coming into form as Mac removes Jaxton’s pubic hairs. Eros gets hard watching the fight drain out of this arrogant kid. The boy’s acceptance become compliance as the victim locks eyes with him. He feels Jaxton’s sphincter give up the battle to keep his cock from penetrating him while his fist is still buried inside. Eros’ dick slides straight into his palm with only a trace of tears at the corner of Jaxton’s eyes. Eros squeezes his dick to get himself fully hard within the walls of the boy’s rectum. “Look Eros. An angel, no?” Mac studies his handiwork, using the straight razor to scrape away the last of Jaxton’s sandy pubes. Eros silently strokes his rigid flesh inside the boy. “A fallen angel, but an angel nonetheless.” Eros surveys the long, lean body under him: large, smooth balls flopped to either side, a dick shriveled yet still arresting lying over his hairless torso, a blond beauty, yeah—no doubt of that—panting in an agonized ecstasy. He feels his part in the fucker’s defilement, shudders, shooting a second load, pinching his thumb against his foreskin making sure Jaxton receives every drop of jizz. Mac stands back, his teeth blazing brilliantly white off the headlight beams. “And fallen angel are my favorite kind.” * Like the dying embers of sparks fading from his fingertips, excruciating hours of torment being passed back and forth from Mac to Eros, the night devolves into a blur. Jaxton’s broken. Coherent he’s not. Catching sight of himself in the sling’s mirror is someone else, someone unrecognizable, someone who’s a slut that’s passed around, even to the tattooed guy Eddie fucked, even on this rare occasion to Eddie himself. Jaxton’s given up. He confesses he’s a slut to whomever cares to listen. And no one particularly cares. After hours in slings, bred on fuck benches, fisted in birthing chairs, poked and prodded on examining tables, and forced to eat ass under rim seats—bottoming for each man two or three times—each degradation sapping his soul lower and lower, Eddie finally takes pity and brings him upstairs. At their bedroom door they hear muffled cries down the hall from the monk’s room. Eddie’s jittery from all the coke he’s been snorting, he’s not quite ready for bed. Jaxton tries to pull him into their room, but Eddie shakes him off and gives a few raps on the priest’s door. The naked priest answers holding a riding crop, gently slapping his palm. “Good evening, gentlemen. How delightful to see you both. Oh my, Jaxton,” he says, appraising him up and down. “You look absolutely transformed. A model right out of an Abercrombie and Fitch catalog, though I don’t really know about such things. But my manners. Please, come join us.” Jaxton slumps miserably in the hallway, his eyes pleading to Eddie. “Jaxton, don’t be a wet blanket.” Eddie pulls Jaxton into the priest’s bedroom. They witness Jesse blindfolded and gagged, his legs tied over his head. The boy’s butt is red with blisters, some wax has hardened on his testicles, his hole gapes with a prominent rosebud peeking through. “This is the pretty houseboy?” Eddie gasps in amazement. “Isn’t he just,” sighs Father Lucius. “He’s devilishly tempting, isn’t he?” Eddie’s pud is starting to rise. “You wouldn’t mind if I…just—“ “By all means. The more the merrier, I always say.” Eddie climbs on the bed and presses his dick into the boy. Jaxton slouches in the doorframe, not wanting to watch, but for once he’s not the victim so he impassively observes Eddie fuck the tied up kid. “Would you like a go?” asks the priest while Eddie humps away. “I would love it if I could have a go at you while you’re at him.” Eddie hears one more opportunity to take Jaxton down another peg, which causes him to quickly spurt into Jesse. “How many loads has the kid taken?” Eddie asks, getting off the bed. “I’ve been at him since this afternoon, but, believe it or not, yours is the first. Would you like to add a second?” he asks Jaxton. “Yes, he would,” Eddie answer for him. “I want to see you take Father Lucius’ anaconda, Jaxton. Let him fuck you while you fuck the houseboy.” “But I’m not hard.” Jaxton voice is low, filled with resignation. He’s tired, sees faint hallucinatory trails if he turns his head too quick, and doesn’t like at all the idea of being fucked by the monk. “Just put your dick against his hole and see what happens. As your boss I’m telling you, Jaxton.” Jaxton reluctantly climbs on top of Jesse and plops his flaccid dick on Jesse’s wet rosebud. Father Lucius sidles over his own butt and, with two hands, guides his behemoth down through Jaxton’s sloppy ass lips. It cold and slimy going in, something more reptilian than human. It continues still cold and slimy as it penetrates his second ring. The P.A. at the tip of his cock is even colder, ice cold, so cold it feels like it’s burning. However, it has a surprising reaction on him, one he can’t explain. The icy burn arouses his dick. It’s growing the deeper the icy fire inside him burns. The monk is starting to hump him just as he’s humping the kid under him. “Is he going to remember any of this,” Jaxton asks, picking up the pace to match the monk’s. “Not at all,” Father Lucius whispers in his ear. “Best kind of fuck is a drugged up fuck, I always say.” Eddie stands beside them, watching them go up and down, up and down—his face turning green. Father Lucius and Jaxton are definitely getting into a charged, erotic rhythm, Jaxton’s hand back on the priest’s bony ass, the other squeezing Jesse’s balls. The priest’s breathing heavy, feels up Jaxton flank and occasionally slaps his ass. The monk glances sideways at the actor. “Mr. Gleason,” says the alarmed priest. “You look quite ill.” Jaxton also peers over at Eddie. “Go to bed, dude. You’re going to pass out,” grunts Jaxton, getting excited as hell by the fire in his loins. If he’s going to do this, he doesn’t want to be distracted by Eddie, or, worse, see Eddie puke. “How’s he gettin’ home?” Eddie slurs, putting his hand on the wall for balance. “You’re right across the hall. Fuck,” Jaxton moans, as at that moment the entire mass of the monk’s flesh flows throughout his intestines taking over his guts. “See he gets home, Padre,” Eddie says, waddling his way out the door and shutting it behind him. As soon as the door closes, the priest hammers home his pelvis against Jaxton’s swollen hole, his tongue swishing in Jaxton’s ear. Father Lucius strains lustily, groaning as he releases his spew. “Stop! Shit! What is that?” Jaxton stops fucking Jesse, feeling an acidic liquid burning deep in his bowels. “You did not just piss in me, did you?” he says, disgustedly. “Not urine, child. Venom. I had to wait for Eddie to leave before injecting you.” The priest climbs off him. Jaxton’s horrified seeing drops of black liquid like crude oil spool from the priest’s his piss slit. Father Lucius sits with a sliver of a smile on the edge of the bed. Jaxton want to get off Jesse, but feels his joints stiffening to where even his smallest movement is increasingly difficult. “What’s happening to—” but he can’t finish the sentence. His jaw clamps shut. He moans wild eyed behind frozen teeth and wild eyes. He’s starting to panic. Eyes darting around the room, feeling even his eyes are beginning to rigidly stare straight ahead. “Sorry, but while the venom sets in, I need to prepare you for the next stage.” He strokes Jaxton back, trying to calm the boy’s whimpering. “Over countless years I’ve experimented with insects and plants that paralyze their victims before devouring them.” Jaxton convulses attempting to shriek behind his frozen face. So restricted are his movements there’s only the slightest twitch of his body. “No, no, no. I’m not going to eat you.” The priest is amused by the thought. “Although you would be a tasty morsel, I do admit. But I tease, Jaxton. I misspoke. Child, child, you are much too serious.” Father Lucius pulls Jaxton off of Jesse, and sets him up against the wall. “The paralyzing venom is the easy part. What’s next is much more difficult to explain.” The priest sits hip to hip next to Jaxton. At six foot seven, even sitting, the boy is still half a head higher than the priest. When he turns the boy’s face to his, he has to look up into his tremulous eyes. He kisses this beautiful boy lightly on the lip. But then his face turns serious: he becomes the teacher making sure his pupil pays attention. “In its basic form it’s simple transference. I like to think of it like skinning an orange.” He runs his soft hand down Jaxton’s hairless chest, through his shaved crotched, pulls his balls, runs his palm over Jaxton’s wiry thighs. “You know that special thrill you have when you manage to stick your finger under the skin of an orange, slowly separating the orange’s skin from its flesh, its juicy meat? The special thrill if you can get the peel to come off in one long spiral? You start at the navel and, inch by inch, work your way until the entire flesh is revealed? Well, imagine two oranges, both expertly peeled in this manner, both fruits’ flesh nakedly exposed. Swapping the two skins and covering up the oranges again, you’d never know what orange contained which flesh. It’s a flawed analogy, I know, but the best I can offer you. But you do understand what I’m saying, don’t you?” Father Lucius places his soft palm on Jaxton’s belly and pushes. Jaxton knows it’s not real, but he senses the priest’s hand under his skin, separating him from himself. His palm goes about its task over his shoulders, around his arms, down his torso, through his genitals, over and around his legs, his ass, under his back—his hand softly, soothingly flaying him—over his scalp and, finally, gently, separating his features from his skull. It’s a suggestion, at best—nothing that’s real or can be seen. “The interesting part, a tertiary effect of the venom aside from the paralysis and sloughing of skin—one I’m not sure the reason for, but I do recognize the truth of: during the transference, I feel what you feel and you feel what I feel. For instance, I hear your mind screaming its denial, that this isn’t real—though you will come to accept it is. I feel the terror building within you as my words lodge in your mind, the existential dread of being removed from your body, this body that has been with you all your life, the only corporeal flesh you’ve ever known. But, at the same moment, you must also be feeling how excited I am by what’s to come, how much I’m anticipate mounting you. Yes? Yes, I see it in your eyes.” The priest pets his cheek. Jaxton feels the fingers on his face and also feels the sensation of touching a young man’s face. “Such lovely eyes. I will take good care of them.” The monks goes to his satchel and takes out silver duct tape and places it on the bed. “You know, before you knocked, I was just about to release my venom into the houseboy and transfer myself to him.” He pats Jesse’s behind fondly. “I was enchanted with him the moment I saw him. I had finished punishing the body for its sins, but then He brought you to me. I sensed our connection on the drive here, at the pool. I saw how drawn you were to me, and I to you. I thinks it’s a far better exchange, don’t you?” The priest stands and moves his hand over himself as if he’s in a tantric dance, trailing his hands over every inch of himself, ritualistically preparing his flesh for Jaxton. “Best you not witness the creped flesh exchanged for the rejuvenated.” He closes Jaxton’s eyelids. “It would be just too disturbing. Trust me, there won’t be any pain, but there is a strange alienation, the familiar mixing with the disquieting: like a shirt put on backwards, or the feeling of a left and right shoes switched. One could get used to it in time, I suppose. Yes. In time.” Jaxton is laid face down on the bed. He feels a strange vibration throughout his body. His arms are moved behind his back and taped together. The paralysis is wearing off and he’s able to move but only if assisted. He’s righted to a sitting position on the bed. Still very weak, moving extremely slow with stiffened joints, he’s helped up to what must be a great height. He feels unsteady but a strong hands balance him. The sound of tape being pulled, then feeling tape wound round his legs. He feels he’s about to fall, but again a strong hand steadies him. His manages to pry open his eyes. The dark room lit by a flickering candle. He sees Jesse’s ropes have been untied, and somehow he’s grateful for that. The houseboy lies there asleep, breathing peacefully. He looks down and sees his penis is grossly deformed, monstrously large. His eyes dart in the dark, then land on his face, the face of Jaxton. Him, but not him; another’s flesh inside his skin. “You must think me the devil incarnate,” the handsome young man says. “But I can assure you tonight I’ve bestowed two gifts that Lucifer never would. One on the housekeeper, though I hadn’t intended it—a last minute pairing with you, left him with a priceless gem between his legs. Something I’ll have to rectify before my superiors catch wind. And this that I give to you, for you wouldn’t want it to, trust me, be otherwise. You won’t see it as such, but I give you a blessed gift.” He smiles, a boyish, slightly grievous curl to his lips, the merest gap in his front teeth. Three steps takes him to the back of the chair, which he gently tips it to one side. As he dangles from the beam above, spinning slowly, he sees the dazzling young man enclose himself inside the closet, patiently waiting for a new day. One he won’t see.

5. Scorpion Jesse slinks down the stairs and hauls back a half-asleep Eros to the priest’s bedroom. Rubbing gunk out of his eyes, Eros stares at the priest’s thin, naked body slowly twirling. “Yeah he’s dead all right.” Suppressing a yawn, Tommy tiptoes in quietly closing the door behind him. He presents a large plate of sandwiches to Eros and Jesse. "I found these on the counter. They're a little stale but I think they're—" Eros nabs two roast beefs before Tommy even finishes, "—okay." “Mustard?” “Like I’d forget,” Tommy says, annoyed, as he hands over mustard packets from his pocket. Eros is not a morning person, especially after just two hours of sleep. “Coffee?” “How many fucking hands you think I have?” Tommy’s prickly as Eros on two hours of sleep. The corpse does a full three-sixty as he munches a tuna fish wedge. When the monk’s pumped member glides in front of him, he turns to Jesse, “He fuck you with that thing?” “Jesus, Tommy. That’s the first thing you think of?” says Jesse, snatching an egg salad triangle whose crusts are sliced off. He watches the monk continue to rotate. “But, yeah. He fucked me with that thing.” Eros gobbles one of his roast beefs in a few bites. He goes to the bed and picks up a piece of rope. “Bondage, huh? What a shock.” “So you woke up and he was just hanging there?” Tommy suspiciously asks. He’s finished his tuna, and now starts on a turkey and avocado. “First I took a piss.” Jesse looks at the door and quietly slides the bolt lock so no one barges in unexpected. “When I came back I saw him hanging there.” Eros and Tommy circle the body chewing. Tommy looks at Jesse puzzled. “If his arms and legs are duct taped, how’d he manage to climb on the chair and hang himself? He had to have help.” “I told you, he slammed me a second time and I don’t remember anything after that." "So maybe you helped him and don't remember." Eros suggests. “There’s things I’ve done that I didn’t remember till T told me the next day.” "I barely could stand up after the first slam. No way I’m propping up a monk all taped up and getting him up on a chair. Look at me. On a good day I couldn’t lift, what—,” he gauges the body. “Like one-thirty, one-forty pounds? I’m not like T.” Tommy flexes a bicep for Eros and wiggles his eyebrows. Eros frowns, considers the situation. After finishing his second roast beef he proposes an idea raising his index finger. “What if someone comes in, binds him, and strings him up while you’re passed out?” “Except, when I got up to pee, the door was bolted on the inside,” Jesse counters. “Shit, that does complicates things,” Eros concedes. He takes the remaining turkey and avocado, which make Tommy snarl. He puts it back and chooses a lone lobster roll. “That actor guy and the tall kid were in here...I think,” Jesse reflects. “I’m not sure when that happened. But I felt a little dick as some point fucking me. Just like T said. I bet it was him. And the kid bitched about not having a hard on, but he got it up and fucked me, too.” “So tell me everything.” Eros squirts mustard on his lobster roll. “All you can remember.” “Dude,” Tommy balks. “You have to put mustard on everything?” “It’s the good kind. I didn’t know it came in little packets.” “Listen!” Jesse hits Eros to get his attention. “I remember the priest giving me this Prince Albert.” He pulls down his underwear and flashes his jeweled P.A. Tommy’s chewing the turkey and avocado and lifts the empty plate. "Should I go down and get more?" "Nah, you'll risk someone seeing you before we figure out what to do." Eros looks down to the pool below. Still empty. The sky's clear but it's brisk. Leaves are gathering around the pool filter. “Yeah, so after he gives me the P.A., he slams me the first time, and we fuck for a really long time, then he spanked me some, and then we fist—punch fist, sixty-nine fist. I never been so far up someone’s ass, ever! It was crazy weird.” Tommy whistles. “So many things happened. I’m might be confusing the order but I think I was gagged and blindfolded when the actor and the kid came in. I don't know how long they were here but they left, I'm pretty sure. I remember hearing the priest lock the door and then it got really quiet. Then after he poured hot wax on me—," "God damn, Jesse!" Eros bursts out. "You gonna listen to me next time?" "Like I need you to lecture me!” Jesse crosses his arms, looks defiantly at Eros. “Look at you all judgy. Say, how’d you and Mac D.P.-ing the kid go? You give him any choice?” “Let’s say he learned to like it,” Tommy says, watching Eros grind his jaw. “Fuck last night.” Eros snaps. Ostensibly he checks out the pool again, but then suddenly he picks up the antique chair and slams it down hard on the carpet with a boom. Jesse gives him a dirty look, shushing him, but then he blinks, looking wildly around. “Wait.” He searches the monk’s satchel then scurries around the room. “Where’s his case?” “What are you looking for,” Tommy asks, his mouth full. “He had this little case with a hypo in it. It had a couple vials strapped inside.” He looks under the bed, in the empty chest of drawers, and then rummages in the closet. “When he saw I was coming round he got out this kit—I don’t see it here. He also got out some scary tools—I think he must’ve pierced my nipple when I blacked out. After that second slam, I don’t remember anything. But that case should still be around." “Maybe whoever hung him took it,” Eros suggests. “Listen. Bottom line, it won’t look good you drugged up and locked in a room with a dead guy. You’ll be the cop’s suspect numero uno. Good you came and got us so we can get ahead of this. T, before anyone gets up we should get the body out of here. Bury it in the forest or maybe out at the lighthouse. Hardly anyone goes out to the cape.” Tommy pauses, swallowing the rest of his sandwich before he holds up his hand, waving it in disagreement. “No, someone might eventually find it. We should take it out to sea and Davy Jones it.” “No,” Eros says pacing. "It might float back. Then they’ll see neck burns and that’ll lead to a bunch of questions.” “Okay,” Tommy's pacing now, too. “Between here and the dock there’s that swamp. We can take it there, and weight it down with rocks. Nobody’s going to go traipsing into the swamp." Eros enthusiastically bobs his head in agreement. "Okay. Then we take one of the kayaks, make it look like he took one out early—“ “Like,” Eros says, clapping him on the shoulder, “we put his sandals in it—“ “—and his rosary—“ “Genius! And his rosary in the kayak and turn it over on the beach like it floated back without him.” “Yeah. Or just let it float out to sea! It’ll look like he went out before anyone else got up.” They’re holding each other’s shoulders, nodding, electrified by their brilliance. “He's still high—right?—he tips over and accidently drowns. No body to be found, but the police would have reason to believe they'd eventually find one. Right? That’s if Mac even reports him missing.” “I’ll get the kayaks if you guys get the body,” Jesse says. But then he pauses. “Wait. Why wouldn’t Mac report him missing?” Tommy and Eros exchange a look. Tommy says, “Let’s say he’s got his reasons not to attract attention.” Jesse collapses on the leather divan, the corpse spinning above him. He laces his fingers and put them on his head staring up at it. “So, if he didn’t hang himself—all duct taped up like that—someone else did. And if someone else did and got the inside bolt to somehow lock, he’s gonna know Father Lucius didn’t drown. They’ll rat us out!” “Well,” Tommy says, reasoning with him, “if we assume he didn’t hang himself—and I agree that it's impossible he did it—then someone went to a lot of trouble to get you locked into a room with a dead guy. So whoever that was, the last thing he’s going to do is make waves. What’s he gonna say? Like 'I know there’s no body,” he says in a stupid guy voice, “but I know that the body we can’t find wasn’t drowned—it was hanged'?” Jesse cracks his first meager grin of the day. “No way! No one’s going to say that. That’d be stupid.” Tommy claps him on the shoulder, leaning in reassuringly. “And whoever it is, isn’t stupid. So: no body, no evidence, no problem!” While Tommy clips Jesse’s chin bringing out a bigger smile, Eros climbs up on the chair and cuts down the body. He and Tommy slip the monk’s robe back on him. Tommy give Jesse the rosary beads. Eros lifts the shoulders and Tommy takes the feet. Unlocking the bolt, Jesse makes sure no one’s in the hall, and Eros and Tommy take the body away. With the monk's sandals and rosary beads in hand, he sneaks down to the pool. Quietly lets himself out the side gate, takes a bright green kayak off the rack and, though it weighs a ton, lugs it to the beach. There’s white caps all the way to the horizon—fortunately the wind is at his back. He lays the kayak down in the wet sand, places the sandals and rosary beads in the hull, and pushes it out with the tide. It bounces for a while in the surf, spins directionless, but gradually the steady wind guides it from the shore. Soon it’s only a vibrant green dot bobbing under an indigo sky. Far down the beach, rocks surrounding the lighthouse spray white foam in the air from crashing waves. The storm has traveled inland for hours but the ocean remains angry. Seagulls squawking on the sand part before him as he wanders back to the shack. Jesse waits nervously inside for Eros and Tommy to return. Minutes turn to hours. Inside the compound he hears the beginning of activity at the pool. Cups clinks, a low murmur of tired voices just waking up. Laying on Tommy and Eros’ futon he curls into a small ball. Their smell is comforting. After a long, harrowing night followed by a frantic morning—one filled with more questions than answers—he drifts off like the green kayak, into a very dark, very troubled sea of sleep. * Mr. McPherson drives the golf cart down a rickety wooden walkway. He’s none-too-shabby, thinks Jaxton, taking in his broad, tan shoulders, muscular back, and neck thick as a linebacker. Certainly the first good thing on this stupid island getaway Eddie planned. They head, clackety-clack, to the compound. The passing maritime forest would be pretty if you were into nature. He prefers Tribeca. Eddie sits gabbing excitedly beside Mr. McPherson. Jaxton, tuning out the chit chat with earbuds firmly in place, is in the back seat with a creepy old priest named Father Lucius dressed like an honest-to-fuck monk. The monk keeps checking him out. He sees his sideways glances. Jaxton’s trying to ignore him by concentrating on his Nintendo Switch. The moment the priest lays one finger on him, he’s ready to punch the fucker in the face. They disembark in the oppressive heat and take a smaller walkway to the house. They pause at the entrance watching some young guy—in his underwear, for fuck sake!—park the cart. He’s cute but short. Jaxton prefers guys tall like himself—like the owner of the compound, e.g. The owner says something about everyone being casual at his place and pinches his tit, which Jaxton does not like one bit. He thinks the man’s attractive, but he’s not one for men he doesn’t know thinking they have access to his body just because he’s hot and they’re rich. (Well, Eddie notwithstanding. But then Eddie’s paying him a hell of a lot for a bogus “assistant” position and he knows never to pinch.) Jaxton hunches forward letting his blond dreadlocks fall over his face so no one sees he’s simmering. He blasts his iPhone to drown out the men talking. But before Mr. McPherson has a chance to open the front doors, the monk unexpectedly flashes his junk, which is pumped to a grotesque size Jaxton’s never seen in his life, and to which no one but him seems to think is completely revolting, not to mention inappropriate. Inside, it’s what he’s come to expect in modern beach houses—it isn’t grossly ostentatious, at least—a minimum of chrome and brass with lots of wood and glass. Mid-century modern furniture in the living room, an Eames lounge chair, the requisite pair of Wassily black strap chairs arranged around a Noguchi coffee table; a Jasper Johns and a Warhol in the dining room. In the airy foyer and leading up the staircase are pictures of Mr. McPherson with a hell of a lot of famous men, Eddie as a twenty-year-old shirtless stud among them. Dark mullet aside, Eddie was something back in the day. It’s sad, really. Jaxton stops and points at the photo. In it, Eddie, shirtless wearing a leather vest, has his arm draped around very pretty boy about the same age. “That thirst trap is you?” he asks, incredulous. Eddie nods and huffs with their luggage up the stairs. “Look at you, bossman.” Jaxton says, which only irritates Eddie. Eddie hates when he drops into his faux-Jamaican act. “Who was the blondie?” Jaxton pesters him up the stairs. “No one you ever heard of,” he wheezes, clomping his way to the room. Their bedroom is large and thankfully frigidly air conditioned. Eddie wants to go immediately to the pool but Jaxton grouses that he’d rather stay in and play his Switch in the A.C. Eddie states categorically he is not going to have his weekend ruined, and demands the game with an outstretched hand. Back in the city a move like that would have caused Jaxton to tell Eddie to shove it and leave, but here he’s stuck and feels like he’s going to have to be at least a little accommodating. He turns over the game, binds his dreadlocks up in a man-bun, and put on his knee-length swimming trunks. “You heard Mac,” Eddie says. “This place is for the uninhibited. Either you wear that dental floss thingy I bought you, or a speedo like mine or nothing. But you are not wearing those ridiculous trunks. You’re not hanging your surfer friends in Montauk.” “That’s a negative on the speedos, bossman. Too much weenie for the bikini. And the thong barely packs me in.” “Then it’s nothing.” “Fine,” Jaxton sneers, and slips off his swimming trunks. He trots down the stairs having no problem displaying his body, especially if it catches the head of the house’s eye. He finds a shady spot by the pool. With his earbuds in and his player turned up, he doesn’t hear the priest dive in the water. Eddie taps his shoulder, hands him a frozen margarita. A peace offering. Jaxton graciously accepts. Eddie wedges himself on the lounge next to his. Besides his own margarita, Eddie’s brought a full pitcher, which he sets on the ground in the shade. He’s in his speedo, which Jaxton finds tragic. A moment later Jaxton’s alarm is set off warning him the old priest is swimming up. He registers Eddie and the monk are talking about him, so he turns down the music a little to catch if any of what they’re saying is of interest. “He’s a mighty tall drink of water, isn’t he?” comments the priest, leering at Jaxton. The music goes right back up. Jaxton hates that phrase. It’s right up there with String Bean, Bean Pole, Bean Stalk—anything Bean-adjacent really. Though the music is too loud for him to actually hear it, he sees the priest ask him, “How’s the weather up there?” That’s another one that ticks him off. The best he can manage is a minor scoff. He checks for any texts from anyone, anyone—even the DJ he’s currently ghosting—but seeing no bars, sags into the chaise. With a thick bottom lip he nurses a sip of his margarita, but perks up instantly when Mr. McPherson comes out to join them. He’s awesomely naked, too. DILF, definitely, Jaxton muses. No tan lines on that boulder butt, and a cock swaying like an elephant trunk. With a cool sip of his drink he gifts the man a restrained two-finger wave. He takes one earbud out as a courtesy. “Hey,” he murmurs. Mr. McPherson acknowledges him with barely a hi—which straight away sets Jaxton off on offense while destroying his self-esteem at the same time, none of which he allows to register on his face. Mr. McPherson bounces on Eddie’s chaise and rumples his sparse hair. Eddie’s a kid again soaking up attention from someone powerful. Mr. McPherson says, “So if the storm holds off a little we can grill steaks.” He looks expectantly at the monk and then at Jaxton. “I trust I have men here that like to eat meat.” Jaxton pauses his music. If Mr. McPherson wants to be indifferent, he can be as serious as a morgue. “Actually, I’m vegan, Mr. McPherson.” Mac makes a theatrical grimace—turns to the actor, “I thought you said no food issues, Eddie.” Eddie slaps Jaxton’s ankle to get him to sit up. Jaxton reluctantly complies. “You eat meat. I’ve seen you eat a whole chicken.” “Dude, it was a free range guinea hen we had in California before the prelims. It made me sick all during the finals.” The priest emerges from the pool, his junk dripping like he’s taking a piss. He stands fists on hips at the end of Jaxton’s chaise. Jaxton scoots a little away from him, which causes Eddie to raise a cautionary eyebrow. “I’m sure I can find something in your pantry for our young giraffe, if you’ll allow me. Most of our monastery is vegetarian along with a few pescatarians.” Jaxton looks as if a turd is under his nose. Eddie looks puzzled. “Fish eaters, Mr. Gleason.” “Lobster,” Jaxton proposes. He’s being accommodating. “I do eat lobster.” Mac laughs, interjecting, “So you’re not that vegan.” Jaxton insists, “I’m totally vegan, bro." “Except for shellfish,” Father Lucius replies, also amused. He sits at the bottom of Jaxton’s chaise and runs a cold, wet palm over Jaxton thigh. “These have got to be the legs of a swimmer.” Eddie notices Jaxton is horrified by the monk’s touch. “A surfer. Also a competitive snowboarder, aren’t you, Jaxton.” Jaxton nods and hides his distain behind multiple sips of margarita. “He’s won prizes at Telluride and Sundance.” “Racing and freestyle,” he says, with a bit of blossoming pride seeing this interests Mr. McPherson. “And in May I just took first at the Rip Curl competition in San Clemente.” “Amazing.” The priest’s hand is higher up Jaxton’s thigh. “Father Lucius,” Mac trumpets, slapping Eddie on the shoulder as he’s rising to his feet. “How about you and I find our resident bro something he’d like to eat.” “I’d like nothing more.” Both men chuckle as they go into the house. Eddie scowls refilling his drink as Jaxton reinserts his earbud and tunes out the world. Somewhere during his playlist, Jaxton notices he’s cold. He looks up to see clouds gathering overhead. He’s had enough. Eddie’s finished the pitcher of margaritas, his head lolling to the side with a bit of drool in the corner—it’s sick to the point of being hysterical. In addition to having goosebumps, he finds he’s hungry. He wanders in the backdoor and discovers a naked Mr. McPherson fixing sandwiches at the kitchen counter. Jaxton cruises the man, making sure he knows his ass is being checked out. “Ah, I was just about to get you two. Grilling looks like we’ll have to put off till tomorrow. But I did find lobster salad. I made you some lobster rolls. Tell me mayo or gluten aren’t a problem.” “No way. Lobster rolls are dope.” Jaxton grabs one and hops on a stool at the counter. Mac finishes slicing brie for a series of sandwiches. “You know,” he says, without looking up, “you’re probably vegetarian not vegan, and not a strict one at that.” Mac picks up a hard roll roast beef, and joins Jaxton at the counter. “Maybe. These are lit, Mr. McPherson,” he says, finishing his first and takes up another. “Call me Mac.” They both savor their sandwiches, eyeing each other. “Where’s Father Lucius?” As if on cue, a rumble of thunder echoes in the distance, which causes Mac to croak a laugh. He points to the stairs. “The good Father is entertaining our young houseboy with card tricks, or something or other.” Jaxton’s eyes keep dropping down to Mr. McPherson’s hanging cock and back up to his large nipple rings. “I’ve thought about getting one of those,” he says, pointing to Mac’s piercing. “You’d look great with one.” “Sic. Only my left though. Is it true two rings means you flip?” Jaxton face is completely neutral. He slides the plate between them and starts working on another lobster roll. “I bet you think I’m an oinker.” “I’m all in when it comes to piggishness. Eat! You could use a pound or two.” He nudges the plate toward Jaxton. “And, yes, I most definitely flip. But I’m surprised you’re caught up in this whole left side, right side thing. That’s very old timey.” Mac reaches over and tweaks his right nipple. Jaxton elbows him away. “I prefer to top, but I’ll flip for the right guy.” He studies Mac’s reaction. Detects none. His brows furrows as he chews. Mac enjoys how seriously the boy takes himself. He’s lucky he gorgeous—stubble on his cleft chin, wispy hint of a mustache on his upper lip, long dark lashes, solemn brow, a slender face, with dazzlingly hazel eyes that turn on a dime: defiant, mischievous, dangerous, wounded, vengeful. What he would do with this boy over time. He could do without haystack of hair, though—but overall a perfectly lithe specimen of young manhood. Spirited, arrogant, entitled, unbroken. “Can I ask you something personal,” Mac says, opening his sandwich and picking off some roast beef. Jaxton looks at him with a raised eyebrow. “Do you and Eddie fuck?” Jaxton appears disappointed with the question. “Oh, that. No. Oral sometimes. Works out for the best.” Mac considers this a second, then takes a piece of the red meat and offers it to Jaxton. The young man doesn’t disappoint when he opens his mouth. Mac slips it in, fingers Jaxton’s bottom lip. Jaxton chews it down lustily. Mac picks off a smaller piece. “Try swallowing this without chewing.” Jaxton opens his maw and gulps it down. Mac emits his shark tooth smile, and slides off his stool. “You were drinking tequila?” He opens a cupboard and pulls out a bottle of Grand Patron. “A margarita,” Jaxton corrects him. His eyes flash as he recognizes the high-end tequila. “It should be illegal, don’t you think, to mix a two-hundred-fifty dollar tequila with corn syrup.” Mac brings out two shot glasses, fills them, and slides one across the counter. Jaxton throws it back as does Mac. Both slams down their glasses on the counter. “Oof!” Jaxton rasps. Mac fills them again. “You trying to get me drunk, Mr. McPherson?” “Do I need to?” They both down their shots and again hit their glasses on the counter. “Dude,” Jaxton rasps. “That is some fine hooch.” Two back-to-back shots and Jaxton feels warmth in his belly. He cracks his first smile since he’s been on the island. Mac sees he’s got a slight gap between his front teeth. He’s completely taken. “You think? Follow me,” says Mac, heading to the dining room. “Bring your glass.” In the dining room Mac takes a fat, unlabeled bottle off the bar cart. It only has a few inches of amber liquid in it. Jaxton notices something dark, maybe sketchy floats on the bottom. Mac pops out the wide cork and pours a shot for himself and refills the boy’s glass. “Mezcal de escorpion. This,” he swirls the bottle, “is muy, muy contraband. I dare you.” Mac sees the boy’s reluctance. “Pussy.” “Let me see that. Don’t pussy me, pops.” Jaxton takes the bottle, tilts it. “That a fuckin’ scorpion!” He’s incredulous. His façade of aloofness complete breaks down. “I make two shots my limit, but you gone and double dog dared me...Mac.” He spits out the man’s name and their eyes lock. He sips it, not taking his eyes off the man. With lips on fire, he’s challenged to down any more, but glaring at Mac he defiantly finishes it off. “Fuck me!” His eyes shine with a fiendish afterglow. “Gah!” he exclaims, violently shaking his head. “Right?” Mac concurs, downing his glass. Jaxton steadies himself with his bare butt on the edge of the dining room table. Mac pour himself one more and attempts to empty the bottle in Jaxton’s glass, but Jaxton puts his hand over it. “No-no-no-no, papi. I can’t.” “Sure you can. You win the prize.” Mac pushes his hand aside and empties the few last drops. There’s a plop. The small, black scorpion falls in his glass. “Dude,” he says with cloudy eyes. “You’re trying to poison me.” “The cartel I work with embalm the scorpion in mescaline. Not to be confused with mezcal. Bottled for a month, it neutralizes the poison and absorbs the narcotic. I promise you’ll get insight into how the universe truly works.” “Cartel, huh?” He suddenly very glad he came. “You’re lucky I’m as fuckin’ crazy as you are. Bring it.” With his two fingers, Mac plucks the scorpion from the glass, and dangles it in front of Jaxton’s mouth. Jaxton haltingly relaxes his jaw, battles second thoughts, and closes it. “Pussy,” Mac says flatly. Jaxton’s eyes blaze aggressively at him. Mac sees briefly the turbulence hidden beneath Jaxton’s cool surface. The tall lad reopens and Mac drops the scorpion in. Jaxton’s suddenly not sure about this, but two fingers go under his chin and Mac seals his mouth around the arachnid. “Now swallow.” Jaxton grimaces, displaying an agonized face. “Swallow. Don’t chew, just swallow.” Mac traces his finger down Jaxton’s throat, gently coaxing him. “You can do it.” His mouth and tongue burning, Jaxton struggles to keep his eyes from tearing wanting to spit the creature out. He fixes his gaze on Mac who’s sternly watching him. He feels the man’s dominance over his own instincts. He’s awestruck. Jaxton wants to submit to him, he desperately wants to please him, to cast himself off into those cruel blue eyes. He gulps the scorpion whole and begins to retch. “Don’t you puke! You keep it the fuck down.” Jaxton breathes rapidly through his nose. His eyes widen, then he collapses backward, sprawling out over the dining room table, his long legs hanging off the edge. He’s in shock at what he’s done and yet feels incredibly triumphant, victorious: more intense then riding the purest wave; his heart beating faster than the swiftest decent down an icy mountain. Mac examines the kid laid out like a human feast. He gives a squeeze to one of his nipples as a test and gets little reaction save a small grunt and a pulse from his dick. He runs his hand over the boy sandy blond bush, then takes his cock in his mouth and slathers his cock with saliva. Jacking the boy till his eight inches is standing at attention only takes a few stokes. Jaxton moans and grinds his hips in delicious revelry on the table. Jaxton’s head’s swimming. His eyes open, staring at a Warhol soup can, but his entire being is focused on his cock deeply engaged by Mac’s masterful technique. He’s being swallowed whole down an undulating, slick throat. One of the man’s hands glides through his pubes, over his abs, up to his tit. It’s pinched and Jaxton grabs it and moves it to his other nipple. Mac pinches that one twice as hard. Jaxton grabs the man’s ears and gently rocks his cock in and out his mouth. It’s a rare man that he can’t make gag. Mac flows with the motion and lets the kid have at his throat unimpeded, his tongue deliciously going along for the ride. Jaxton got his cock down his throat all the way to his pubes. Holding a guy here long enough always bring about a panicked gag reflex, but not this motherfucker. His long tongue even slithers out, tickling the underside of his heavy, prickly blond balls. It’s the softest, most thorough blow job of Jaxton’s life. And Jaxton’s going to enjoy skull fucking the man as long as he can. Mac lets him enjoy believing he’s the one in charge, skullfucking him by his ears. He can feel the increase of rhythm and the elevated breathing that’s a definite tell the boy’s about to blow. He releasesf his cock much to Jaxton’s disappointment. But he quickly jumps up on his dining room table and set his knees next to the kid’s ribs, feels for his hard meat and sticks it in his sloppy ass. It’s in before Jaxton has had time to mourn the loss of such expert fellatio. Mac slides his muscled ass back and forth adding an occasional gyration for spice. Jaxton’s aware what a good bottom the older man is, aware of how expertly he’s being milked. He’s on his back with a stud of a daddy taking proper care of his boy’s big bone. It’s a boy-daddy ‘ship he could get into. Up, down, round and round his long cock is stirred; stroked, pulled, slathered and slurped by a power bottom that knows exactly how to pleasure his cock in the way he’s entitled to be indulged. He grabs the man’s big swinging dick, one he’d love to get his lips around but he doesn’t have the dexterity. He settles for stroking it one hand and with his other hand gliding over the man’s muscular rock-hard ass, his six-pack abs, and his expansive chest pulling on those awesome door knockers. Visually and sensually he’s close to shooting, but again Mac frustrates him by climbing off before he can nut. “I’d say we’re ready for our next course,” Mac says. He climbs off the dining table and pulls a very drunk and slightly tripping Jaxton back toward his playroom. As they travel through the hallway, Jaxton feels the scorpion’s narcotic begin to wash over him in increasingly intense waves. They surprise Eddie swaying in the back door from the pool. Eddie and Jaxton happily recognize each other, both are happy drunks. Both rest their foreheads together in a gesture of familiar greeting. “You having a good time, kid?” Eddie asks him. “The best, Eddie.” Mac steers Eddie toward the stairs. “Eddie, go get your nose candy and summon Shaggy and Scooby to the playroom?” Eddie beams, elated, giggling in a sing-song to himself: Shaggy and Scooby, Shaggy and Scooby. He staggers upstairs for his stash that will get him through the night and into Tommy’s hot little ass. Mac puts his hand on Jaxton's shoulder so primed to perfection, so ready to be broken in. He observes Jaxton staring up at the light fixture. He’s waving his hand back and forth, observing sparks flying off his fingers, blurred trails following behind. "Come boy.” He guides Jaxton to the door. “This is when the fun begins."

Thanks @billy88666 and @FFRubbrPIG. Really, thanks everyone. I love the characters in Last Known Address. Hope I can do justice to these nasty, goofball, monsters, too. I’ll try to keep my trap shut and just let the stories tell themselves.

4. The Tale of Scooby and Shaggy You see them now, what, in their early thirties? That’s about right. How they met? One story. How they died? Two stories. But back to now. Eddie Gleason, the fat actor, comes out the side gates and yells for Scooby and Shaggy to get their asses to the playroom, pronto. “I brought Scooby snacks,” he croons, as if the stepped on coke they know he always brings would motivate them. It’s more what Mac and Dante would do to them if they didn’t perform. Eros and Tommy defiantly finish their spaghetti and meatballs, okay, Spaghetti-Ohs that comes with something vaguely resembling meat. While they’re eating Eros complains to Tommy it’s too high in carbs, but Tommy reminds him it’s what's in the cupboard. They look at each other hearing the fat man baying for Scooby and Shaggy again, like they didn’t hear him the first time. They set down their spoons together. “Sit and spin time,” Tommy says, woefully. They’re in synch like they most often are, picking up their spoons again and continue a few more shovelfuls mostly to put off the inevitable. But they’ve lost their appetite. Tommy takes the bowls and scrapes out what’s remaining and then washes the dishes in the sink. Eros lights a cigarette, comes up behind Tommy, and lets him take a hit while he’s washing. Eros isn’t one for broad displays of affection but he know what Tommy’s feeling. He leaves his fingers against Tommy’s lips as T draws in smoke. His arms around Tommy, he takes a hit himself. Eros is back in a moment where he’s just Eric, smoking a cigarette on a Bronx street after swearing he'd quit for the millionth time. He has to take a wicked leak. He far enough from his Bronx apartment shared with his brother that he doesn’t think he’ll make it. He steps on this last butt and promises he won’t pick up another pack, then ducks in a dark alley. There’s light snoring in a corner where a guy’s passed out on a stained mattress. They’re in their twenty back then. He thinks the guy would be cute if you looked passed his filthy clothes, his stringy hair and his track marks. Eric, as the middle brother in a series of three, has a bit of a sadistic streak from torturing baby bro, Evan. But, since this is just between us, he also has a masochistic streak being under the thumb of his much older bro, Eli, who’s pretty much a sociopathic monster. (Yeah, he’s in a family that likes E names.) He whips out his cock and pees on the cute guy snoring away. He immediately regrets it. Tommy sputters waking from a dream of being in a warm bathtub, sharing it with a long-ago boyfriend. Since deceased. Brain cancer. Didn’t know him at the end. Part of his depression leading to this particular alley. “What the fuck,” he blurts, once he realizes what splashed in his face. “Motherfucker!” He wobbles to stand. The mattress isn’t helping him with his balance. “The fuck you think you’re doing, man?” “Sorry,” Eric says, really meaning it. He doesn’t know why he did it. It would be something Eli would find funny and Evan would think him a pig for doing. Devil and angel on his shoulders, always. His bi-polar problem. Tommy’s feisty and up in his face, but seeing the guy’s a head shorter than him he knows he could take him if it came to that. But the guy’s orneriness mixed with him being destitute makes him sympathetic in Eros’ eyes. He really is genuinely sorry. “Didn’t know you were there till I heard something. I turned to see, and I guess it was you snoring,” he lies. “Now I smell like piss. Fuck dude. Why’d you gotta do that?” “Totally my bad, friend,” Eric confesses, now kind of disgusted about the whole thing. “Get you a cup of coffee. Peace offering.” Tommy looks him up and down as best he can in the shadows—a streetlight on the sidewalk doesn’t bring much light this far back, which is kind of the point. A part of him is completely humiliated. Another part is indignant. But another part of him is ravenously hungry. “And a donut,” he interjects. “Sure,” agrees Eric. “Get you one at the Korean market.” Tommy wipes his face on his sleeve, looks at his dirty blue and grey—used to be blue and white—striped shirt. He sees most of the fucker’s piss hit him in the face not his clothes. Is he supposed to be happy about that? He’s sure he still stinks, just not of piss. Eric rummages his pockets and finds a pack of tissues, gives it to the guy. The guy wipes his wet face. Hands back a damp tissue. “Keep it,” Eric says, as they make their way to the Korean store. It’s a warm night for fall. Leaves brown or missing, but pleasant for October. Tommy hesitates outside the market. He knows the Korean lady doesn’t like when he comes in. The tall asshole brings out two coffees and a donut in a paper bag. Glazed. His favorite but he won’t say that. They walk to the edge of the park and sit on a series of benches far enough apart that it looks like they don’t know each other. Tommy’s gobbles half the donut before Eric asks, “You live here long?” Tommy sucks the sweet sugar off his fingers and scoffs, “Yeah, right.” Tommy slowly savors the second half of the donut. In a way he doesn’t want the asshole to leave. First person to actually talk to him in as many days as he can remember. He’s shivering as he drinks his coffee. The caffeine’s not mixing well with him coming off his buzz. Quarter of his donut left, he feels compelled to cross-examine the guy, “You live around here?” “I do,” Eric replies. “Grew up here in the Bronx. You?” “Massapequa. It’s on Long Island.” “I know it’s on Long Island. I go to Jones Beach all the time.” He sees Tommy look away from him. “My parents are in Westchester now, but I have an apartment here with my brother.” Tommy takes one of two last bites. “Lucky you.” Tommy’s back in snide, could give a shit mode. He sees Eric slap his knee and is done with him. “Hey, thank you,” he says quickly. He realizes he hasn’t really thanked someone is a long. He means it, too. Eric looks at him and sees he means it. Tommy’s down to the final bite of his donut, gets up wiping his hands on dirty jeans. Thinks for a moment for something else to say. He’s got nothing. “Got any spare change?” It’s the default go-to tape always running in his head. Eric’s on his feet, reaching in his pocket. He’s almost grateful to play this role. He pulls out eighty-seven cents in change and gives it to the bum. His fingers are always counting coins in his pockets because, well, that’s Eric. He notices the bum takes the handout with cupped palms. He’s examining the coins. He’s a little stooped over. This annoys Eric. The bums not old enough to stoop. He’s his age. Maybe younger. Hard to tell because of the dirt. “No problem,” he says, and leaves to go make dinner for him and his brother. Every time he passes the alley now, he looks for the guy he pissed on. He never sees him there. Then one weekend, on a mild winter afternoon, the measliest traces of snow piled in the corners of buildings, he’s returning from the gym and there’s the guy at the subway entrance—not his subway line, which is a few blocks away—and the guy’s hands are cupped, he’s stooped again like some old beggar. He’s hassling the few pedestrians going down to catch their train. At first he pretends not to notice him, but he sees recognition in the guy’s face. But the guy doesn’t say anything, and he’s not going to say anything. So he keeps walking, picking up his pace. Now when he passes that same empty alley he feels guilty. Not every time, just some days. He sees the guy often at the subway entrance. When it’s really cold he imagines he’s downstairs. One Friday night when he’s coming back late from work, he’s so tired he misses a connection so he has to take a different line that ends up at this particular station. It’s February and bitterly cold. His brother Eli is spending the weekend in Westchester with Evan and his parents, pumping the folks for a loan so he can marry the fiancé he’s had on the hook since high school. She’s recently put her foot down. He’s got one, too, a fiancé, though for him it’s only been two months since he proposed. Him and his brother joke about who’s getting the ol’ ball and chain first. He’s walking to the exit and, on the opposite platform, there’s the guy in a maintenance door alcove. A couple of cops are hassling him with their nightsticks. Officer one says he can’t sleep there. He’s got to move on. In his tattered coat, the guy struggles to stand. He’s high, it’s obvious, but he’s aware enough to know that the cops aren’t going to let up till he’s gone. A subway screeches into the station and he heads for it. Officer two blocks his path. “Outside,” he says. Eric watches through the gap between subway cars, sees the guy stumbling up the platform steps. He and guy meet at the passageway between platforms, and walk next to each up to the street. The guy won’t acknowledge him, which kind of bugs Eric, but he also sees the guy has a sliver of pride still in him. Or maybe the guy’s just so high he doesn’t recognize him. The wind’s howling on the street. There’s a few snowflakes in the air but the weather report says they’re about to get hit by the season’s first nor’easter. Eric steps in front of him and places a hand on his chest. The guy slaps it away. “Hey,” Eric says, trying to get the guy to look at him. “You got somewhere to go?” “Fuck off,” he says. He couldn’t tell you what day it is but he knows for damn sure he’s doesn’t need this pissing asshole’s help—things you remember when most everything else you don’t. In more than one shelter he’s been told freezing to death isn’t a bad way to go. His alley mattress had been tossed but that alley was out of the wind. For right now that’s all he cares about. Eric stops him again. “Listen, dick wad, I asked you if you had a place to go.” The guy stares at Eric. His eyes are glassy, pupils dilated the size of dimes, his eye dart left to right several times to see how much this guy is going to fuck with him. He’s a little afraid of him because of his size, but he’s been beat up before. So who fuckin’ care. “Well, do you?” the guy demands. “Sure, I got a suite at the Waldorf, now get the fuck out of my way,” he says, trying to push Eric aside. But the guy’s big and doesn’t budge, so he ends up bumping into him. He just stands there. His face buried in Eric’s chest. Eric rest his chin on top of his head. He smells. Well, what’d he expect? “C’mon,” he says, practically dragging him by his threadbare coat. Tommy, freezing and tired, doesn’t have the wherewithal to resist. At the stoop of Eric’s apartment, Eric asks him if he’s got a name. “Everyone’s got a name,” Tommy says, struggling up the stoop. “Tom. Tommy Price.” “Tommy P.,” Eric taunts, brightly. “The famous Mr. T paying me a visit.” Tommy gives him the stink-eye as he’s let into the building. This guy, he reckons, really is an ass. As soon as they’re in the apartment, Eric forces him into the shower. It’s a pretty big three bedroom apartment. One room for his older brother, one for Eric. The third bedroom was supposed to be for Evan, but since he’s still in high school he lives with their folks. So right now the bedroom’s empty, except there’s piles of GQ magazines all over the floor. All belong to Eric’s. Eric’s in the kitchen heating up a can of sloppy joe mix when a wet Tommy, wrapped with a towel around his waist, another one over his shoulders, wanders in. He seems lost, but looks a hundred times better than twenty minutes ago. Eric sniffs him. “Presentable,” he pronounces, to which Tommy sneers back. “Hungry?” Tommy flops in the chair, still tweaking but starting to get his bearings. “Fuckin’ kidding me?” He looks at the label on the counter. “Manwich?” he scoffs. Eric opened two buns on separate plates and divvies up the meat. “Got another dinner engagement, you’re welcome to leave.” “Fuck you,” Tommy says, snatching the plate and starts scarfing it down, orange sauce staining his sparse beard. In between open mouthfuls, he says, “I’m back in my fifth grade cafeteria!” He looks up at Eric. “You live in this big place alone?” He’s impressed but tries to not show it. “Nah, told you it’s me and my brother.” “What’s with the room with the nudie magazines?” “GQ, not nudie magazine,” Eric snaps, indignantly. “Right,” says Tommy, as he finished his sandwich. “You want another?” Tommy’s not one to refuse an offer. “Ab-so-lute-ly,” he says, merrily. He hasn’t felt warmth in his belly since he doesn’t know when. When it relaxes, Eric sees Tommy’s got a nice face, pretty almost, with a cute dimpled smile. The track marks, though, are definite off-putting. As he’s fixing Tom’s second round, Eric says, “So you can’t stay in my brother’s room, but I got a rollout under my bed.” “Sure. Whatever.” Tommy reaches up to relieve Eric of the plate before he might change his mind. Deep into the second sandwich, he asks while he chews, “So, like, what’s your name?” “Eric,” he says. He swallows. “Got a last name?” “Why?” “Just wondering. Most people do?” “Jones.” “Eric Jones. Sounds like an alias,” Tommy says, finishing the sandwich, then starts licking his bright orange fingers. “It’s okay. Lot of guys use phony names.” Eric laughs sardonically. “Well it’s my name.” “And you’re gay.” “No!” Eric states, emphatically. “What makes you think I’m queer?” It’s what Eli’s always accused him of, sometimes joking, sometimes not—now he’s pissed. “Why’d you ask me up here? Your brother out and all.” “You know what? I made a really bad call. You probably need to get out of here.” Eric won’t look at him as he’s taking the plates, spraying them in the sink, shoving them in the dishwasher—Tommy’s up on his feet saying sorry, sorry. Eric slams the dishwasher’s door. He leans his back against the counter, arms crossed. “My bad, man,” Tommy’s pleading. “Look, I’m an idiot. I never thought you were queer.” He’s backpedaling as fast as if his life depended on it. “No, man. I just didn’t know what was up, y’know? Like if you were expecting—” “I’ve got a fiancé,” Eric interjects. “A place in Scarsdale we’re moving to. At some point.” Tommy’s silent, like, whatever, doesn’t matter to him. Eric’s frustrated, exasperated. “Fuck I’m explaining to you for.” Then: “No good deeds goes unpunished, do they?” “Wouldn’t know,” Tommy says, drudging through the apartment looking for his clothes. “I try to avoid good deeds. So, where’s my clothes? I’ll leave.” “In the washer.” Tommy purses his lips. “So, what, now you’re shanghaiing me? Or you gonna throw me naked on the street? What’s the deal, man?” Tommy’s now frustrated, too, but more than anything he’s confused. “Sure. I’m kidnapping a bum off the street.” “I ain’t a bum.” “Sorry. I take a kid off the street—” “I ain’t a kid either.” A tremor goes through his body. He wraps the towel for warmth around his shoulders. He doesn’t want the asshole to see it, but his trembling is beyond his control. “You want a robe?” Tommy tries to mouth yes as his teeth chatter, but he knows a robe won’t stop his shaking. He knows what will. Eric goes to his bedroom and comes back with a thick terrycloth robe. Tommy takes the towel off his shoulders, puts on the robe. He pulls the towel from his waste and Eric glimpses a red and black tattooed demon from navel to cock on Tommy. He ties the robe and wraps his arms around himself, which doesn’t keep his teeth from chattering. Tommy’s agitated, thinking through what he’ll need to do to score: who; where. “So, when my clothes dry I’ll leave.” “Shut the fuck up.” The washer buzzes and Eric goes in the laundry room. There’s banging of metal, appliance doors opening and closing, clicking, then a whir of a dryer. “You don’t have to fuckin’ leave.” Tommy is again search the apartment. “I had a coat when I came in.” “In the hall closet. Don’t worry. I didn’t steal your stash, or whatever. An empty baggie fell out. I just threw it out.” “In here?” Tommy asks, going through the kitchen garbage can. He finds the baggie. Opens it. Rubs his finger getting any residual powder and spreading it over his gums. Eric looks on, repelled. “Better now?” Tommy looks slightly relieved. “You smoke?” he asks Eric. “Cigarettes?” Eric responds. “No. Smoke crack. Yes, cigarette.” “I quit. My brother might have left a pack,” Eric says, leaving the kitchen. He returns with a filtered cigarette and gives it to Tommy. Tommy gives a mock bows, then rips off the filter and tosses it in the trash. He bends over the gas stove and gets it lit. Tommy leans back on the stove and is as serene as Eric’s ever seen him. “So, what d’ya feel like doing? Little late news? Round of canasta?” Tommy arches a playful eyebrow. “What do you and your brother do at night?” Eric doesn’t like the implication. “Sleep, which is what I’d like to do. I bet you can’t though. You’re gonna be up all night?” “No. I’ll conk out at some point.” He follows Eric to his bedroom bringing the ashtray from the kitchen with him. The room’s Spartan. No poster, books, or pictures; a few CDs and CD player; a bong on his nightstand; and there’s a large TV on top of his chest of drawers. His closet, though, Tommy notes, is stuffed with nice clothes. “Wouldn’t mind falling asleep to a movie. Been a while since I did that. Smoke bother you?” Eric shakes his head and pulls a foam mattress from under the bed. Puts some sheets on it. He throws Tommy a blanket who tucks it under his arm. Eric turns on the TV, gives Tommy the controls, and tosses a couple of pillows from his bed on the foam mattress. Tommy quickly props himself up with the pillows. Tommy sets the ashtray next to him, stubs out his half-finished smoke, and flips through the channels till he finds an old black and white movie. He turns the sound way down so the actors are barely audible. Eric hangs his shirt and khakis in the closet. Crossing in front of the TV, he slips off his underwear with an attentive Tommy watching. He finds his gym shorts and slips them on. The room’s quiet except for the couple on TV. “If you want water or anything, you know where the kitchen is. You okay till your clothes dry?” “Don’t have much choice, do I?” Tommy’s looking up at Eric as he climbs into bed and shutting off the light. Blue lights flicker across the ceiling. Lauren Bacall’s sultry voice taunts Humphry Bogart, “You know how to whistle, Steve?” Tommy and Lauren speak as one: “You just put your lips together and blow.” The TV cuts to a car commercial and Tommy hits mute. Now it’s just blue lights and silence. Eric flips over on his side facing the wall. Under the covers, Tommy opens his robe and starts stroking his cock. This goes on for some time. A steady swishing of the cotton sheets. Tommy’s breathing. Tommy stops. Listens. Starts up again. He’s beats off for a while. Stops. Listens. Listens some more. What’s he listening for? For Eric’s reaction. He knows Eric’s awake. He’s too quiet to be sleeping. Eric, in fact, is barely breathing. Eric’s listening, too. Tommy can hear him listening. Tommy puts a hand under Eric’s sheets, finds Eric, who jumps and is now tense as a trapped hare. Tommy’s hand stays on Eric’s ribs, waiting for rejection, but it doesn’t happen. His body flows up into Eric’s bed. His hand reaches around Eric’s flat rippled stomach. Eric’s actually trembling. Tommy is at his neck. Gives his neck a soft peck, then his collar bone. His hand runs up Eric’s chest, turning him on his back. He runs his hand through the soft pelt of his chest. Up to his shaved chin, his clenched jaw, his open eyes staring straight at the blue dancing lights on the ceiling. Tommy slides himself up. Over his lips. Leans down so they meet. Eric puts out his hand, touches Tommy’s beard, not to stop him, but to feel whiskers for the first time. He’s never had a man’s this close to his face before. A new sensation. Beard on his skin. Whiskers brushing across his lips. A sparse blond beard on his cheek. It answers his question of what it would be like. Now he knows. Eric's erect like he’s never been before. Tommy finds it through his gym shorts and starts stroking him, disappearing under the covers, pulling off the shorts. Eric jumps as Tommy’s mouth devours his cock. His big cock’s never been deep throated, and he can’t believe a throat can swallow his member down to his pubes. But Tommy’s down there, his cockhead buried deep inside his throat. It’s enough to make him cum on the spot, but Tommy rises from under the sheets and straddles Eric’s waist. His wet cock pokes at Tommy’s ass and slowly Tommy’s lowers himself onto it. “You have Vaseline or anything?” Tommy asks. “Something you beating off with?” Eric takes a tube of KY from his nightstand and hands it to Tommy. Tommy lubes his hole and Eric’s mammoth rod, and eases down on the cock, lowering himself slowly, excitedly, till this butt rests amid Eric’s pubes. Then he starts writhing slowly, grinding his ass against Eric’s rock hard cock, pleasuring him with long strokes—from his tip then plunging down to his base. Eric runs his hands along Tommy’s sides, feels his smooth, flat chest, and for the first time grabs hold of a cock that’s not his own. Tommy’s hard, too, and Eric stroking him makes Tommy pounce on his cock that much harder. They’re easily in synch with one another’s bodies, as natural as one hand washing the other. Tommy plays with Eric’s nipples. It’s another new sensation. Eric’s not sure if he likes it, but apparently his dick does because he’s fucking Tommy’s ass harder still the more Tommy pinches his nipples. That’s not lost on Tommy, who tweaks Eric’s nipples even harder. Eric can’t hold back anymore, and bucks his cock into Tommy, holds his hips, fucking fiercely and spurting the most feral orgasm of his organized life. He’s loud and he doesn’t care. “Fu—uh—ck!” he shouts, taking Tommy’s hips and slamming them down repeatedly on his cock. Tommy’s right there spewing cum over Eric’s hairy chest. They keeping fucking after each of them has climaxed, simply enjoying the feel of each other’s bodies. One hand still washing the other. Tommy riding Eric’s cock, drawing out as much cum from him as possible, and Eric seeing that by stroking Tommy’s spent cock it makes him flinch and moan—a torture he gets off on, inflicting small torments on this guy. “Stop,” Tommy begs him after he’s been milking him for quite a while, but that only makes Eric snarl and continues the torture. Tommy’s contributing, too, continuing to gyrate Eric’s big cockhead, but it’s getting softer and threatens to pop out. So Tommy stills Eric’s hand and simply rests on Eric’s deflating dick. Even flaccid, Tommy finds it still fills his ass with its enormous girth and length, and won’t come out even if he squeeze it. That’s a new one. He’s content to let it rest inside him for now, and Eric’s happy to have his cock buried in such a warm, wet ass. When Tommy leans over to lap up cum entwined on Eric’s neck, Eric’s cock oozes out along with a dribble of spunk. Tommy’s got of mouth full of cum and bends over to pass it to Eric. Eric turns his face to the side causing Tommy to frown. He slurps down the cum. “More for me then,” he says, and flops next to Eric. Eric turns to his side and kisses Tommy, tasting salty remnants of cum for the first time. So many firsts. He feels like he’s suddenly seeing color after living a lifetime in black and white. But he can’t see past tonight, even past this moment. How could he ever integrate this street person, this bum, a beggar, who’s opened his eyes to a spectrum of hues where he lived only in monochrome before? Would he pull Tommy up, or will Tommy pull him down? Tommy lights up the half-finished cigarette from the ashtray, lighting it with matches from Eric’s bong. Eric slips his arm under Tommy’s head, who rests it back on Eric’s shoulder. Eric plucks the cigarette from Tommy’s fingers and takes a hit. Still holding the cigarette, he lets Tommy take a drag. It’s like Tommy’s kissing his fingers. He is. Tommy’s finished with the dishes at the sink in their island shack. He removes the cigarette from Eros’ fingers, takes a hit before giving it back. “Time to sit and spin.”

3. The Hung Priest He's free! Jesse takes the stairs two at a time. Having cleaned the living room, office, and kitchen, and having just changed all the upstairs bedrooms' linens and washed all the windows (and there’s a ton of windows in this glass house), Jesse's free for the rest of the afternoon. He sprints down the stairs to his room to grab a towel before hitting the beach and meeting up with Eros and T. Of course he can’t resist skidding to a stop in front of his full-length mirror. He runs his palm over the dark buzz cut that's quickly growing in, grinning back at himself. Rummaging through the top shelf's collection of caps he selects an olive green one that says ARMY, which matches his feeling of being on leave from boot camp. He’s been through his own kind of intense training this past week: snake bite kit has enlarged his nipples; he now sports one of Dante’s cast off Prince Alberts swinging through his dick; and his hole can take Tommy’s, Mac’s and even Eros’ big fist. But back to the mirror. From one of the two star tattoos Eros added on either side of his treasure trail, he flakes off the last remaining scab. He sprints to the side gate but decides to dial it back a notch and slows his pace to seem more chill before he meets up with his BFFs. The golf cart Tommy uses to transport plants from the dock now carries passengers. You can tell by how heavy the cart's load is by the immense clattering of the loose walkway boards as it approaches the house. It pulls up to the front as Jesse closes the gate behind him. He pauses behind a trellis of ivy next to the koi coy pond observing Mac. (Noted: no longer Mr. McPherson, being under Eros' and Tommy's tutelage. Mac doesn't mind as long as he still gets to fuck the kid any time he wants.) His boss gets out of the cart ushering an extremely heavy man and a very tall kid that’s bent over because of the golf cart’s low roof. The big man's vaguely familiar. A movie star. A former screen idol his mom said she'd swooned over twenty years ago but has now gone to seed. A hundred extra pounds of seed, roughly. He's forgotten his name, but he now appears mostly in hard-core revenge dramas, most of them of the poor oppressed white man variety. The kid looks up before he jumps out of the cart. Jesse figures he’s about his age, a little too hipsterish to be his type. Long blond dreadlock hang in his face. He's trying to conceal his height with bad posture. All his focus is on his Switch screen, ignoring everything and everyone around him. He's got earbuds in so he doesn't hear the actor yelling at him. Mac's trying to help the actor with his luggage, but the man shoos him off. The kid’s mad because the fat man distracted him and messed up his game. He shakes the screen then looks around puzzled, wondering where he is. One more passenger gets out of the cart. A white haired older man dressed in a brown Franciscan robe cinched simply with a plain white rope around his waist. Though everyone in the group sweats profusely, the monk is the only one that seems delighted to be in such a lovely setting. He looks around taking in driftwood glass house, the bright green forest mirrored darkly in all the house’s tinted windows, the magnificently attended to garden, smiles at his present company and then at the gorgeous little army boy in white underwear who demurely hides behind an ivy trellis next to a trickling fountain. The monk is, quite literally, in paradise. Through the ivy leaves Jesse observes the priest's white hair is in bangs that emphasize his prominent forehead. Sunken cheeks and steel grey eyes give him a skeletal look. Adding to this appearance is his toothy rictus grin. Jesse guesses him to be in his sixties, possibly seventies. You'd assume he’d be feeble, but you'd be wrong. He maneuvers artfully around the golf cart—not an easy feat on the narrow walkway—and flits past the others on the crowded path with the balance of a tightrope walker. He's the first to reach the front doors, his satchel clutched in his arms, patiently waiting for the others. “Jesse!” Mac yells to him as he tries to slink his way to the beach unnoticed. The entire party looks over at him. Even the dreadlocks kid looks up from his game taking out an earbud. “Pull the cart around to the side of the house, please,” Mac asks, more order than request. The keys fly through the air and Jesse catches them one-handed. The actor pulls a backpack over one shoulder and, huffing, carries two suitcases to the house's entrance. The kid wipes his brow, pushing his hair out of his face and goes back to his screen. As Jesse climbs in the cart, he heard the kid ask the actor, almost indignantly, “Why is that guy wearing underwear?" “How the fuck should I know, Jaxton,” returns the fat man, dropping his load at the front doors. “We’re casual here, Jaxton,” Mac explains, looking back at Jesse. “He feels very comfortable in his briefs. Everyone here is free to do exactly what he likes. That goes for you, too, young man.” Mac tweaks his nipple, to which the kid elbows Mac’s arm away with a scowl. “And for you, too, Father Lucius,” Mac says brightly. At the door, the Franciscan monk stares at Jesse with his frozen grin. "Don't worry. I'm as delightfully unencumbered as I could possibly be," he replies, lifting his robe to the assembled group. The kid is taken aback by what he sees, but the others remain indifferent. Father Lucius drops his robe and watches Jesse reverse the cart around the side of the house. Jesse senses the monk’s eyes never leaving him. Mac drapes his arm around the old man's shoulders and steers him through the front doors. The empty beach stretches for miles in each direction with ribbons of brown kelp washed up at high tide. The waves are turbulent from an approaching storm. It's still many miles out to sea where the sky darkens like an ominous bruise, but he sand's warm, crunching pleasantly under Jesse’s toes as he ambles toward the waves. Eros, in sunglasses, and T, slathering lotion over his sunburnt nose, have their beach chairs set up at the water line. They sit naked, dicks hanging limp for once, each with a beer in their chair’s cup holders. Jesse slips off his briefs and hangs it, his army cap and beach towel on the back of T’s chair, and runs to the breaking waves. He make a backwards flip at the last second before a large wave has a chance to bowl him over. He body surfs for a while, barking seal sounds, doing cartwheels in the shallows—basically trying to show off for Eros and T who are infuriatingly ignoring him. The men are in a serious discussion when Jesse emerges dripping wet. He grabs his towel, bangs his head a couple of times to clear water from his ear, and starts drying himself. "Well, can I?" Jesse begins. "No!" Tommy and Eros say simultaneously. "Why not?" He hits a higher register in annoyance. Tommy says, "Definitely not," over Eros saying, "Just drop it already." "It's not fair!" He stomps his foot between their chairs, then yanks on his army cap, lips pursed. The men sips their beers. Eros gives him the once over. “Can’t really call you Cue-ball anymore, can I?” Eros, expressionless behind his Ray-Bans, hands folded over his abs, gives Jesse's ankle a sandy brush with his big toe. Jesse in spite of his petulance, smirks, rubbing his towel over his dark buzz cut. Shading his eyes from the sun, Tommy looks up at Jesse. “How ‘bout we call you Raisinets,” he teases, grabbing at Jesse’s shriveled nut sack. “How ‘bout, fuck you T-bag,” Jesse counters. He takes a step back, eyes sparkling with mischief, and snaps his towel with a crack against Tommy’s exposed butt. Tommy yips, and yells, “You little fuck!” He jumps out of his chair and chases Jesse down the beach. Eros snorts beer while he watches the two zigzag down the shore, leaping over large clumps of seaweed. Jesse evades T for quite a while before T dives and tackles him. They roll around in the sand, T smacking the kid’s head and making Jesse eat sand. T flips him on his back, sets his haunches on Jesse hips, pins the kid’s skinny arms at his side. They're roughly the same size, though Eros works Tommy out mercilessly building up distinctive biceps and pecs. As Jesse struggles to get up, T’s also given the advantage that he’s actually miffed. He threatens Jesse with a drool of spit, but Jesse turns his head away before it hits him. “Okay! I give, I give, I give!” Jesse pleads. T sneers victorious over him. Jesse jiggles his hips in the warm sand that coddles his backside. With Tommy’s ass sitting on his dick, he starts getting aroused. It wouldn’t be the first time this week Jesse, at Eros' urging, fucks Tommy. It just'd be the first time out in the open where anyone could see. T feels the growing boner, gives Jesse a last smack to the head, rises off him with his own cock semi-rigid. Walking back to the beach chairs, he shouts, “Fucker’s a little [banned word].” He plops back in his chair, snatches his beer, feigning indignation. “Where’d he get that from, I wonder?” Eros says, grinning his gap-tooth smile. Jesse returns brushing off sand then plops down on his butt between the chairs. He twists his cap backwards. "I got payed so I can pay you for it," he says. "No!" Eros says, emphatically. "Subject closed." He looks angrily out at the gathering storm. "Blowing clouds, okay. Slamming, not okay. Got it?" “Okay, okay. Sheesh. What a grouch," Jesse says. Eros regards him with a cocked eyebrow. Jesse points at his beer. Eros hands it to him, but when Jesse starts guzzling it he snatches it back. Jesse uses his toes to play with Eros' ankle but Eros is done playing. Jesse perks up. "You made me forget—d’you see those guys come in from the dock?” “Mac's friends made it before the storm, huh?” Eros observes. The sun's gets swallowed by clouds as he prepares to leave. He shaking his auburn mane and puts it in a ponytail. “Mac said we’d have visitors this weekend—one of his old actor pals.” "Please, not Eddie Gleason!" Tommy tragically wails. Eros interrogates Jesse. "Big, fat guy? In all those sand and sandal religious movies?" Jesse affirms this and Tommy buries his face in his hands. “Eddie Gleason's got a major hard-on for our boy T.” "Minor pud more like it. Awww,” Tommy moans, “he's gonna want to fuck me again and he takes for-ev-er to cum. ‘Sit and spin, sit and spin,’ he says. He thinks he’s hysterical. Scooby and Shaggy is what he calls Eros and me." This breaks Jesse up. "Yeah, he thinks it's rich, too." “Well, he’s got a tall kid with him,” Jesse offers. “Maybe you’re off the hook.” Eros shakes his head “Nope. That’s this guy’s M.O. Always brings a fresh kid, calls them his assistants. New kid each time he brings for me and Mac to D.P., so he can watch and get off while the kid's—.” “What’s D.P.?” Jesse interjects. “Double penetrate,” Tommy says. “Like what me and Eros plan on doing to you tonight.” “Unless me and Eros do it to you first,” Jesse sasses childishly. “Oh, there was a priest, too, in a monk’s robe. And you also made me forget to tell you I saw steaks in the fridge!” “You think those are for us, dick weed?” Tommy asks, rhetorically. “Although a dirty Catholic boy might get a nasty priest’s meat up his butt.” Jesse leaps up and grabs Tommy’s head, yanks on his hair knocking him to the ground. Sand flies everywhere. The two roll around snarling and hissing, initially in fun but quickly getting fierce. Eros jumps up, pulling Jesse off, legs and arms flailing to get at Tommy. Eros easily has him under his wing and shakes him once to stop. “Knock it off! Both of you!” He gives Tommy a warning glare, then drops Jesse unceremoniously on his ass. “For fuck sake. Pair of alley cats. Swear to Christ.” The afternoon's quickly turning dark. There is a faraway crack and a low rumble of thunder. Eros picks up his beach chair and walks toward the compound. Tommy and Jesse eye each other. Their fighting is mostly show but without Eros as an audience it ends up kind of pointless. Tommy tosses Jesse his underwear and towel before he folds his chair and trots after Eros. Jesse scoops up his fallen cap and scrambles after both of them. He catches them at the walkway. The three of them hop up and, using each other’s shoulders for balance, brush sand off their feet. The Franciscan monk, Father Lucius, is at the front door admiring the three of them. He's smoking a joint. “Hey,” he calls out with a friendly wave. He offers to share his joint. Tommy and Eros wave back, declining, but Jesse quickly hustles over and relieves him of the joint. He takes a hit, then a second long draw, and hands it back to the monk. He flops his underwear jauntily over his shoulder and holds out his hand introducing himself. “I’m Jesse,” he says. "Mr. McPherson’s houseboy." He can tell right off the monk can’t resist him. He wants to make sure Eros and Tommy know it, too, so he keeps looking over at them beaming. “Nice to smoke a bit of ganja with you, Father." T and Eros crack up laughing at how cool Jesse is trying to be. Jesse sneers at them. "Just ignore them. Those two are lowlife junkies who won't let me party with them.” "Oh, poor little Rasta man," Tommy wails. “I’m Father Lucius. Enchanted meeting you, Jesse,” the priest says, taking a hit and handing him back the joint. “Will you join us for the bar-b-que?” “He’s eating with us,” Eros calls over to them. Jesse looks at him surprised. “I am?” “Yes. You are,” Tommy says, suddenly in protective big brother mode. “What are we having?” Jesse, the brat, wants to know. He takes another hit off the priest’s joint. “Pasta and meatballs, your highness,” Eros snidely replies. “I’d rather have steak,” Jesse proclaims, handing the joint to the Father. “Suit yourself, Rasta man,” Eros says. He and Tommy head to their cabin, leaving Jesse and Father Lucius passing the joint between them. There is a flash of lightning from the other side of the dunes followed by a soft rumble. “I like your Prince Albert. May I?” the priest asks leaning forward. “Sure." With fists on hips, he pushes his dick forward provocatively. “It’s new, I’m mean it’s new on me. It’s an old one of Dante’s. You know I still haven't met him. Do you know him.” Lucius pulls the horseshoe P.A. back and forth through Jesse piss slit. Though still a little tender, the pot gives him a warm buzz of excitement rather than discomfort as the priest tugs on his jewelry. "I only know him by reputation. You should be cautious. Make sure others are around." The priest releases the P.A. “That’s a nice one. Eight gauge, is it?” He takes a hit and holds it before passing the joint to Jesse. “Nope. It’s a six gauge,” Jesse boasts. “This is some fuckin’ awesome weed, Father Lucius,” he says, holding up the joint. "'Scuse my language, but it really is!" “Isn’t it just? It’s laced,” the priest informs him. “I hope you’re not a purest about such things, Jesse. I'm a bit of an amateur botanist. Tinker in chemistry, too. Always experimenting. Exploring nature’s limits, such as they are.” "I'm curious to explore limits, too," Jesse says, passing the joint. The priest takes a deep hit and breaks into a coughing fit, putting his hand on Jesse’s shoulder for balance. It’s dawning on Jesse that although the priest's old and thin as a rail, there’s something attractive about him. How he’s leers shamelessly at Jesse's body might have something to do with it. And maybe it's just the weed, but his attention makes Jesse feel special, spotlighted—the way he's smiling at him as he gets control of his racking cough; the way he’s rubbing his soft hand over Jesse’s bare shoulder. The monk looks back down at Jesse's penis. He clears his throat. “Your six felt loose like you could be ready for something bigger. Have you been wearing that particular Prince Albert long?” He offers Jesse the last hit before the joint is spent. Jesse pinches the joint. “Worn it a week. Cause it’s heavier than my last one, maybe it pulls at the hole more,” Jesse speculates. He tokes then offers the last of the joint, but the priest waves it away. Jesse tosses the tiny ember into the ivy bed. "I have a double zero, myself,” Father Lucius says, lifting his robe showing he's completely naked underneath. On the internet Jesse's seen penises like his before, but never in real life. He's stunned and amazed by this monstrously deformed penis, pumped he'd guess for years to the width of a beer can, and, even flaccid as it is now, it looks like it would take at least two fists to handle it. He can't picture what it would look like hard, or if it could get hard. But the kicker is that beyond the rolls of sagging foreskin, at the tip of all that engorged flesh is a thick P.A. the width of his pinky. Jesse is fascinated by both the size of the priest’s cock and his P.A. “Can I touch it?” “That's what it’s meant for,” chuckles the priest. Jesse runs his palms down the soft skin of the priest's hairless pubic bone. He scoops up the man’s expansive flesh, pulls back the plentiful foreskin and rubs his thumb from the top of the priest’s glans down to the P.A. With his other hand he weighs the hefty P.A., getting a staggering two-handed feel for the Father’s gargantuan cock. The front porch lights flick on electrifying the scene. Jesse's skin tingles holding this behemoth. Recessed spotlights illuminate from the ivy bed casting light up from the ground. Their bodily outlines shadow the house with twisted shapes. The porch lights amplify the darkness of the surrounding forest and inky dunes. Wind whips through the oak tree and rattles the shrubs. A flash of lightning illuminates their faces, followed by a loud crack. “You know,” Father Lucius says, dropping his robe and earnestly enjoying the boy's enchanted face, "I have with me an antique four gauge captive bead that might be perfect for your penis. May I show you?" The monk considers the sky. "We should get inside. It looks to be a devil of a storm.” Jesse follows the priest without a word into the house and up to his room. They pass Mac on the staircase. Lightning flashes through the many windows of the foyer. "I'm so sorry, Father Lucius. It looks like we'll have to postpone our bar-b-que. I'll set up cold cuts in the kitchen for you and the other guests." He smiles eyeing Jesse. "Jesse, are you feeling okay? You look pale." He brushes Jesse's cheek. "I'm fine, sir," he responds, unusually sedate for Jesse. "Father Lucius told me about a captive bead that might be right for me." "Well, whenever you’re ready, please to come down." "So gracious of you, sir," the priest says, clutching this host's hand in both of his. "I promised the boy a gift. We were just on our way for me to confer it, if he so inclined. We might join you later, but please don't let us hold you up." "Nor I hold up you," Mac says with his broadest smile. His hand passes down Jesse back and rests on the boy’s butt. After a light tap, he says, "I expect you to give special attention to our esteemed Father. Make sure his every need is met.” "Yes, sir. I will, sir." Two men exchange a look and then a courteous bow before the monk takes the boy's hand and leads him to his room. His cleaning of the bedrooms earlier included putting silk sheets on all the beds but he sees Father Lucius has exchanged the cast iron bed's linens for a black rubber sheet. The priest escorts Jesse to the room’s spacious sitting area situated before a wall of glass. A leather divan faces a carved antique chair, an inlaid table between. A box sits in the center. There’s a burst of lightning immediately followed by a rumble that rattles the house. The forest beyond the glasses flashes several times illuminating the forest. If he gave into paranoia Jesse’d swear there were faces in the trees. He looks up past the exposed beams to the roof's skylights and, in the hazy euphoria of the laced drug, witnesses the tempest pouring down. The room lights flicker an instant. There is a loud crash and the room goes completely dark. Gloom envelops everything. Jesse feels his skin alive with goosebumps. He's not frightened but he's very aware he's naked and has no idea where the priest is, until he hears somewhere in the blackness, "Not to worry. A priest, like a good boy scout, is always prepared." He hears Father Lucius riffling through his satchel. A large black candles is lit, then several more. The candles he produces as thick as his monstrous cock, thinks Jesse. It takes a while for light to bathe the room, but candle by candle it does. The warm glow counters the fury of the storm clawing at the glass wall and skylights. Lightning and thunder gradually diminish, but leave behind sheets of rain and a howling wind. Jesse takes a seat on the leather divan and the priest sidles next to him. His wool robe scratches Jesse's bare skin. The priest opens the box. It's a jewelry case, but rather than ordinary jewelry between the black velvet slots, there are various sized piercings: shiny barbells of different widths and lengths, horse shoes P.A.s, ribbed wands, penis plugs, nipple rings, and, in the center stands a thick Prince Albert four gauge captive bead. A sparkling red ruby is captured by the P.A.'s heavy ring. The jewel glistens as brilliantly in the candlelit room as the red in priest’s eyes. “It’s a star ruby, rarest of the rare," the monk whispers in Jesse's ear, as if he doesn't want to wake the gemstone. "Most star rubies are either three or six pointed. But look here," he says, plucking it from the case, rotating it before Jesse’s mesmerized eyes. "You can see this rarity has five points.” He displays it from many angles and sees the boy can’t look away. “It’s said to be blessed—or cursed—depends on your point of view, I suppose. Shall we see if it fits?” The priest fondled his penis, which Jesse, still feeling the intense buzz of the joint, enjoys. He relaxes his body, arms along the back of the divan, feeling Father Lucius twist off the end of his horseshoe P.A. The priest slips the ring out below Jesse's frenulum. “We should lubricate the piercing, don’t you think, so it’ll be in easier for you to accept the new ring?” Jesse tilts his head forward and catches Father Lucius leering at his dick then darting his eyes hungrily up at him. The candles’ shadows exaggerate the cadaverous hollows of the monk’s sockets. “Yeah, get it slick. The six gauge bump was really painful.” Jesse gives a quick shivers remembering how long it took for Mac to get Dante’s old P.A. through his piercing. "Pain need not always be an unintended consequence, my child," says the priest, “but I understand your reticence.” Father Lucius goes down on Jesse's cock. He moans in surprised pleasure. The priest pauses for a moment and shocks Jesse by removing dentures from his mouth. He sets them on the table and drools back down on his cock. The look is complete: a cadaverous skull is giving him head. The priests spits on Jesse’s member. He licks the top of his glans and then swirls his tongue underneath where the pierced hole resides. Jesse’s head falls back as the priest gums his member up and down. The soft, sensual teasing of the Father’s mouth, lips and smooth gums arouses him, aided by the priest fondling his nipples. Father Lucius lifts off his erection with a mocking, “Don’t get too carried away, my child.” He rubs his slick thumb back and forth over Jesse’s engorged cockhead. I’ll never get it in if you keep growing.” The priest toys with Jesse dick, pushing the four gage ring through his piss slit, finding the piercing within but gets snagged on the narrow opening. Jesse flinches. The priest tries several more times. Each time Jesse jumps. “Does this hurt too much,” he asks, repeated pushing the large ring against the small hole. Jesse nods, and puts his hand in the way of further abuse. “Oh, such a shame. This ancient piece of jewelry would look so lovely dangling from a young boy’s penis.” The priest continues to glide his thumb over the tip of Jesse cockhead. The effect wears down his resistance. "No, keep trying, Father," he rasps. "I don’t care. I think you almost got it to go through." He lifts his bare leg over the monk's scratchy robe, giving more access to his body. The priest is pleased with the boy's subordination and rubs his soft hand under Jesse's thigh, cupping his balls and running a finger along his taint. “Seems like you have a bit of a masochist in you, child. How provocative and persuasive you can be.” In the undercarriage of the jewelry case there is a drawer the priest opens. In it are housed several tools. Among these are a pair of pliers. It makes Jesse nervous that the pliers are so near his dick head, but the monk holds his penis so firmly, he trusts him to be careful. In addition Father Lucius pulls out a long silver piercing needle, the width of the new P.A. He jabs it through Jesse piss slit finding the piercing, stretching it with the needle's width, and begins pull the ring along after it. Jesse pants trying to battle the growing pain. He’s at the threshold of what he can tolerate and begins to wail like an animal and clutching his groin, folding in half, just as Father Lucius falls back on the divan. It’s in. “Look at that!” says the priest in amazement, rolling his head to the side. “Would you look at that? It adorns your boy penis magnificently.” Jesse is astonished, too. Never mind the tenderness, he wags the ring back and forth so it flops from side to side out of his piss slit. It’s hefty and he likes it. His cock’s tinging from his pierced hole, but it’s a sensual discomfort, something he could get used to, will have to get used to. His dick isn’t fully erect, but his cock feels more substantial than before. He's beginning to realize that it comes with each P.A.'s increased size. "All we need now is to set the gem." The monk rolls the ruby in his fingers, and wedges it between the two end points of the ring. The pliers is there to bend the thick ring into place. There a stab of pain accompanying a small click. "A solid sealed, Jesse. What do you think?" He looks down at his dick. Even semi-erect it looks so hot to him. He’s also feeling particularly drawn toward the monk at this moment, grateful, as captivated by Father Lucius as the ruby is in its ring. He reaches over and puts his hand behind the priest's thin head and draws his skull forward. He kisses him gently, astonished that he’s not repulsed by the man’s toothless gums. He puts his hand beneath the robe and fondles the monstrous cock and P.A. The priest pulls away. "Child, you must forgive me. I've given you such confusing signs.” Jesse immediately sits up, upset. “Shit, no, my bad, Father. Celibacy, I get it, your vow. All that. Please, can you forgive me?” “Oh, my boy, I blame myself,” the priest counters, putting his soft palm on Jesse crotch. His thumb wanders across Jesse’s trimmed pubic hair, his little finger runs over Jesse’s new ring. “I am the one not being truthful. I’m not in the least celibate, but I’m also not enticed by what you would call typical homosexual relations. It simply is not how I was created. I’m not ashamed, but what you would call normal relations between men, or in your case boys and very old men, doesn’t ... animate me. I’d hope you understand." Jesse is really confused. As the priest is saying this he's running his hand up and down Jesse cock trying to get him hard. His other hand is playing with his nipples. He smiles that skeletal grin at him. "I am so pleased you have allowed me to bestow my gift.” Jesse finds himself flummoxed but also aroused and curious. He flop his leg back again over the monk's lap. “Well,” he swallows, excited but a little fearful of what he might hear: “What exactly do you like?” The priest attends to his body, fingering his taint, then running a finger to his butthole. “I mean I do kinky things, too, Father Lucius. With Mac—uh, with Master. Also with Eros and Tommy. Like letting them fist me. Is that what you like to do…” Jesse pauses, in his own inexperienced way, attempting to entice the priest, “… what you like to do to boys.” Moving Jesse to one side, the priest rises with a noticeable lump at his groin. He ambles in front the darkened glass to look out into the night. Untying the white cincture from around his waist, he pulls the brown Franciscan robe off revealing a leather and chain harness rattling over his thin naked frame. He turns to face Jesse. His body is ancient; his breast turn upward at thimble-sized nipples; a long rope of drool slithers off this thick P.A. He runs his cincture back and forth through his palms, giving Jesse a dark look. “I was informed that, yes, you possess kinks of your own. I must confess when we shared our joint outside your adventurous nature kept crossing my mind, your proclivities intrigued me, and I hoped I might introduce you to a few of my own.” He moves to the back of the heavy antique chair and let his cincture graze the chair’s carved arms. “It’s not something I can simply tell you about. We’d have to participate together communally.” Jesse gulps. His cock remains semi-rigid, but in his gut he feels a wariness that causes him to back down. “Maybe some other time, Father," Jesse proposes, immediately seeing the disappointment cloud the monk’s face. Weighing the ruby P.A. between his fingers, he adds, "I really do like your gift. But you probably want it back now." The priest shakes his head, holding up a hand in acquiescence. “Of course it belongs to you. Perhaps some other time indeed. When I pass this way again," he says with a drip of irony. The monk reaches in his satchel and produces a small zippered leather case. He sighs, "Oh, well." He relaxes in the chair across from Jesse, with his pumped member starting to stir. Tooth by tooth he opens the case slowly revealing an orange-capped syringe, several vials of liquid and a blue rubber tourniquet. Taking off the orange cap, monk examines the tip. A small air bubble tracks back and forth within the vial. Jesse can see it’s fully loaded, ready to go. “Scary,” says Jesse. He contemplates putting on his briefs and making a polite exit, but his cock in a full state of erection betraying his most intimate desires. “I certainly wouldn't want to lead you into temptation, but deliver you from wholesomeness. I understand your desire for the mundane, the safety of the ordinary. But look! It appears that you don't want to really leave this room. The jewel states its desires, too.” He nods at Jesse’s erection. “And it isn’t scary,” Brother Lucius replies, licking the tip of the needle. “Quite a new road for someone who likes to explore their limits, I would think.” Jesse eyes the hypodermic then the priest. “I’ve never done it before.” “Booty bumps, blowing clouds, chem piss, but, no.” Father Lucius’ eyes gleam in the firelight. “I agree. You have never done this, child. Not my concoction.” The priest rises from the chair and, with a sweeping palm, offers Jesse the seat. Waves of rain washes against the black glass. He contemplates the dark reflection of himself and the naked back of the priest he sees in the window. It’s just the two of them, and he’s already gone so far. He would have done it anyway with Eros and Tommy, he reasons, if they’d have let him. He gets up and strides over and sits in the chair. He fidgets nervously. A cadaverous, toothless smile emerges out of Father Lucius’ bony face. “Let me examine your arm,” he says, as he binds Jesse bicep with the tourniquet. The priest kneels before him, pressing his thin torso between Jesse legs spreading them far apart. He strokes Jesse’s skin resting on the arm of the chair. He runs his nails up and down the boy's smooth skin tracing a long prominent vein. “This should prove simple enough.” He places the syringe at an angle to his arm and asks if the boy is ready. Jesse says he is. There was a sharp pain where the needle breaks his skin. He watches Father Lucius pull back the syringe slightly as blood swirls into the clear mixture. “Think nasty thoughts,” says the priest as he pushes the plunger down as he releases the tourniquet. He coughs! and a tidal wave sweeps Jesse away. There was the Before Jesse and now an After Jesse. No matter if this is his only time or he does this a thousand times, he will always be the After Jesse. His head’s thrown back. He feels incredible—what ancient gods must have felt. Monumental! Powerful! His desires are inhuman, uncontainable in this body. He is so much more than this body. Nothing is out of bounds as his mind frees the bonds of his banal existence. What's unleashed is wicked, sinful, unhealthy, has no name, can only be viewed in a sideways glance. He’s never felt so unhinged or amoral in his life. He coughs again. It's only been a second from the first, but this one makes him fall deeper and feels the rush increase, thinking that's impossible, but there it is. He barely holds on to the reality of this room as it is—but it flies away. What left is a feeling of teetering over the edge of never-ending darkness. He falls forward into it, stuttering fuck-fuck-fuck, as a way to ground himself, but it's useless. He's so overwhelmingly potent, unstoppable, a blind god raging in erotic torment. He leaps out of the chair with unheralded energy, but simultaneously his legs give out from under him. “I know, it’s normal, loss of motor control,” cautions the monk, who holds him up under his armpits. Jesse can’t help himself and he clutches the monk in his arms, ruts against his bare skin, against the leather and chains, runs his tongue down the monks fleshy breasts and suckles the engorged tits, feels the priest's demonic serpent growing, raising it's monstrous head. “I know, I know. It feels so damnably good, doesn’t it boy? Best you lie down as you ride the wave.” Whatever the priest says he’s wed to. He lies down on the black rubber sheets unable to focus on the priest in the infinite distance of the antique chair shooting up. Writhing in ecstasy on the bed, he’s consumed in flames, touching his magnificent body, his nipples, his cock and balls, his stretched butthole. His mind is being pulled through a pinhole, a camera obsura, where on the other side everything is upside-down, backward. Something is emerging through that pinprick in his arm that wasn't him before: a negative, a doppelganger, comes through from the other side. A beast is in the room, getting out of the chair. "Morax,, Zepar, Moloch," he listens to a long recitation of meaningless name. Demons he sees summoned in the shadow fight for the scraps of what's left of his soul; the soul itself is liquified by the drug coursing through his body. It leaches out like an overrun cesspool; lust seeping into every thought. Lust is in the darkness; lust is the smooth, black sheets he rubs his hands across; it’s in his nipples that he pinches wantonly, whore like; is in the priest he is pulling down to the bed on top of him. “Yes, yes, you’re feeling Him take you over, aren’t you child?” whispers the priest in his ear, taking the white cincture, guiding Jesse’s hands through the bed’s iron bars and tying them securely above his head. Father Lucius bends down and licks Jesse’s armpits, sucks on his nipples. ‘”Enjoy the rush, child. Let Him take you where He wants to go." The monks produces more rope and secures each of Jesse's legs to the frame above. "You need to confess your sins, don't you child?" Jesse parrots mindlessly whatever is said. "You have depraved thoughts, don't you child?" "I have depraved thoughts, Father." The monk takes out a knotted rope. "Confess your sins to me. You allow men to abuse you." "I allow men to abuse me, Father." Father Lucius cracks the cord against his legs. Jesse cries out. "Say 'thank you, Father.'" "Thank you, Father." "You let men violate you." "I let men violate me, Father." Another powerful whack impacts Jesse ass. Again he cries, "Thank you, Father." "Push out your ass lips, boy. Show me what sinful men have done to you." Jesse pushes out his asslips, spouting his tiny rosebud. Father Lucius hold the cord perpendicular and whips Jesse between his legs repeatedly. Jesse sobs in pain and the priest bends over him, fat cock erect and peers into Jesse eyes, the priest's pupils so dilated his eyes are pitch black. "Child, child, I can save you." He spreads Jesse checks and rims his burning hole. Jesse moans, allowing his rose to bloom in the priest's mouth. "You tempt me with your ruination. With your damnation.” Jesse moans and the priest spreads open his hole. “Let me enter you. My release will be your salvation." Jesse pushes out his ass as the priest kneels over him, allowing his deformed mass to slowly slither into his rectum and then further crawl deeper into his intestines. Jesse feels the blazing hot metal ring leading the monstrous serpent deep into his body. The monster is fucking him, burrowing into him, seconds that turn to minutes, inch by inch it possesses him, pounding him painfully, mercilessly, minutes that stretch to hours. He wants it to devour him for eternity. Time is warped, has no meaning, is wiped away by lust that derails his mind and body, untethered from this universe. He's on his side, his ear against one outstretch arm, the other arm way up inside a sloppy, wet cunt. A hand is also inside him. He’s sixty-nining on the rubber sheets, fisting the priest just as the priest is fisting him. He has no idea when this happened, but it’s happening now, and the priest is taking full advantage of shoving his fist in and out of Jesse's open gape. Jesse disengages his arm from the depth and responds in kind to punch fisting the priest. He's mindless, desperate to inflict on the priest what the priest is inflicting on him. There's brutal symmetry at play. They're tearing each other apart in the flickering firelight in the presence of witnesses watching from the dark. The savagery inside him is so intense it’s beyond what he can fathom. His mind just doesn’t engage, only his body is responding. The priest increases the pounding until he's ferociously punching Jesse guts, Jesse grunting in wedded agony and pleasure. Jesse can't keep up with the priest’s barbarity, and collapses lying catatonic, overloaded, more stimulus than his body can absorb, and yet it does. His leg is lifted in the air by the frenzied monk, who’s pounding even more violently on his knees at Jesse's side since Jesse collapsed. In the darkness Eros and Tommy emerge naked as two of the witnesses. They watch approvingly, with hideous smiles. But it can’t be them. Eros smiles with perfect teeth; and Tommy’s tattoos are wrong, misplaced, near perfect. They laugh as he’s drowns in a sea of ecstasy, their faces fading into the depths. The blackness is complete. Someone puts a blindfold over his eyes. A ball and gag go in his mouth. Each leg is tied again overhead. He hears voices. He feels a small dick fucking him for a long time, then pull out, a fresh trail of sperm flows over his tailbone. "How many loads is that?" "I've been at him since this afternoon. Yours was his fifth." "Boy, you fuck him while the monk fucks you." There's a howling from others in the room or perhaps the wind. Jesse has lost the thread. He no longer knows what's real. "Get the fuck on top of him, dammit." "I'm not hard," a voice mewls. "Just put your cock against his hole and let the monk fuck you." Jesse feel a soft cock at his hole and, as weight is added on top of him, he feels the soft cock start to stiffen inside him. The longer the grinding continues above, the harder the cock in him becomes. Soon the cock is hard enough and aroused enough to begin fucking him too. "He's not going to remember this?" wheezes the whiny voice above. The priest pants, "Best kind of drug fuck. He remembers nothing." The rhythmic fucking melts into monotony, his mind fades, and the drug and time lose their grip behind his blindfold. A door creaks closed, and Jesse hears the door’s barrel bolt slide shut. His gag and blindfold is removed. He thinks it’s just him and the old monk who hold the last illuminated candle. Shadowy figures move in the murky blackness but he hasn’t trusted reality for a while. He's spread eagle on the cast iron bed, ropes immobilizing him. The monk holds the candle above. He dips it slightly to the side. Hot wax hits one nipple then the other, Jesse crying out. More wax hits his navel and he shakes his head, begging to be let go. He promises not to tell. The monk tilts the candle above his balls, and burning wax scorches them. "You're awake, now, aren't you, Jesse?" "Please, let me go," he begs. "If you're awake, then it must be time for a pick-me-up," says the priest setting the candle on the inlaid table. He brings back the zippered case, then neatly lays out his pliers, weighted alligator clamps, urethral sounds, and the several sizes and shapes of forceps. "No!" Jesse pleads. The priest presses a finger to Jesse's lips. "Best you not remember how this evening ends." He unzips the case, fills the syringe. "Now don’t put up a struggle or it could damage you." He feels the priest’s nail glide down the thick vein of his arm. "I don't want you damaged. I want you perfect." He empties the syringe as Jesse vision disconnects. The last thing he sees is plyers on his nipple. The last thing he feels is its cold teeth clamp down on him sharply, shooting pain that electrifies and short-circuits his brain. The room is barely discernable in the gloom. Through the wall of glass Jesse sees outlines of trees backlit with growing clarity. For minutes—maybe he's mistaken and it's hours—he lies there, not moving, watching the forest mist glow through pine needles and black oak leaves. The first sign of life: chittering wrens bounce with song on colorless branches. Life happens even if he can’t move, or doesn’t wish to move. It's a fine morning to wake into, around five a.m. by the light, he thinks. His nipple really hurt. He feels it and finds a small barbell pierced through it. His butthole stings. He touches it, twitches in pain, and vows to leave it alone. His dick wears the ruby bead P.A. he fuzzily remembers getting. At first the night’s a jumble, but laying there on sweat-covered sheets, the night gradually comes back in sinister flashes. “Fuck,” he says, sliding his legs off the side of the bed. There's loose ropes at the foot of the bed and by the headboard. The more awake he is the more like shit he feels. Still, he can't put pieces of the night together. It might be he doesn't want to. The forest slowly brightens through the wall of glass revealing a foggy summer morning—as foggy as his head, he thinks to himself. He's got an urgent need to pee. He gets up, slides open the door’s barrel lock, and crosses to the guest bathroom, lifts the lid, and releases a flood of piss. It’s dark brown, his piss, and burns like a motherfucker. Done, he shakes his dick. It's sore from the new ruby P.A., which he can't help but being a little impressed by. In a flash he now remembers the events that led to it. He returns to the bedroom to retrieve his underwear and then get the hell out of there. Framed by the wall of glass, bare legs bound with silver duct tape twist round before the early morning forest. He shuts his eyes thinking it's the residue of a dream, or maybe some hallucination still acting on his addled brain. But no, he follows the thin, veiny legs up to the emaciated torso, bony arms duct taped behind the naked figure's back. In the brutality of daylight the black leather harness and chains seems absurdly inappropriate on an old man's torso. Sunbeams hit the body slowly rotating under invisible fingers of an air vent. The heavy antique chair rests on its side. Jesse's eyes trace the rope looped several times over an exposed beam watching Father Lucius' lifeless body hang from his braided cincture expertly tied into a long, white noose. A gathering of black caped chickadees erupt in a chorus of song welcoming the light of another spectacular day.

2. The Perfect Slave Jesse’s reading a book on a chaise lounge by the pool, but he keeps losing his place. The shirtless pool man—most definitely a man, not a pool boy—glances his way a couple of times from the far end of the pool. This guy has to be, Jesse thinks, one of the most ruggedly handsome men he’s ever seen, even from this distance. Slim waist, washboard abs, broad shoulders, longish sun-lightened brown hair, scruffy beard with a full mustache and hairy sideburns, and chest hair that aches to have a hand run through it. He’s mister fantasy cowboy in gym short instead of chaps. No, more like one of those perfect guys in magazine ads for expensive watches or name-brand colognes—water beaded on sculpted pecs—pictures he jerked off to back in his Long Island bedroom. The pool man squats holding his pH testing tubes up to the sun, his lats glisten with sweat, a tuft of black hair under his arm, muscular butt fills out his black gym shorts, thighs taut in a crouch, calves flexed, extra-large bare feet. Satisfied with the pH levels, he dumps the tube's liquid on the deck. He snaps up his kit and returns it to the shed where vacuum hoses, chlorine canisters, and other paraphernalia of his trade are kept. Jesse shoves his face back in his book searching for where he left off. Absently he runs a hand over his newly-buzzed scalp. He’s totally caught off guard when the pool man calls over to him, “Hey, Cue-ball, what’cha readin’?” The pool man closes the shed doors and saunters around the pool in a stride that conveys supreme confidence. An unmistakable oscillation in his gym shorts leaves no question as to why he’s so confident. He sits on the edge of the adjoining chaise across from Jesse, folds his hands in front of him, elbows on knees leaning forward, the bare tip of foreskin peeking out from a leg of his loose silk shorts. “Looks dirty.” Jesse feels his face flush as he again runs his hand self-consciously over his shaved head (a late night inspiration of Mr. McPherson's, reluctantly agreed to by him before he was allowed to go off to his quarters). In a way the buzz cut gives him a feeling of renewal, but he’s still getting used to it. Jesse flips the book around and inspects the two Tom of Finland men fucking on the cover. Trying to sound casual, he reads aloud the title: "The Perfect Slave." “’Hah!” croaks the man. “Mac gave you a manual?” “I dunno. It was in my room," Jesse says, squinting into the sun. "I think it's just a made-up story.” He only now notices some disturbing welts on the man’s wide shoulders he hadn't seen from far away. “All the books in my room are about slaves and masters and junk. Some of them are really nasty, but this one not so much.” Jesse feels the man studying him. His dark olive eyes land on Jesse’s underwear. Shading his brow, curious to get a better look at the man, he sits up on the chaise and asks, “Is 'Mac' Mr. McPherson?” “Mac is what me and Tommy call him, yeah." He reaches out to shake hands. His big mitt fully engulfs Jesse's small paw. "I'm Eros." His grip is really strong, leaving Jesse’s hand a little sore. “Don’t tell anyone," he whispers conspiratorially, "but my name’s really Eric, but Mac and Dante had other ideas. So Eros it is! Me and Tommy are in the shack down by the walkway.” “I’m Jesse. But Cue-ball sounds about right,” Jesse says, grinning. “Yeah, I seen the shack. Looks small for two guys.” “S’okay. Works for me and Mr. T—Tommy. T does the gardening, I do the pool. Sometimes we do Mac and Dante. Sometimes they do us,” Eros explains with a broad smile. He’s taken aback by something else he didn’t see from far away: Eros has a few missing teeth. He assumes with his flawless frame and face he'd be perfect—Jesse scans his furry six-pack abs, his cut arms and legs, his brown hair he’s putting into a ponytail—but up close he can pick out minor oddities: a bruise under an eye, the nervous clenching and unclenching of his jaw, two grisly scars along his right wrist, more than a few nasty purple bruises inside the crook of his arms and a nasty one on his ankle. “So what’s Mac’s book teaching you about being a perfect slave?” Eros asks, nodding at the book. “It's just a dumb story. Um, I haven’t read that much." "What's it about?" Eros leans back, his black armpit hair sticks out, glistening with sweat from the earlier pool vacuuming. Jesse bets this man doesn’t trim anything. "So far? I guess it’s about these two guys who meet this older master, and one of them gets scared and runs off. But in a couple of months, because he didn't hear from his friend, the guy who ran off gets worried and goes back to the master’s house and sees the master has trained his friend to be like the perfect slave." Eros looks at him intensely, like no one has ever looked at him before. It makes him nervous and he begins chattering faster. "Like, I don't know, like he didn’t even know his friend anymore. Like his friend was completely buff now, and, like, worked out every minute and had this totally shredded body, but he isn’t all there.” Jesse taps his temple. He sees that Eros is looking up at Mr. McPherson's window. “That’s as far as I....” his voice trails off. “Sounds oddly familiar,” Eros says, distracted. Jesse looks up and sees Mr. McPherson opening the balcony door—naked, per usual, he’s come to realize. “Jesse," he calls down. "You ought to put on a cap. There should be several in your closet. And Eros, tell Tommy there’s a shipment of plants I want him to pick up at the dock.” “Aye-aye, Cap'n,” Eros calls back up to him. “I’ll let him know.” Mr. McPherson thanks him, gives him a mock salute, and goes back inside. Eros looks sideways at Jesse, and flashes a provocative wink. “Your shoulders are getting a little red, my man. I have sunscreen in my shack. Come over and I’ll do your shoulders. You're back could probably use some too.” Jesse grins, replies, “Aye-aye, Eros.” He likes that Eros doesn’t even ask if he wants him to put sunscreen on him, just assumes he would. He guessed right. Eros leaves by the side gate and Jesse goes in his studio to look for a hat. He opens his closet and, sure enough, several caps line the top shelf. He picks up a black leather one, tries it on and, in the full length mirror on the back of the door, likes what he see: a guy he imagines looks a little tough, with kind of a butch air that Eros might like. It’s certainly better than his stupid lightbulb head. Satisfied, he comes back outside into the bright sunlight, exits through the same gate Eros used, and bounds down the shady walkway. It’s cool under the canopy of trees. Waves brake softly on the other side of the dunes. A chorus of chickadees and wrens peep and chirp from the branches above him. He passes a trickling fountain set in the middle of a koi pond on his right, close to the house. In the dark water fat speckled gold and ruby red carp swim, burbling up their large mouths to the surface before plunging down into the green mossy depths. Following the walkway downhill, a faded pink shack lies on his left before the walkway veers off to the boat dock. In front of the house, Eros chats with a slim blond guy. This presumably is Tommy. Smaller than Eros but definitely defined, the guy has a scraggly beard and is clipping low branches off a large oak as they talk. He’s in ripped denim cutoffs, work boots, no shirt, and is covered in tattoos from ankles to neck. He stops mid-snip when he sees Jesse. “Cue-ball,” Eros hollers at him. “Come meet T.” Jesse approaches tentatively. There’s something sketchy in the way T’s eyeing him. He’s staring at Jesse’s underwear for starters and that makes him suddenly self-conscious. The guy’s blond hair is stringy, long and unkempt like he never met a comb. There doesn’t look like there’s an inch of skin not covered on his chest and arms. As he approaches he notices not even a single finger is without some kind of mark or symbol on it. Across his chest and arms, skulls, top-hatted skeletons, names and words, and a lot of angry animals vie for room on his torso: a roaring lion, a panthers with bloody claws that cling to his ribs, a growling wolf, a snapping shark, a gnarly octopus reaches his tentacles into his cutoffs. Some are poorly drawn, kind of amateurish, some unfinished, like an eight ball on his neck seems to have been abandoned half-way through. One tattoo, however, has Jesse mesmerized: a realistically drawn twelve-inch wooden ruler, one exactly like he'd had in St. Teresa’s Catholic school, one he’d gotten his knuckles rapped more than once for talking back to Sister Helena. It’s accurate right down to the yellow-brown wood grain, with numbered markings down the side notched by eighths of an inch. It travels from the T’s wrist to the crook of his arm. “Like what you see, friend?” Tommy asks, sneering at Jesse whose mouth gapes like one of the carp in the pond. The guy pulls out a pack of Marlboros and lights up. “He sure is a biddy one, in’t he?” he remarks to Eros. “He Mac’s new chew toy?” He blows out the match and flicked it toward Jesse. "You the new chew toy, boy?" “Suppose he is. But he looks right size to me. A pretty pup—” Eros plucks the smoke from Tommy’s mouth, takes a drag and returns it, playfully cuffing Tommy’s chin. “And that’s a fact. Don’t mind him, Cue-ball. He was raised by a pack of wolves so don’t know no better. Takes him a while to warm up, but he eventually does. You just have to scratch his belly.” Eros overpowers T, surprising him, wrapping his arm around his waist and tickles his ribs. Tommy’s doesn’t seem like someone prone laughter and hates it when Eros does this. He tries to feign anger but enjoys Eros' riling nonetheless, shouting, "The fuck off me, motherfucker," pushing Eros away forcefully enough to send the big guy to his butt into the ground ivy. "Asshole," he says, trying to regain his composure while suppressing a smirk. He pushes back his hair and manages to regain his initial scowl, which appears to be his go-to expression. Jesse notices, though, against this tough guy shell, his alert blue eyes, wide smile forced out by Eros, his button nose and apple cheeks, his features fight the supposed gruff guy exterior. Without the tats, scowl and maybe a haircut, he could be the boy next door, the one that dated your sister but snuck into your room late at night and fucked you silly. Where’d that idea come from, Jesse wonders? It’s from the book, it dawns on him, the character that ran away. Weird. Still, it doesn’t make him like Tommy any better. He’s nobody’s chew toy. Tommy feels Jesse staring at him, probably judging him. He spits out, “So Mac fuck you like you never been fucked before, am I right?” Somehow, even after wrestling with Eros, he manages to keep his cigarette parked in the side of his mouth. He coolly takes a draw and calmly exhales with popping smoke rings. Jesse stiffens his lower lip not wanting to respond. Tommy leans his clippers against the tree, saying, “That’s what I thought. Your bow legs give you away.” He turns to Eros who glares at him from the ground. “Tell Mac I’ll bring the plants back in the golf cart." “Sure thing, Oscar,” Eros says, getting up and brushing dirt off his butt. “What you say to me?” Tommy snarls at Eros. Eros rises to his full height, towering over Tommy. “I said, sure thing…Oscar.” The two stare each other down, frozen like statues. Finally, Tommy flicks his cigarette into Eros’ chest and then leaps onto the walkway. As he disappears behind an overgrown thicket of blackberries, he yells back to Jesse, "Awesome cap." Eros brushed off the remaining dirt. “Well, that's T to a T." “Why’d he get so pissed when you called him Oscar?” "Oscar who lived in a garbage can? Well, when I first met T he was living out of a dumpster. Well, he didn't actually live in the dumpster, exactly.” Eros thinks about it for a second. “But pretty much. He don’t like being reminded of those days." Eros looks off in the direction of the dock. "Believe me, he's not always a dick, even if he seems like one.” He hops up on the walkway pulling Jesse up after him. “If you say so.” They follow an offshoot from the main walkway to the shack. “No, really. He’s a good guy. We've been together a long time,” Eros says, searching his pockets and pulling out a key. “How long?” “Dunno. Long time.” Eros seems cagey about the subject. “See, I want to be a tattoo artist. Not much use for a pool guy in winter, right? And I don't wanna be stuck here forever. T's been letting me practice on him. Gives me an idea and I go on Mac's computer and find a stencil." He unlocks the door and stops in the doorway. "Maybe you let me practice on you sometime.” “Maybe,” Jesse returns, noncommittally. Eros motions for Jesse to come in. “Lasciate ogne speranza!” he melodramatically recites. To Jesse’s ear it’s such incredibly bad Italian he barks out a laugh, but quickly returns in equally feigned seriousness, “Voi ch’intrate,” as he goes through the door. “Say what?” Eros snorts, confused but somewhat miffed at Jesse's suspected snub in what sounded like pretty authentic Italian. He doesn’t like not having the upper hand. “It’s the rest of the line from The Inferno, ‘Abandon all hope…ye who enter here’,” Jesse explains. “The nuns loved to scare us with all that nine circles of hell crap. And my grandpa…when I was little, he lived with us—never spoke one word of English—it was one of the only books he brought over with him. He use to read it to me. I remember crying one time cause he got so carried away with the devil part. He distracted me by having us watch some wrestling match. Became our Friday ritual." Jesse glances at Eros. “Bruno Sammartino, God he loved him. You look like him a little. If you had a bigger nose.” He’s rambling because, whether he knows it or not, he’s so goddamn envious of what he see looking around the shack. "It’s not exactly what I expected hell to look like,” he says, trying to make a joke of it. The shack’s small, but a perfect breeze flows through the many windows. The forest might as well be part of the room. Dappled light plays across the lacquered floorboards. A worn wooden counter runs along one wall, next to a sink with a little round mirror hanging on a string, a mini-fridge and a hot plate. Across from the counter a gray futon lies on the floor, a beat-up dresser next to it. “Funny. Hmm. I still haven’t met him yet. Dante,” Jesse remarks, absorbing the life he feels in here. “Didn’t know there was a second line.” Eros’ face has clouded over, like a rainstorm approaching. “That’s all Dante said when he showed me the place the first time. Lasciate ogne speranza.” Paraphernalia’s strewn on the dresser includes a packet of cigarettes, a glass pipe in a ceramic ashtray, lighter, several cellophane baggies of white powder, and a dozen or so orange capped syringes. Eros notes Jesse freeze when he sees the needles. "Thought T had cleaned up," he says. Jesse feels the weight of Eros staring at him again. A tense silence shrouds the room since he’d spied the syringes. Jesse instinctively goes to the opposite corner of the room to examine some pornographic stencils thumbtacked to the closet door. “Yeah, maybe you could do that—give me a tattoo. Like, two stars maybe, here and here," he says, pointing to his hip bones. "I always seen that on porn guys—not that I think I’m a porn guy.” Studiously he examines a stencil of a very phallic looking snake. “Not really me. Awhile back I got a fish tattooed on my ankle. Cause I’m Pisces.” He angles his foot to show Eros, who’s cooling looking at him. Jesse points to the scorpion tattoo on the back of Eros’ hand. “You’re Scorpio, right? I bet that hurt, tattoo on bones and all.” Eros keeps quietly staring at him. "Pisces and Scorpies get along real good," he babbles, suddenly hearing what an idiot he sounds like. He becomes quiet waiting for Eros to say something. One of the bamboo blinds catches a breeze, and unrolls with a snap against the windowsill. Jesse winces. Eros goes over and ties back up the blind. “The scorpion means something else.” Eros seems about to add more, but changes his mind. The earlier mood has been deflating by the second since they entered. Jesse's shoulders begin to sag. Eros tells him, “Sit or lay down and I’ll do your shoulders, so you can get back to your slave book.” Jesse think for a second about just leaving—about crying, actually—but instead kneels onto the futon and then lays down. Eros pauses, then asks, "You want skivvies on or off?” Without a second’s thought, Jesse pulls off his underwear. He hears Eros above him hold his breath before suddenly bursting into a fit of laughter. “Fuckin’ A, boy! That is the whitest ass I’ve ever seen!” Eros can’t help himself now. He’s escalated to braying! “C’mon, you’re blinding me, kid! Where’s my fuckin’ sunglasses?” Fucking donkey, Jesse thinks, but keeps it to himself. Eros remains genuinely committed to ridicule. The longer it goes on the more Jesse can’t help but start to break down his defensiveness. It's probably more relief than belief that his white ass is as hysterical as Eros’ guffaws make it out. But still it makes him titter at Eros under his armpit. In return the pool man he'd met back on the chaise returns an expansive, tooth-gapped grin. It’s funny and stupid and meaningless all at the same time. Eros plops on the futon to his left and draws an ‘S’ with the suntan lotion down his back all the way to his tailbone. Eros gives out a few last blurts, but he’s getting into his task. The boy’s smooth back and bubble butt, white as it is, also helps. A little cold dribble trails from Jesse’s coccyx into his crack. Eros massages the lotion over Jesse's back, kneading his shoulder with a firm grip. Jesse melts into the futon. The strong musk of two men wafts up from the pillow. He tries to ignore it as best he can lest he spring an immediate boner. Eros forcefully applies pressure over his back and slides greasy hands along the sides of his ribcage. “Fuck, Eros, you’re great at this,” he says. He’s beginning to feel like putty in the rugged man’s hands—which kind of is the plan of him coming to the shack, well, before he’d encountered Tommy. “Folks say I’m the best." Eros grazes his hairy chest over Jesse’s back with the excuse of rubbing lotion on Jesse’s extended right arm. "And not just putting on sunscreen,” he brags shamelessly. He glides slippery lotion around each of Jesse’s butt cheeks, then draws a line down each of his legs, rubbing it in and around the sides of his thighs. “Your legs are so smooth. Mac shave you last night?” he asks softly, massaging his left calve, then running his palm inside his thigh stopping as he brushes Jesse’s taint. Between the smell of Eros and Tommy buried in the pillow and Eros’ increasing erotic touch, Jesse feels an inevitable erection coming on. He shifts his hips for a second to free his hardening dick, but the move coincides with Eros’ gliding his fingers close enough to Jesse’s crack that it causes a slight detour. Eros’ pinky and ring fingers slip easily inside Jesse’s sloppy butthole. The boy can’t help but yelp in instant surprise overlapping with pleasure. Eros smiles to himself and keeps massaging, as if spreading lotion always involved sticking fingers up someone’s ass. “You’re lucky,” Eros says, not losing a beat. He puts his full weight into Jesse's thighs, wrapping his hand under to massage the top side of his leg along with the back. Jesse’s smooth balls get their share of Eros’ furry fingers grazing his testicles. “Hair’s always getting caught up wherever, when I’m getting greased." His hands slip under both sides of Jesse's pelvis. Then, in an opposite motion, Eros presses down with the heels of his hands pulling Jesse’s ass cheeks apart. "Your hole is smooth, too, I bet,” Eros says, examining his sphincter. A dollop of spit drools onto the hole and then a finger follows up. “Yep. You’ll never need to shave that pretty bung hole. That's an A-1 puckerer if even I saw one. And that’s no lie.” Jesse doesn’t know how to respond, but knows he doesn’t want Eros to stop. “Thank you?” Jesse weakly proposes in his state of arousal. Eros released another string of spit collecting in the crevice. “Mmm,” Jesse murmurs. Giving into desire, he pushes out his ring so it opens slightly. Eros uses his finger to swirl his saliva around the small opening. Like an undulating worm, his index finger crawls inside the entrance, eliciting a deep moan from Jesse. Eros licks his other fingers, and slides his full palm inside. Once he feels Jesse accepts his hand, he rocks in and out. “You like that, baby?” Jesse groans a deep, gratifying affirmative. With Jesse’s hole submitting, Eros tries a couple of fingers from his other hand. Now six fingers occupy Jesse’s hole. Jesse can’t help but grunt as Eros pulls open his ring from side to side, massaging both inside and outside the hole. Eros lets drop another large dollop of spit that seeps down into the gaped opening. Jesse whimpers as Eros has three fingers from each hand now pulling his sphincter apart. Eros rocks his fingers in and out, pulling the interior walls in opposite directions. He lowers himself just above the boy’s ear, “How’s that for you? You want me to keep going?” “Yesssss,” Jesse wheezes, pressing his ass up into Eros’ expert hands. “Fuck, Eros, Mr. McPherson gave you the right name.” Eros withdraws one hand and with his other adds his pinky finger into Jesse's open butt, immediately following up with the whole palm of his other hand. “Two hands, eight fingers, kiddo. Mac really opened you up nicely. Your hole is really hungry, isn’t it, baby?” Jesse affirms, mm-hm. “Did he fist you?” “No. But I've always fantasized about it.” The shack is quiet for some time as Eros feels inside Jesse's body, pulling his ass apart, spying deep into his colon. With his face smooshed into the bed, Jesse confesses, "I seen a lot of fisting on the internet and I always wanted to be a guy that rides a fist." "From my experience, it's mostly a psychological barrier." Eros’ palms turn one way then the other, causing all kinds of grunts to erupt out of Jesse. “Got my scorpie stinger fully inside you, buddy, but I don’t know if you’re ready to take a fist as big as mine. I got extremely big paws and they don’t collapse. Mac and Dante can take 'em but more than likely a first timer’s a no-go." "No. Keep going, Eros," Jesse urges, face muffled in the pillow, fully enraptured by Eros’ and Tommy’s scent, loving the sensation of this hot man inside his rectum. "Okay, I’ll go slow and you tell me if it starts to hurt.” He pulls his hand out, opening the bottom dresser drawer and gets out a can of grease. He applies a heaping amount over his hand and pushes some inside Jesse's hole. He slips two fingers back in and, with the pads of his fingers, coats the walls as far into the kid’s rectum as he’s able. He slides four fingers in fairly easily, but at the web between his finger and thumb the boy flinches. He tries again, slower this time, but Jesse recoils with a cry in the futon. "Baby, you're probably sore from last night. You might need a break." Jesse turns on his side not ashamed to show Eros' how his hand has turned him on. His rigid cock points straight up, his newly upgraded 6 gauge P.A. falls heavily to the side. “Look at you with your hard on and P.A.,” Eros chuckles, giving the ring a tug. "Maybe you can use just your dick then," Jesse suggests, helpfully. He’s never wanted a man inside him like this before. Mr. McPherson definitely opened his floodgates. The door swings open and Tommy returns home. Jesse quickly turns onto the futon burying his hard-on together with his not-well-thought-out plan. Tommy absorbs the scene, and begins washing dirt off his hands. “Hey, don’t let me stop you." He turns off the water and picks up a towel. "Awesome P.A., chew toy,” he teases, playfully smirking. Eros’ cock is tenting his shorts. He says to Tommy, “What do you think, T? My man, here, wants to take his first fist and we all know my big mitt is to too much for a newbie." “Eros!” Jesse quickly interjects, “I thought it was just you and me." "I’m hurt, kid," Tommy says, disingenuously, finishing drying his hands. “You cut me deep. Maybe all I wanna do is watch Eros rip apart a punk's fuckhole.” Jesse has his face buried in the futon. Eros sticks two fingers into Jesse butt. Jesse grabs his hand and yanks it out. This makes Eros growl and slap his ass, hard. Jesse yelps and sits against the wall, his hard-on still completely rigid. Jesse pouts, his arms wrapped around his knees, his balls hiding his butthole. “I think,” says Eros slowly to Tommy, “my man came here to get his first fist, and Mr. T, with his human-size mitts, is the perfect one for cherry popping.” Jesse bites his lower lip, considers his options, seeing Tommy eyeing him, waiting to see what he has to say. “Maybe he don’t wanna fist me,” he says. “He don’t even like me.” Tommy studies Jesse, takes in Eros' bulging shorts, and sniggers, “I like you okay, but I'm more interesting in fisting you.” He jumps down next to Jesse and plays with his P.A. Seeing the boy sitting there compromised, maybe a bit humiliated, but at the same time defiant, brings out some empathy for the punk. “Sorry ‘bout earlier,” T says, still toying with his P.A. “Sometimes I'm an asshole—sometimes a dick. You caught me being both." He takes a bead of pre-cum off Jesse's ring and licks it. "How’s ‘bout me and Eros get naked with you, smoke a peace pipe, and see where that goes,” Tommy says, the forest light catching his blue eyes, teeth shining beneath sandy blond whiskers. He unbuttons his cutoffs, and slips them over his work boots, revealing a growing hard-on beneath a shaved but colorful crotch. Where the pubes would be, the smooth area is dominated by a red and black demon tattoo whose mouth ends with Tommy's dick sprouting out like a big pink tongue. “How’s that sound, Chewbacca?" The proposition persuades; the demon dick seals the deal. Jesse nods his head excitedly. Eros brings over a full bowl and lighter. They sit cross-legged in a circle passing around the glass pipe. Tommy shows Jesse how to shotgun, and once he gets the hang of it, he shotguns Eros and Eros shotguns Tommy. After the pipe makes a few rounds, Eros strips off his shorts springing to life his dark, fat uncut cock, its pink head poking through monumental foreskin. He lays Jesse on the mattress and dry humped his hairy torso against Jesse smooth body. Tommy tilts the pair to their sides and takes up frotting Jesse from the back. Sandwiched Jesse writhes in heaven. Eros goes down on Jesse, and Jesse almost loses his mind. The rough beard and mustache tortures his skin. He twists his head around and sticks his mouth on Tommy, then urges Tommy to get higher up the bed so he can suck his demon dick. Close up, he sees the pantheon of small experimental tattoos Eros has created. All are filthy and beautiful. Hairy gorilla-men with huge cocks and giant nipples, fucking, sucking, eating ass, bald demons fist-fucking startled, orgasming boys, phallic aliens spurting fountains of cum, men transforming into wolves, bears into men, men into beasts. Tommy’s pelvis is a temple of perversion. Jesse ogles them all, touching each degenerate image. He sees bravery in Tommy putting his imagination and desires on permanent display, how much he doesn’t give a shit what the world thinks of him or his desires. He wants to be like him, wants Eros to carve images like those into him, too. He sucks on the demon tongue, getting Tommy fully aroused, showing him he can swallow his demon to its root. And Tommy’s fine with that, pressing the kid’s head against his pubic bone, skullfucking him hard. Images come alive to Jesse as he accepts Tommy’s cock down his throat. He gags only a few times, and each time it makes Tommy more excited. Jesse’s mind wanders as he’s sucking cock. The illustrated performance of degenerate acts becomes a roadmap of where he wants to travel and how to get there. He grabs Tommy’s hand—the one with the wooden ruler—and puts it between his legs, shoving it into his crack and grinds on it. Jesse releases Tommy’s rod and relaxes against Eros’ chest. Tommy lifts a leg, Eros lifts his other and inches them back against the wall. Both legs in the air, Jesse’s puckering hole now fully exposed, Tommy touches it was a dollop of grease. "Give him some amyl," Tommy suggests, holding one of Jesse legs while Eros fumbles with the dresser drawer and takes out a wooden box. He opens it and brings out a capsule. Jesse looks up to Eros curiously. "It’s like poppers only stronger,” Eros assures him. “Don’t worry. I got ya." Eros breaks a capsule under Jesse nose and tells him to breathe deep. Jesse obeys and feels his morality shed like snake skin. "Oh, fuck, yeah," he breathes, as Tommy pushes in a ball of grease. It feels incredibly slimy and he feels incredibly sleazy—loving this new state of mind. "Aw, shit, man. Yeah! Stick that shit up my ass," he bellows. "Hey Tommy, I think he likes it," Eros gloats, pulling Jesse’s legs farther apart. Tommy knits his brow and pushes in more grease, making sure it fully coats Jesse rectum. Four fingers easily slide in, as Jesse’s anal nerve endings catch fire. He melts back into Eros' pelt, and runs his peach fuzz cheek against his fur, running his fingers up to the man’s powerful shoulders, then down through Eros' armpits. He slathers the wetness he finds there across his palm, holds the man’s scent to his nose, then sticks his fingers in his mouth. He savors the acrid taste, at the same time giving Tommy more access to his guts. He feels his ass being probed and stretched by a knowing hand. The amyl seduces his mind, surrendering to these two experts, craving their control and wanting them to mold him in the fashion they were molded. The more perverse the better. "Up to the fleshy part of my thumb,” reports Tommy. His other hand slowly strokes his hard-on. "Three big hits,” Eros says. “Ready?" He breaks a second capsule and holds Jesse tightly, holding the chemical under his nose, getting a heady waft of it himself. Jesse feels lightheaded, swoons after the third huff, tries to avoid any more by tilting his head away, but Eros hold his head fast, not allowing him to move. He orders Jesse to keep inhaling and to hold it until he, Eros, permits him to release. Jesse holds it in. Obeying Eros is instinctual. His mind reels with obscene thoughts of what he wants Eros and T to do to him. Most of all he wants Tommy’s hand to impale his hole. Eros tells him can exhale. Jesse is wild as he draws breath. "Yeah, fist my hole open, T. Wreck it, wreck my hole!" Tommy's hand slides in as Jesse yowls, his sphincter squeezing the fleshy part of Tommy’s hand, which of course pushes Tommy’s hand in deeper, quickly slurping up to the wrist inside the burning virgin cavern. "That's it, good job," Eros murmured in his ear, holding his legs with his forearms, lightly playing with his nipples. But a sudden panic flares up inside Jesse’s bowels. His body sets off alarm bells with the realization of a large foreign object now resides inside his body. "Take it out. Get it out," he wails, clamping his asshole. "Dude, I can't. Relax. You're squeezing too hard. Give him another cap, Eros." Eros scoops up another amyl, breaks it and holds Jesse's head firmly until he feels the boy surrender in his arms. "Enjoy it, baby,” he growls seductively. “Feel T's hand inside you. It's a man's hand that has you. Feel how he controls you with the slightest movement of his fingers." Tommy enacts exactly what Eros is saying as he says it. “Feel how T’s touching the most intimate parts of your body. It’s your virginity being deflowered.” On cue, Tommy twists his hand feeling the vast internal wall of the boy’s rectum, feeling the heat and wetness of this enraptured creature under his control. “Feel,” Eros whispers, “how he can twirl a finger and tease parts of you open that have never been touched. You can’t stop him even if you wanted. I’m holding you open and T is probing you. And, besides, you don’t want it to stop.” “I don’t,” Jesse gasps in complete agreement. “The fucker’s really opening,” Tommy says, feeling a new depth he can get to. Feeling his hand reach the proper depth, he starts curling his fingers toward his palm. "Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. T, what are you doing?" Jess asks incredulously, not being able to see anymore, only feeling the strangest sensation of Tommy doing something inside him, a feeling he never in a millions years could imagine. "What is that?" "I'm rolling my hand into a ball.” He pauses: mission accomplished. “You've got your first fist in you, dude. You’ve taken my fist. How's that feel, motherfucker?" Tommy watches any strain melt from Jesse face, as he slowly rotates his fist inside the kid's body. "You like being my hand puppet, Chewbacca? Huh?" He pulses it only slightly to let the kid know he’s got total control of his bowels. "Yeah. I wanna be your meat puppet, T," Jesse confesses, opening his eyes, taking Tommy in for first time since taking his hand. He looks up into Eros' face. "I've got T's fist in me, Eros. Fuck, it’s so fuckin’ good," he rasps, as Tommy twists it back and forth. He feels Tommy starting to pull out. He pleads, emphatically, "No, no, no. Leave it in." Tommy releases it back in. Jesse runs a finger down Tommy's forearm tracing the inches of the ruler to see how far in he is. Tommy sees what he was after. "I'm in two inches, fucker," he says, stroking his cock. "Fuck," is all Jesse can say in amazement. Eros exchanges a look with Tommy. Tommy nods. Eros lays Jesse back on the mattress and breaks another amyl under the boy’s nose. Jesse put up no resistance. His arms fall open like he’s on a crucifix. He relishes how far away he is, how good he feels, breathes in the amyl over and over, getting completely lost in the gauze of his mind. He’s the Good Thief on the cross. He’s a Roman soldier. He’s the spear that’s piercing him. He’s entered the first circle of Hell and loving it. Tommy opens his hand, pulls it out slightly, then slides it back in. Jesse grabs his knees and mutters fuck me over and over. Tommy and Eros give each other knowing smile. Tommy slowly works up to piston-fisting without ever coming out of the boy’s chute. He notes how much of the broadest part of his hand can stretch apart the boy’s hole. He coolly observes how much Jesse is getting off on being stretched. Feeling his power and control over the kid, Tommy rock hard cock leaks pre-cum. Eros approvingly watches T getting ready to use Jesse’s hole. He sees him bend over the kid and helps him to lube up his rigid pole. Tommy pumps his hand to the fleshiest part of his palm, where he expands Jesse’s hole to its maximum stretch. Jesse relishes the stretch now, grimacing at first, but slowly coming round to desiring this sensation. Once Tommy knows Jesse is able to take the full stretch, he inserts his hand deep, opens his palm inside the hole, leaving his thinner wrist at the entrance. Slowly he eases in his erection next to his wrist and the stretched hole begins to accept the added flesh. Eros break yet another cap under Jesse’s nostrils then shares it with Tommy. He savors Jesse's expression of submission to his man: the boy’s eyes staring into the distance, mouth agape, as Tommy presses his hand and cock deep inside the boy’s hole. Eros strokes himself, too, as witness to the lust of these two beasts heaving in exaltation. Tommy feels his cock inching toward the palm of his hand, feels it slide into his grip, then starts rocking his cock back and forth in his palm. As he masturbated inside the boy, his cockhead expands even larger, his cockhead engorged by his tight grip. His cockhead flattens until he feels it pop through his thumb and finger, into the viscous, fleshy canal beyond, with Jesse blasting out a rapturous cry. Jesse’s overwhelmed by new sensations: first, the additional stretch being asked of sphincter, enjoying that Tommy, a man he hardly knows, is pulling him apart—this hot, tattooed dirt bag douchebag is fisting the shit out of him; and second, the size of the fist had increased, not painfully but noticeably. But he was also aware of a new rhythmic throbbing of an internal piston, something familiar yet combined with stimuli he can’t grasp. Opening his eyes, sees Tommy above his body humping him. He puts it together, first in a burst of panic, but then aware his body has already accepted and, more, is enjoying the fuck out of it. He speaks directly to Tommy above him, "Yeah, jerk off in me, T. Fuck my guts. Shoot your cum and breed me, sir." Hearing sir triggers something in Tommy and he explodes, quaking his body into his hand and inside Jesse’s hole, flooding this scumbag motherfucking chew toy with copious amounts of his tainted seed. He pinches his cockhead buried inside the fucker, squeezing out his swimmers, causing him pleasure and increasing shudders of post-climactic distress that he doesn’t want to end. Eros plants his mouth on Tommy and they make out over the writhing boy beneath. As Tommy empties the last of his load, he looks down, saying, “Open.” Jesse opens his mouth and Tommy hocks a wad of spit into his mouth. Tommy dislodges his cock and is slowly extracting his hand when Eros grabs him by the wrist. "No way, dude," he snarls. Tommy kneels to the side, hand still firmly lodged inside Jesse's cum-covered guts. Eros rubs the foreskin of his large emerging cockhead against Tommy lubed wrist. The foreskin slowly slides its way alongside Tommy’s wrist. Tommy watches Eros' body dominate the kid’s small frame, feels the pressure build at the boy’s resisting hole as even further girth is demanded to stretch open his sphincter. Eros' stone-hard cock is no match for Jesse. He breaks the entrance with Jesse giving a sharp gasp. The girth of Eros combined with the volume of the hand is too much for Jesse. He tosses his head in rejection and pushes at Eros’ chest. Eros holds the boy’s head in his hands, his eyes boring into Jesse’s, wresting control of his will. Jesse realizes he can’t resist Eros, nor—in his heart—does he want to, and accepts his manhood, with Tommy's hand stroking the tip back and forth inside him. Eros waits for an outward sign of the boy’s surrender. Jesse’s mouth opens, and Eros spits in it. Eros slides more of his shaft deeper into Tommy's waiting hand making Jesse inhale in distress. "So fucking hot, boy, getting jacked inside you with my man’s hand." His deep voice seduces him, overrunning his resistance, overturning every red flag his body throws out. Jesse cringes, takes a breath, then parts his leg wider so Eros can dive all the way to his thick black bush. He feels Eros’ wiry hairs scratching his hairless balls. Tommy forces back Eros’ foreskin, and Jesse feels this enormous cockhead infiltrating his intestine, the girth like nothing he's ever felt. "Try to push us out," Eros instructs Jesse as he impales him. It’s a futile order, but one he knows not to disobey. Furiously he clamps down with all his might. After only a few seconds of pounding, he’s not able to keep up the strain of clamping down, and surrenders. Tommy's hand slides in deeper. Where once Tommy had grasped Eros at the base of his cock, he now is further up Jesse’s colon pulling on Eros’ foreskin driving him and Jesse into a frenzy, both bucking wildly, Jesse in distress, Eros in ecstasy. "Get me off, T,” says Eros. “Get me to knock up this hole," he pants, his forearm coiling like a boa constrictor around Jesse’s head, his black armpit hair drenching the boy's lips. In an abandonment he submits to, Jesse licks the dripping sweat from the man’s pits, feeling Tommy pistoning his guts, Eros’ cockhead ravishing his entrails in the deepest part of his body. Jesse reaches down and feels how hard his own cock is. He clutches and releases his helpless hole, allowing both men to use his intestine with violent recklessness, until his hole orgasms in tectonic quakes, stronger even than his cock had ever erupted. His body shakes repeatedly as Eros explodes, Tommy squeezing his manhood mercilessly because he knows Eros wants it no other way. Eros spasms along with Jesse, roaring with the timbering of a heavy body from the sky, raining down on Jesse, crushing him, a torrent of cum spewing in his guts, heavy breath, sweat, stench, then secondary tremors, first in Eros, then in Jesse, then back again to Eros. Jesse’s body vibrates like a plucked bass string, trembling in shocked overload. Unable to process all that’s been done to him, all of which was willingly and unwillingly accepted. His mind is untethered—free floating. The powerful wrestler Bruno Sammartino lies on top of him. He glides his palms over the wrestler’s enormous shoulders, along the powerful chest. The wrestler kisses him and he kisses him back, deeply. Then the nasty boy next door in all his tattoos bends over and kisses him, too. A warm breeze passes through the shack. The bamboo blinds catch the ocean air, and fall to the window sill. No one moves. Jesse feels a little more sperm leak in his hole. Tommy and Eros’ sperm will be with him for a long time. Eros extracts himself from Tommy's hand. Out of T’s grip and Jesse’s wrecked mess of a hole, Eros falls on his back. Slowly his breathing calms as he stares at the ceiling. He listens to the sea on the far side of the dunes, and feels the waft of the ocean cool his dripping body. With much more care, Tommy slides his hand almost out of Jesse ass. At the beginning of withdrawal, Jesse moans. He anticipated the disconnectedness the boy would soon feel, the confusion of regret and still simmering desire. He knows because once, long ago, amid the back alley trashcans, anything-for-a-fix days he’s fought to suppress, he’s knows this feeling. Much to Jesse's satisfaction he returns his hand inside. Jesse isn’t yet ready to give up T’s offering, but his mind is beyond spent. Raw, inflamed, yes. Jesse runs a finger over Tommy's forearm, and Tommy understands. "Six inches," Tommy says to the silent query. "Good start, Chewbacca. Now push out your pussy and give me back my fuckin’ hand.” Jesse complies and grunts with an epic shudder as Tommy’s hand dislodges. “Show us your wrecked cunt,” says T. Eros rolls over to watch Jesse stretch his cheeks apart and push out a small, cum-filled rosebud. A tiny creature slithers out like some shy, exotic sea anemone then returns inside his rectum. Eros taps two fingers against his hole ordering him to push again. Jesse pushes harder this time. As his guts pushed out, Eros pulls the lips apart and Tommy traced a finger around the sphincter. Eros bends in and laps some cum out of the boy’s feathery pedals, depositing spent seed back into Jesse waiting mouth. Tommy puts pressure around the boy’s delicate tendrils. Eros and Tommy admire the gaping protrusion, each taking a turn to lick it. Tommy lobs a comment to Eros, "Looks like we'll pull a prolapse out of Chewy yet." Eros grins, and brushes his shadowy beard against Jesse's sensitive bloom, causing Jesse to flinch, and yet he responds by exposing even more of his rose to Eros’ sandpaper chin. He knows that that’s a sensation he wants much, much more of.

Thanks for all the support. Special shout out to my friend @Fistcumslut. It's been a minute! Next installment shortly.

1. Ownership Mr. McPherson’s dildos, a mix of flesh-colored and black, some clean, some not so clean, spread out all over the unmade bed. A few others were nestled in the leather sling, while several various sized butt plugs all stood upright like proud soldiers at attention on the nightstand. Jesse looked over the bedroom. It was part of his job, he reminded himself, to clean them. And he was happy to in exchange for Mr. McPherson and his associate, slash housemate, slash whatever he was to Mr. McPherson, Dante—who he'd yet to meet—given their downstairs studio at their secluded island compound. After flunking out of his junior college's Spring semester, he answered Mr. McPherson's ad that said there would be light housekeeping in exchange for room and board and a small stipend. It wasn’t till his second day on the island that Mr. McPherson informed him 'housekeeping' included washing up a large collection of sex toys. The other requirement, he learned after he’d settled into his room, was a 'uniform' he was to wear inside the compound—a pair of skimpy white shorts, sandals and nothing more. Surveying the room he found some of the toys were unbelievably huge, some anatomically impossible. How they could even be incorporated into the act of sex was mysterious, if not a little disturbing, given the destruction or distortion on the impacted asshole. Yet a part of him was a bit enticed to try one or two out at some point. The only sound of the compound was soft surf in the distance and the quiet vacuuming of the pool man outside. Right now might possibly be an opportune time to put his curiosity to the test. He walked around the room seeing if there was a small one he might try or one he might tease his hole with. Yes, he picked one up that seemed perfect. He laughed to himself he was Goldilocks, settling on one not too big but not too small. Suddenly he heard a flush and Mr. McPherson burst from the master bathroom, completely naked, and stumbled directly into him. Jesse, with a wet, rubbery ten inch dildo wobbling in his hands, took a step back to steady himself. He peered down gawking at his employer’s dick. Although the cock was flaccid, it dangled mightily mid-way down Mr. McPherson’s sinewy thighs. Apparently still high from the night before, it took Mr. McPherson a moment to place who Jesse was. Balancing one hand on Jesse’s thin, hairless chest, he focused, his dark knitted brows relaxed as he snapped his fingers, mouthing quietly to himself, “Jesse.” A bit of a hazy smile came to light in his twinkling blue eyes. “Yes, sir, Mr. McPherson,” Jesse responded. Mr. McPherson’s hand slowly ran over Jesse’s smooth, youthful chest, pausing on the boy’s right nipple and giving it a slight tug. Mr. McPherson shook his head, saying, "No-no-no. No mister, boy. ‘Sir’ is…adequate. That is when no one is around." Mr. McPherson looked theatrically left and right. "And no one, I see, is around.” Mr. McPherson grinned, displaying two rows of shark-like teeth. Aside from his intimidating smile (or maybe because of it) he appeared to Jesse to be the perfect Daddy type: a very fit late forties, early fifties, alpha male; a gym rat and probable partier; a Polo-clad rich guy, semi-retired. While cleaning Mr. McPherson’s downstairs office, nosing around on his computer, he clicked through screens of stocks, cryptocurrencies, and real estate properties the man owned. Judging by the photos on the bookcases and hanging on the walls, images of Mr. McPherson beaming next to ex-presidents, Arab sheiks, some vaguely familiar world leaders, and more than a few famous—always male—Hollywood celebrities, made it seem like this guy knew everyone important on the planet. During the interview, his habit of stroking his dark goatee and looking sideways at Jesse kept him a bit off-guard, but whatever hesitation he detected from Mr. McPherson regarding hiring him, Jesse tackled head-on with contagious enthusiasm that repeatedly brought out Mr. McPherson’s shark grin. The man charmed Jesse in return with his roguish manner throughout the interview. And when he impulsively hired him on the spot, the contract scanned to find his weekly salary and frantically signed before Mr. McPherson changed his mind, Jesse fisted the air crowing Yes!, issuing a devilish outburst from Mr. McPherson. That this handsome stranger with his rugged, noble looks, his silver mane of hair, his manicured nails, his shirt sleeves swollen by flexing biceps, had actually chosen him for employment, why he felt he’d won the lottery. Now, with Mr. McPherson naked before him, Jesse couldn’t believe his circumstance. He tried to be as casual as possible, as if this happened all the time. And as much as he managed to keep his tongue securely in his mouth, he couldn’t help but fixate on Mr. McPherson’s powerful chest, as smooth as his, but bronze with powerful pecs that sculpted perfectly to two fleshy nipples that—for fuck sake!—had two horseshoe piercings through them. Mr. McPherson sensed Jesse admiration. He rewarded him by swaying his hips so his dick swung hypnotically for Jesse’s benefit. The boy couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the pendulum that cascaded under a generous patch of dark brown pubes. Pointing to the sizable dildo Jesse held, he asked, “You fancy that one, eh?” Jesse gave a quick, impish smirk. In a confidential whisper, Mr. McPherson boasted, “Mine's bigger.” Jesse blushed and looked around the room trying to focus on why he was there. “Uh, I finished your office, sir. I figured you were out, like, maybe you’d left the island, so I, uh, thought….” Jesse rambled rapidly, not sure why he was trying to pretend that Mr. McPherson wasn’t outright hitting on him. “Let’s sit,” Mr. McPherson said, pointing to two easy chairs in front of a picture window that looked out to the sea. “Let’s…get more familiar with each other, shall we? And I must sit because I am about to fall over. Rough night.” He patted a chair taking the large, fat dildo from Jesse and plopped it on a low table separating the chairs. “Interviews are such an impersonal way of knowing someone. And now that you’re here, in the flesh—and what flesh, I have to say—I should like to get to know you better.” “Yes, sir,” Jesse replied, easing into his chair. He tried to avoid looking at Mr. McPherson penis which had begun to rise half-mast. (A losing battle at best.) He felt a need to shift his own hardening cock in his shorts. He crossed a leg, trying to casually hide a bulge that was forming. “Are you satisfied with your quarters, Jesse?” Jesse nodded. “You’re directly beneath us. I hope we weren’t too noisy last night. Dante and I had our boys over. Very dirty boys, as you can see.” Mr. McPherson waved his hand over the room. “We do love our dirty boys—Dante and I—the dirtier the better.” He sat back in his chair, which only emphasized how rigid his pole had become. Nonchalantly, he began stroking it, his eyes fixated on Jesse. With a bit of a deer in the headlight glaze, Jesse fought to keep his eyes from dipping down. “Tell me: have you had anything this big fuck your arse?” He revealed once again his exceptionally wide grin. “Or this,” he asked, grabbing the dildo off the table and letting it flop back and forth next to his erection. “Or both,” he chortled, truly eating up Jesse’s arousal and awkwardness. The saying It ain’t bragging if it’s true popped into Jesse mind. Mr. McPherson wasn’t exaggerating: his cock easily topped the ten incher and was even thicker to boot. Jesse gulped and shook his head. “Nothing that big, Mr. Mc-….Sir.” He glanced anxiously out at wide expanse of the ocean, then darted his eyes quickly back to the man, trying to hide this strange mixture of unease and enticement. Mr. McPherson licked his lips continuing to study him. “You really are one of the most stunning boys I’ve met in a very long time, Jesse. Your parents, Irish and Italian, yes?” “Were, sir. But yes.” He’d related as much during his interview—his family situation, the difficult past year, his self-assurance about his future. “Dad was Sicilian, mom was from Cork. Like I said, they left me a little something. But now,” he exhaled a pfft, lifting his palm to indicate this house, this lifestyle. “I can’t ask for more than this.” “Such beautiful coloring,” Mr. McPherson said, not paying him heed. “You ran track in high school, yes?” Jesse affirmed this with a nod. “Like a fine race horse ready to be broken in. What delicious brown eyes," his employer said, leaning towards him. "Gorgeous chestnut hair, which, if you don’t mind me saying, would look great buzzed," he said, running his fingers along his scalp. "And such pale white skin," he cooed, running his knuckles across Jesse's peach fuzz cheek. He squinted. "I want to give you, Jesse, exactly what I think you want, things you deserve." The offer came across a little menacing if not domineering. It made Jesse’s heart beat a little faster. "Being a runner, you probably don’t smoke,” Mr. McPherson asked, pointing to a bowl on the table, picking it up and examining it. “Grass, sometimes,” Jesse answered, curiously meeting Mr. McPherson gaze. “I think you’d enjoy this. Our boys seem to, as so do I.” He lit the bowl, got smoke billowing inside, and passed it over. Jesse inhaled the swirling smoke and then quickly blew it out. “That’s it. But try keeping it in just like grass.” Jesse sucked the thin remaining wisps. Mr. McPherson leaned over and gave the pipe another blast of flame. With this hit a strange tingling began inside his brain, animating a sensation he hadn't felt before, an excited energy rather than the calming effect he usually felt with pot. Seeing the spark in Jesse's eye he was waiting for, Mr. McPherson lit the pipe a third time. With this stronger hit suspended in his lungs, Jesse noticed Mr. McPherson’s enormous hard-on—which he suddenly had no problem staring at now—had formed a bead atop the pee slit. A thought snuck up on him—from where or why Jesse didn’t know—but he wondered what that bead would taste like, if it was salty like when he tasted his own cum? Maybe it wasn’t pre-cum but maybe a bead of pee at the tip. He wondered what that would taste like. Traveling along these thoughts, his erection started making his shorts uncomfortably tight. Mr. McPherson noticed him squirm, stroked his pointed goatee, giving Jesse his sly sideways grin. "Time to slip those off, eh? Just us boys here,” he said, taking the pipe back and adding new contents from a baggie. He lit the pipe, drew a hit, then passed it to Jesse. “Try taking a deep hit this time. That’s it. And one more.” A coughing fit ensued, Mr. McPherson padding his back, which, as Jesse regained control, evolved into a slow, sensual caress of his back and shoulder. “Makes you feel good all over, am I right?” “Fuck, yeah, Mr. Mc-.” He stopped again and corrected himself. “Sir,” he coughed, attempting to clear his throat. He fell back into the chair observing how bright and colorful the room shined, how alive the printed birds on the chair's fabric seemed. He lifted his gazed out to the shimmering blue ocean. “I never felt nothing like this. Not even the best weed. Makes me kinda horny too. Like, shit, I feel like I could do anything.” “What you should do is drop trou, boy. Get comfortable like me,” Mr. McPherson suggested. Jesse gave the pipe to Mr. McPherson who set it on the table. He didn't understand why Mr. McPherson’s recommendation held such sway over him, but he felt a powerful need to indulge the man, had an urgent desire to get naked in front of him, lure him with his body. He eagerly unbuttoned his pants and pulled them to his ankle, then kicked them off leaving him, for the moment, in his underwear with a big lump under the white cotton. Mr. McPherson gave his index finger a wiggle indicating the underwear should also come off. Jesse slipped his briefs off and his hard-on slapped against his tight abs, revealing a brown, wispy treasure trail that whorled down to a patch of darkly trimmed pubes. What wasn’t lost to Mr. McPherson’s eye, was out of the sparse nest of pubes, a long slim cock arose, topped by a large, perfectly formed, purple head, pierced by the small silver ring of a Prince Albert. “Yes please,” murmured Mr. McPherson. "You are full of delightful surprises, Jesse." He reached over and gave the P.A. the lightest of tugs. "I foresee larger and larger gauges in your future. A double-zero, I predict, by end of summer.” He leaned over and picked up Jesse's underwear, and discovered a brown skid mark running down the back of it. “And yet more surprises!” His eyes lit up and his shark teeth bared. “Good God! Forget the shorts. From now on, only these,” he waved the briefs, “These are to be the only thing you wear within the compound. Capisce?” He then took a deep inhalation of the skid mark. Without understanding why, Jesse felt even hornier. He only knew he like Mr. McPherson paying so much attention to something dirty about him, something he should have been ashamed about but right now wasn't. “Suc-cu-lent," Mr. McPherson purred, stretching out each syllable while sitting back taking in the young man’s scent. Content after his lasciviously savoring, Mr. McPherson’s smile waned. In a darker register than Jesse had heard, he intoned, "Up." Jesse felt the mood shift introduced by this new darker tone. He knew to obey the man; there was something he liked about following Mr. McPherson's orders. Mr. McPherson twirled his index finger, and Jesse slowly spun around for him. “I expected you'd have a speedo tan line like that. I’m going to enjoy devouring that ivory ass." There was no question of Jesse resisting Mr. McPherson when his voice dipped even lower and seductively announced, "You need to get in that sling immediately.” This desire to obey overwhelmed him. Jesse marched straight to the sling and took a brown crusted double-headed dildo and large horse dildo out of the sling, and put them on the nightstand next to the regiment of butt plugs. He settled back in the sling struggling to hook his feet in the hanging leg straps. Mr. McPherson took one of his feet, then the other, snapping each into padded ankle restraints. Secure in the sling, Jesse’s legs spread wide apart, his anus prominently exposed. He was simultaneously nervous and very excited. “First time in a sling, sir," he confessed, stretching thin arms back, clutching the metal chains above his head. Mr. McPherson surveyed his prize—the boy with his gold-speckled brown eyes, the anxious brow, sharp cheekbones that could cut diamonds, dimples of joy, his sculpted jawline, wisps of chestnut hair in his pits, ribs prominent and excitedly rising and falling in anticipation, the sun blazing through the window hitting the boy’s erection like a sundial’s gnomon casting a shadow over his public bone, his beautiful young balls hanging in their sack like red grapes ready to be plucked, and finally, the proud display of his puckering trophy, the central brown target framed by two magnificent orbs of perfect white flesh, pearly gates to ruination—all his to remold and defile. Mr. McPherson growled, “You like showing me your dirty pussy, don't you?” He stood between Jesse’s legs, his hard-on drooling pre-cum over Jesse’s torso. The boy smirked, sticking a finger in his navel where spooge had collected, and put the liquid to his mouth. Mr. McPherson sneered, then knelt between Jesse’s legs and drew in a deep inhalation between Jesse’s fleshy globes. Jesse felt the slightest touch on his sphincter from Mr. McPherson's pointed tongue. The tongue flattened out and gave Jesse's hole a broad lap. The tongue sharped to a nib, circling around the hole, then dove straight in, causing Jesse to inhale from sudden pleasure. “For fuck sake, boy.” Mr. McPherson snorted. “Don’t you wipe?” A wicked smile expanded over Jesse's face, as Mr. McPherson spread his cheeks digging deeper into his hole, and lapped at his smudge. The vulgar affinity he suddenly felt with this man triggered thoughts more vile than he’d ever allowed to surface. “No, sir. Never!" he snarled, "I love secretly having a dirty butt. You can do whatever you want with it, my shithole. I’ll stop wiping from now on if you want.” Mr. McPherson emerged between his legs, seeing the lad's eyes dark with lust, just the way he liked his boys. Jesse’s hands pulled his legs farther apart to give this man, this corrupting influencer, as much access to his bung hole as possible. "You want to fuck my nasty shit pussy?" he rasped hoarsely. The sleazy desperation from the young man caused the man to rise, lean over, and plant a sordid kiss on the boy’s mouth. He slithered his slime-coated tongue into the boy’s hungry mouth. Jesse instinctively understood the new taste, and didn’t seem to hesitate accepting it. Abruptly with the kiss, he understood this man would be his teacher, his mentor, ultimately, if not immediately, would be his master. He observed the man creep to his side, evaluate his suspended body like a predator examining a prey that had been caught in a lure. The man pull up along his ribs, took one thin arm and locked it in a leather restraint, then reach across his torso, his cock gliding over the hairless chest leaving a trail of slime as if a giant slug were oozing a malignant discharge over his boyish breasts, marking him as his, the drooling cock close enough for Jesse's tongue to reach. As Mr. McPherson leaned over, buckling the final appendage, Jesse touched his tongue to the salty piss slit and got his first taste of the man’s secretions. Securing the buckle, Mr. McPherson spoke in a deep rumble replying to the boy’s question, “Fuck your shit hole? Oh Jesse. I’m going to do so much more than fuck your shit hole." He placed a finger on the cleft of the boy’s chin, bid him to open his mouth. He bent over and released a long string of brown sludge into the boy, then, with the same finger closed his yap, sealed his mouth. Mr. McPherson rose and paused, observed that Jesse’s PA had some seepage leaking off it. "Pre-cum. A good indication of what you’re open to, boy." With his finger Mr. McPherson drew away a white thread, a slack web from slit to finger, and placed the trace of pre-cum on Jesse’s lip. Jesse drew the finger into his mouth and sucked. Mr. McPherson’s eyes glistened wolfishly. His lips drew back and teeth emerged with his preternatural smile. "Never be ashamed of being a vessel of another man’s waste," he advised the boy softly. "Nor of your own. If it feels right and you like it, that’s all you need to know." He placed his lips again on the boy. Jesse responded with tongue, and with passion. The predatory man circled round between the boy’s legs, lubing his cock as he approached. As his body brushed the inside of Jesse’s thigh, he grasped the boy’s pelvis and with his cock began to manipulate the boy’s hole against his rigid pole. "It comes out we like much the same thing, Jesse. That’s rare. Such a promising start. Who know how much I can show you?" Jesse nodded in eagerly. The man slipped a slick finger in boy’s hole, lubing all around, then start to bob just his wide head repeatedly against his hole. He didn’t penetrate too far, just enough to introduce the girth that would be demanded of him. "First thing, we need to break in this tight, very tight butt hole." Jesse moaned loudly as the tip assuredly popped inside. "Push against me, boy," he encourage. As Jesse flared his ass open wanting Mr. McPherson inside him, he strained against the girth he was required to accept. The man rocked his cock in and out without complete removal, repeatedly pitching forward and back, until he saw signs of growing desire in Jesse's half-glazed eyes. He paused after inserting a few inches, feeling Jesse rectum clutching tightly on his member. He pulled out an inch then gave Jesse half an inch more of his shaft. Jesse rode him expertly for a while, wanting his penetration more with each new thrust. Mr. McPherson gently fucked him, taking him to a depth that might have been the deepest he’d ever asked of his ass. Probing further still to see what the boy could tolerate, now with each centimeter gained Mr. McPherson seemed to cause Jesse torment. But with slow determination he detected Jesse’s pain could be turned to pleasure. With a good portion of his member penetrating the boy, he felt a constricted second sphincter muscle blocking him from going deeper. He ground his hips, pushing hard against the boy's inner sphincter, feeling it starting to give way. He could see in the boy's alarmed eyes he was hitting a spot new to him. He leaned beyond Jesse and reached to the nightstand, grabbing a bottle. He uncapped it, put it under Jesse's right nostril and, with a finger, closed his other. "Inhale," he instructed. "Take a deep hit." Jesse obeyed, and Mr. McPherson felt his second sphincter loosen just a bit. He switched nostrils and had the boy hit the bottle again. He pushed hard and felt the clutching sphincter spread as he gyrated, pushing his enormous shaft deep into the aroused boy. Just when he was almost through the obstruction, the boy’s body erupted spasmodically. "Fuck, fuck, fuck" Jesse wailed. “Wait. Shit, fuck, Mr. McPherson. No, I can't take it." His body clenched, trying to expel the attacking phallus. "Yes you can,” he said, ignoring the pleas, giving the boy another hit of poppers. “Want it. Want me in that place you’re feeling right now. Trying shitting me out. Push hard. Clench!” He felt the boy’s rigid entrails clamp down, then flare, and slowly allowed, millimeter by millimeter, him to gain access. Astonishingly, all at once he slid in two full inches. He experience incredible pleasurable in this deep penetration. He thrust in past the constriction which erotically clutched his engorged head. He realized Jesse, beneath him, head back, cheered him on, stuttering yes-yes-yes, surrendering to more of his shaft as it pushed onward into the boy. Jesse face, which had been grimacing in discomfort, his body understood how helpless it was to resist, and relaxed, succumbing to the corrupting power of having his guts flayed internally. An inner cavern had been breached, a sensation so rich in pleasure he wondered where it had been hiding. He begged to be fucked harder, fucked deeper. Mr. McPherson rocked steadily enjoying the boy’s offering him his body. “You like this? You like someone in you so deep you're a whore for more?” Jesse nodded enthusiastically, opening his mouth in awe of this feeling. “Yeah, yeah, right there,” Jesse stammered, taking protracted satisfaction in abdicating his body entirely to the impulses of this master. “And we've still got further to go," his master warned, grinding his hips round, stirring the boy’s innards this way and that, marking the boy flush red faced, watched his breathing synch with his, feeling the boy’s heartbeat throbbing in the tip his cock, sensing the boy’s rectum of fine strings being plucked apart as he journeyed deeper into the conquered territory. In the corner of the boy's eyes, tears welled, he gnawed his lip, gasps burbled at each new sensation his master caused. Then the man paused. Jesse focused his eyes quickly. In spite of being on the verge of pain, he still wanting more. He implored, "Breed me, master. Cum inside me.” He searched the man’s face, gave the man’s cock a squeeze with his inflamed entrails. “Why’d you stop, sir?" Mr. McPherson grabbed the poppers, took deep hits, and stood there for a good, long while. Waves of pleasure washed over him, feeling how good his cock felt buried in such a wet boy pussy. Then a trickle of urine began leaking into the boy's cavity. It took a moment for Jesse to recognize the unfamiliar sensation he felt in his body. "Oh, fuck. You're taking a leak in me?" "Like a racehorse, boy" Mr. McPherson panted, the trickle immediately turning into a geyser. This powerful blast shot into the boy, while an immense expression of relief spread across the man’s face. "God damnit! I've needed to piss for so long!” After turning on the spigot to full force, he turned his internal attention back to the boy. Gazing down on him, he said, “This’ll be extremely charged piss from last night, Jesse. Relish it. Not all boys are as lucky as you to get daddy enhanced piss with his first fuck." His eyes rolled back as his urine flowed in blessed relief. Holding onto the sling’s top bar, pushing his firehose of piss into the lad’s body, he allowed his bladder to explode. He squeezed his bladder muscles, enjoying how his cock toyed with the boy’s entrails, easing up then deluging his piss stream again, his cock plugged so deeply into this clutching pussy, that he couldn’t resist taunting the boy, "You like being my pisspot? You consent to be daddy’s toilet?" Surprised, yet not shocked, Jesse replied, "I love it, daddy. I want your piss, sir," he groaned with no hesitation, absorbing the flow of urine running into his deepest parts. He began rocking in the sling to take more of his master’s cock. The boy's loosening sphincter wasn’t getting lost on Mr. McPherson either. He felt Jesse accepting his manhood, possibly the remaining mass which was still a sizable amount but seemed like Jesse was in reach of taking it. Jesse continued to welcome the anaconda and his master's piss simultaneously. The intoxicating flow made him frenzied. He flared open his legs, eye crazed and widened, he confessed, blathering, "I want master’s piss day and night. I want master to come down to my room whenever he has to take a leak, stick his cock in me, let me be his urinal. I want to be his sewer.” "Yes, boy. That's correct. That’s what you want.” He felt his bladder almost drained. “You want to be daddy's special toilet." In a trance, he babbled on, “Make me your toilet slave, master.” He made whimpering begging noises, pushing his butt up to meet his master’s crotch. It wasn’t just the sensation that drove this fever. Even more: it was the combination of knowing what Mr. McPherson was doing, feeling it at the same time, and then giving him further access to his hole, flooding his colon with his huge pissing cock. The flood of piss overloaded all resistance, physical and mental, enflamed his guts, snaking through this intestines, splashing, pushing, causing him to continue to open up. As the charged piss absorbed into his system, it became a feedback loop that had no end. Deeper and deeper he fell into the ecstasy that ravaged his body. He wallowed in the understanding of how the pain of penetration blossomed into joy. He felt transformed into an insect caught in the most seductive spider web imaginable; a luxurious dream, absorbing him, siphoning his mind from his body, extracting reason from his mind, making him a slave only to this sensation. He gave up his body to this man in a distorted dream, barely aware of this surroundings, pulling on the soft wrist cuffs and grasping at the hard metal chains, spreading his legs wider, bucking up to take more of this god between his legs, this demon who could impale him however deep he wished, split him in two and cast his shell aside if he wanted. He felt blessed that this conqueror chose his hole to plunder. It felt so fucking good, pushing his butt, straining to take in every inch of this coiled python from this monstrous centaur. This was no longer a man fucking him but a beast devouring him. The man felt the boy's hole fully relent, greedily aching for more. Confined to the limits of the sling, trying to push his body against his to take more of his meat, the man was more than willing to accommodate and leaned all his weight into the boy’s hole. Done pissing he pulled almost all the way out, and then slammed back in. The hole was a slippery, wet mess that got him harder the deeper he probed. He found he was a breath away from having his balls pressed to the boy's smooth tailbone. Observing the boy's face cringe in some discomfort, he poppered the boy again. The boy of course would not resist him. After capping the bottle, he plunged his cock completely to his pubic bone, his wiry bush nestling under the boy's soft, hairless balls. Jesse's eyes bulged, startled, and came instantly. A thick rope of his white jism shot into the boy's face, trailing white cock-snot over an eye and down his cheek. He felt the colon spasm, clutching in desperate orgasms, in the identical rhythm he was fucking the deepest cavern of the boy, feeling his cockhead hitting a soft log in his deepest thrusts. From the boy's rhythmic clutching of his cock while cum spewed over his thin chest, the man climaxed too, releasing an ample amount of seed to knock the boy up. Sperm mixed with the urine, a slop so voluminous he could almost hear it slosh inside the boy's guts. In raptured orgasm, he bucked harder, finding sadistic pleasure in the boy's wails. He took the boy's cock and PA in hand and caused the boy tortured exhilaration as he jacked the wet, spent head. They rocked together, unable to stop the flow of passion between them. Sweat poured from his forehead, drenching the boy, running down his flanks. He felt they'd never return to earth. Cum continued to shoot as his hips violently rammed into the boy. Brutal anguish spread across the boy’s face. He begged in ecstatic pain to be fucked, his insides shredded by an engorged phallus, ravaged by the convulsion of orgasm—slave and master conjoined. But as time and gravity pulled them back to earth, Mr. McPherson’s fiery passion dimmed—not without a final few clenches, a murmur of muted cries—their fervor paled, ground to an eventual halt. Then, as the rigidity of his cock waned, a warm trickled ran down Mr. McPherson’s leg. Realizing what might happen, he instructed Jesse to hold it in. But with more wetness leaking out, his semi-rigid cock was spat out, and a spasmodic emptying of liquid could no longer be contained. Jesse spewed the content of his bowels all over the floor. On the bedroom’s white porcelain tiles several puddles formed. Luckily, thought Mr. McPherson, a new housekeeper was at hand. A half-conscious Jesse groaned in the sling. First, the man unlocked the boy’s arms, then his legs, helping his down to a sitting position. "Get your bearings, son. Don't get out yet," he advised. Jesse waited at the edge of the sling, his mind coming back to recognizable human form, his eyes focusing. His ass felt incredible and unbelievably satisfied. He realized he was leaking and tried to stop it from further running down his leg. But his ass, stretched so wide, pounded for so long, took issue with closing so soon. It was a fuck he'd never forget; his mind still running over its vague outlines, hardly comprehending it to the point he wasn’t even quite certain where he was. In his reverie, however, he heard Mr. McPherson speaking to him coolly as one would a servant. Finger’s snapped in front of him. "Jesse,” Mr. McPherson snapped again. “Jesse. On your knees. Time to do your job.” Still foggy but with a dawning sense of disbelief, Jesse looked at him to see if he was kidding. Mr. McPherson stood sternly, arms crossed. “You’re kidding, right,” he said. “Seriously? You want me to….” His wheedling trailed off. Mr. McPherson's eyes crinkled, an eyebrow raised. “But daddy?” Jesse tested how much sway he had left. Mr. McPherson pointed at Jesse and then a puddle. “But sir? Master?” Mr. McPherson unmoved, continued to point. Jesse slowly crumbled onto the white porcelain tiles, first to his knees, then hands, lastly lips met the floor. With the smallest of slurps, he started. And with the first sip he realized why Mr. McPherson was that successful shark: that he, Jesse, like so many others, should have studied the contract more closely; that it wasn’t about some pitiful stipend, or room and board offered by this wealthy man, but about property, about the transfer of ownership. A person could be bought in many ways; his price was chump change. Downing the first swallow of piss and cum—one last glance up at Mr. McPherson’s brooding ocean-blue eyes—he got to work in earnest, slurping and licking up the mess that moments before had occupied his body.

Maybe this helps...I cleared it with Dr. Scorpio to let you know I've made a second draft of the story on nifty.org. It's under Gay > Authoritarian (of course!). Same title. Hopefully I got out all the misspellings, corrected tenses, turned up the intensity a notch; though it;s mostly the same, the new version has darker final chapters. Sorry if you're squeamish. Enjoy! (Fistcumslut, I miss you too!)

3. Upvote A foot more and he’d reach it. Straining with every fiber in his upper torso he constricted his body tightly against the peg in his left hand, hanging, while his right arm reached far about his head. He knew the hole was there, somewhere. His right hand felt around until the dowel inserted into the recessed hole securely, allowing him to pull his entire one-eighty pounds of hard muscle up to the top of the climbing pegboard. His arms gleamed in sweaty muscle perfection, dripping pearls off his elbows, and he growled out his accomplishment for the others in the gym to hear above the din of the room. He gritted his teeth, biceps flexed to the max, and dropped off the pegs, landing with a thud on the padded gym floor. Steve Reynolds turned up the volume on his earbuds to drown out the gym’s pop music, pounding heavy metal instead inside his skull as he strutted over to the leg press. His head bobbed to the heavy cords and the pounding beat. Before putting forty-five pound plates for his hamstring set, he examined in the mirror what the pegboard had done for his biceps. At five-ten, blond hair parted perfectly down the middle, shoulders cutting against the double heads of his biceps, the mass of his triceps, he couldn’t help but break into a sparkling smile at his reflection. He took out his phone and snapped a pic of his right arm pumped at a right angle. He lifted his perspiration-drenched Glastonbury sweatshirt, the one he’d cut the arm cut off of, and examined his abs. Ripped six-pack abs stood out like a sideways picket fence. Yeah, he’d tap that if given the chance. He swung his ass around and check out his bowling ball cheeks. Coach said he had the face of GQ model with a body of a porn star when coach fucked him silly last year. That motivated him to get to the gym every day without fail over the summer. Wait till the coach had him alone this year. What would he tell him in his ear? He held up his sweatshirt once more, then held up his phone and snapped. The pic was excellent and he immediately shared it to his feed for his countless followers. Having piled several large plates onto the leg press, he was just getting under it when Nick and Zack Demopoulos, the Greek twins, both seniors, both twenty pounds heavier than him, a few inches taller, both hot as shit, stood on either sides of the machine, leaning on the plates, looking down on him. Too big and steely to be swimmers, they were, however, big, fast and as powerful as jaguars on the athletic field, stars both of the school’s soccer team. “You still doing that faggy water volleyball?” Nick said. The only way Steve Reynolds could tell them apart was Nick was the one with the crooked nose from the number of times he had broken it in fights. For twins, they had very different temperaments. Zack was more laid back, Nick much more aggressive. Reynolds didn’t hear what Nick was going on about and flicked out his earbuds. Nick leaned over the machine eyeballing Reynolds, prone on his back, legs sticking up in the air. Nick released the machine’s safety catch and the full weight plus Nick’s overhanging torso bore down on Reynolds. “What’s the matter? You don’t like soccer?” he asked snarling. “Grrrrrr,” grunted Reynolds under the massive weight. He pushed up fiercely, and reinstated the safety catch. “No reason,” he said casually although a bit breathlessly. “Can only do so much with seven classes. Mind?” He pointed at Nick’s elbows to get off the machine. Nick backed off holding his hands in the air, all innocent. Ice wouldn’t melt in that hot mouth of his. The gym was a cacophony of after-class buzzing. Girls strained, moaned and stretched in the mirrors, pairs of boys at the free weights spotted each other, yelling, “You got this, it’s all you!” Plates clanked, footfalls fell heavily on running machines, an overlay of Lady Gaga blared over the loudspeakers, and ESPN commentators analyzed football plays on overhead flatscreens. “Your coach must have some magic spell over you guys,” Zack said, a sliver of white teeth smiling above him. Reynolds pumped out a set of ten reps while Zack continued. “No one ever seems to want to get on any other team once they start under Coach Brandon. What’s the secret, Steve?” Reynolds locked the safety catch again and let his legs drop to his sides, puffing. “Team spirit, what can I say, Zack?” There was something about the twins, some yin-yang that made them so tempting and formidable. Maybe it was how pleasing they were to look at, especially Zack. He had an arm perched above Reynolds revealing a thick mat of black armpit hair, matted down with sweat from his workout. Both the twins had dark brooding features, black curly hair, long eagle-beak noses, Nick’s slightly bent to one side; both had thin dark lips, sensually curved, brows that were big and always furrowed, eyes that glittered black as coal. “Team spirit? Nah,” Zack said, waving a finger back at him. “I say he’s got something on all of you.” He cocked a sly smile at Reynolds. Reynolds though Zack was the more cleaver of the two even though Nick was in honors society studying behavioral psychology, just like he was, whereas Zack slacked off majoring in musical theater. Not for nothing, Zach was a pretty good actor the two musicals he’d seen him in. The major itself, though, made Reynolds have his suspicions about Zack and his proclivities. He thought maybe they aligned with his own bent desires. It was hard to imagine, however, that he and Zack played on the same team with a twin brother like Nick. It was hard to fathom, but man, did the brothers towering above him make fine looking bookends. Reynolds pushed his legs up the fraction of an inch that allowed the safety latch to release. Nick leaned on the plates again adding his weight to frustrate Reynolds. “Looks like you need some juice to get through your sets,” he said. “Too much water between your ears.” Reynolds roared to get his last two leg presses out. He was annoyed but not really pissed. He looked at Zack, who shrugged his shoulders giving him a what-can-I-do-he’s-my-brother look. He glanced back at Nick, a little intrigued. “You got juice?” he asked trying not to look too enticed. “Shit, yeah,” Nick said, twisting his arm around to flex his delt and tricep. Reynolds had to acknowledge they were impressively large. “You don’t get these from just the gym.” Reynolds looked back at Zack. Zack had on a loose string tank so most of his chest was exposed. He flexed his pecs and beneath his chest’s thick pelt of clipped black fur, perfectly chiseled mounds of man-flesh rose like rock mountains. Reynolds was startled by the size and also by the fact that Zack juiced. Nick, he figured, for sure, but Zack took him by surprise. “You have it?” Nick nodded. "Sell it?" Reynolds asked him in a hush voice. Leaning down, Nick joked, “First one’s always free, m’ man.” “Let’s go then,” said Reynolds, getting up from his prone position. “I’ll get my gym bag.” “Nah,” said Zack waving his hand. “Finish your routine, let’s not create a ruckus. Meet us at the Blackbox theater. I have my stuff stashed there. Know where that is?” Reynolds nodded. He was pretty excited not only by the prospects of doing steroids for the first time, but doing steroids with the hot Demopoulos twins. Who knew where this would lead isolated as the Blackbox theater was? Maybe he could get Zack alone at some point and ditch annoying Nick. Or could it lead to a three-way. The brothers left the gym floor, and he finished the rest of his exercises quickly. He grabbed his gym bag out of his locker. The Blackbox wasn’t too far away, down the hall and through an underpass to an old part of the school. Still in his cutoff sweatshirt and shorts, he checked himself out in the full-length mirror at the end of the lockers and approved of what he saw. Lean, sinewy, pumped muscles that soon would be much more enhanced if Nick came through. *** The underpass echoed the squeaks from his shoes as he walked along the grey and white broken tile. There were older parts of the college, sure. Some buildings dated from the late eighteen hundreds. Some structures were built in the early nineteen twenties, thirties and forties. This section, however, was out of the ugly, boring nineteen-sixties. Institutional as a non-descript post office or police station; functional, drab and featureless. The underpass was half-lit with some of the fluorescent tubes removed to save on power, which only amplified the feeling of neglect. Not interesting enough to be spruced up by murals or even decorated with bulletin boards displaying club events; not dilapidated enough to be torn down and started afresh; this section of the school was lost in ennui that was as tangible as dead skin needing to be sloughed off. In the middle of the underpass he spotted a white porcelain drinking fountain. He bent over and twisted its metal knob. It dribbled a weak stream between metal prongs. Still he was thirsty enough to draw loud sips to quench his thirst. His slurps amplified through the empty hallway, and along with the dim light, made the whole passage seem sadly desolate. The Blackbox entrance was around the corner from the underpass. He tested the door and found it open. It was one of the drama departments many theaters, the smallest and most infrequently used, in fact he couldn’t remember a single time it had a production in it over the course of his freshman year. True to its name, when he entered all he found was an empty black painted room void of any chairs or furniture, just a raised stage in the center surround by thick black curtains along all four sides. Zack was fooling around at a lighting board at one end, while Nick was bringing up a couple of grey folding chairs to the center of the platform. Nick was dressed in black slacks and shirt. Zack, at the lighting board, was dressed the same. Two bright spotlights came up as Nick approached the center. He unfolded the chairs meeting Reynolds in the middle under the klieg lights. “You didn’t change,” observed Nick. “Guess he’s excited,” Zack called on his way over to them. He held up an orange-tipped syringe between his fingers. “Uh, so,” Reynolds said sitting across from Nick, a little nervous actually seeing the needle for the first time, “What? You shoot that in my leg or something?” He looked back and forth between the twins’ faces. “That’s what I read you do anyway.” Nick took the needle from Zack, removing the cap. “Nah, first time you gotta mainline it. Works faster,” he said, running a finger over Reynold’s many pronounced veins. “No problem finding a juicy one on you. You pumped ‘em nice. Gonna get you right here.” He held Reynolds' arm flat against his own leg and popped the needle in at an angle, drawing a large stream of blood swirling into the vial. “You gonna love this, dude. Just go with it.” Nick plunged the content into Reynolds’ bloodstream, and Reynolds’ head flew back as the drug hit his brain like an electric current. “Fuck, wah,” Reynolds couldn’t finish the sentence as a thunderclap roared down from his brain through his nervous system straight out to his fingers and toes and especially from the center of his groin. He was blissed almost to the point of passing out from how good he felt. He’d never had this much of a rush flow through him. No finishing line, no swim meet win, not even an orgasm of a fist going up his butt for the first time could compete with the overwhelming ecstasy cascading through his mind and body. What was even more unbelievable was Zack unzipping his fly and presenting him with his fat, uncut Greek cock slapping him in his face a couple of times. It barely pulled him out of his revelry with an insatiable hunger that overtook him and he swallowed Zack member fully, slurping loudly, drool running down his cheeks, Zack’s hardening tool starting to go deeper down his throat. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He didn’t care if Nick saw it or not. In fact he liked that Nick was watching. And Nick did see, and even more unbelievably, pulled off Reynolds’ shorts. “Oops, sorry dude. Must have mixed that point up with some crystal,” Nick admitted disingenuously. Once Reynolds gym shorts were off Nick spied the metal cage over Reynolds’ cock and balls. “What in hell?” Nick tapped against Reynolds’ chastity cage. “What the fuck is that?” Reynolds couldn’t answer with Zack’s cock in his mouth and his brain was too fried from meth to assemble an answer that made sense. He forgot the question as soon as it was asked. All he knew was Zack’s cock in his mouth. The cage just was, part and parcel of his reality. Integrated for over a year. Something his coach wanted. Demanded. Insisted. Rewarded. Something everyone else acquiesced to. Unquestioningly. For the run of the fall season, a break at Christmas, and then again reattached for the rest of spring, free for the summer, now back locked up in fall for a second year. He felt his dick hardening while he sucked the hairy Greek, thick wiry black pubes tickling his nostrils, but knew his dick’s limits and it’d engorged as much as it would and then stopped. He’d soon turn his aroused state solely to his hole as he learned to do his freshman year. He knew he’d give it willingly to these two Greek gods, and, as the drug careened through not only his mind but throughout his body, he sensed they’d make good use of it. He’d be a fucking slut for both of them. No question. “You sick motherfucker. Suck my brother’s dick, faggot,” Nick taunted him. He pulled the folding chair out from under Reynolds who fell to his knees, keeping his mouth attached to Zack’s huge, fully erect cock. Nick brought out a fuckbench from behind one of the heavy black drapes and told Reynolds to climb on it. Zack encouraged him to climb onto it, the whole time continuing the contact between his cock and the swimmer’s mouth. Nick riffled through Reynolds’ gym bag and found his phone. “Open it, shitbag,” he ordered, handing it to Reynolds. Reynolds paused hesitant, which made Zack pull out of his mouth, waving his dark member with its plum purple head bulging and leaking a stream of pre-cum, enticing him with it like a matador in front of a bull. Reynolds’ brows furrowed in frustration and he unlocked the phone for Nick. Zack rewarded Reynolds with his dick as Reynolds positioned himself onto the arm and leg rests of the fuckbench. Zack held Reynolds’ head steady as he started rocking his dick deeper down Reynolds’ throat. Nick snapped a close-up photo on Reynolds’ phone—“Blackmail insurance,” he said—and then started assembling some equipment at the edge of the raised platform while his brother took pleasure in Reynolds’ mouth, adding a finger across the swimmer’s exposed butthole. Reynolds was in a frenzy, feverish, sweating profusely, his fantasy of having Zack play with his butthole complete while he weighed Zacks heavy balls in his hand, totally unaware of the mechanical device with protruding dildo being set up behind him. Zack watched his brother setting up the fuck machine whose wires ran to a laptop at the lighting station. Knowing what Reynolds was in for started making him leak even more in anticipation. He had to admit the swimmer had incredible oral skills. His velvet mouth and wet slippery tongue rolled over his knob sending him over the edge. “I’m gonna cum, Nick,” he called out to his twin. “Go for it, bro,” Nick called back from the lighting station. “Almost ready.” Zack increased his rhythm, skull-fucking Reynolds with deeper and more violent strokes. “Wished I could return the favor,” he told Reynolds. Reynolds tried to speak forgetting he was going down one of the most delicious fat cocks he’d ever given head to, maybe even as good as coach’s. He garbled something unintelligible in response. “Yeah, whatever you said,” Zack responded. “Maybe another time.” He thrust his leaking tool deep down Reynolds’ throat and then exploded spasm after spasm of spunk, gurgling down the horned up jock’s gullet. Spit and sperm ran out of Reynolds’ mouth as he choked on the vast amount of cum Zack shot in him. Reynolds shook his head in pleasure mixed with disbelief, the first moment he began coming off the initial rush of crystal. Fuck, did he feel good. He couldn’t wait for what would come next. “Meanwhile,” Nick said, laying a strap over the back of Reynolds’ Glastonbury sweatshirt and cinching it tight, then securing individual leg restraints over his naked legs and thighs, “time for us to get to the main event. Bro, latch his arms and wrists.” Zack bent down and looked Reynolds in the face. He held the guy’s face in his hands and kissed him, swallowing some of his own cum in the process. He smiled and Reynolds smiled back in a haze of pleasure and innocence. Zack then proceeded to bind the sophomore’s forearms to the arm rests. He stood up and zipped up his hairy crotch from Reynolds’ view. It was only then that Reynolds realized he couldn’t move. “So here’s what’s going to happen,” Nick said, grabbing Reynolds’ sweatshirt hood and draping it down over his head. “I don’t want anyone knowing who you are. Don’t know how long you’re gonna last and I don’t want anyone missing you tonight. This is my thesis project, a kind of update of the old Yale Milgram experiment from the nineteen-sixties, to see how much empathy is out there in the digital world. You’re a psych major, right?” Reynolds nodded but still confused, feeling a rising panic in the pit of his stomach. “You remember Milgram tested subjects telling them it was okay to shock another subject to the point of near death, proving anyone would submit to authority figures given the opportunity, would ‘just follow orders.’ My proposition is that in this brave new world of anonymous social media, there isn’t any authority at all so people are just complete fucks jobs. Soulless, guiltless, fucks. Hope for your sake I’m wrong, but I doubt it. Got him locked down, bro?” Reynold felt Zack push a load of grease into his hole, and followed it up with a protrusion at the edge of his asshole, something that felt like a hard dick ready to fuck him. "Yepper," answered Zack. “I’ve got you wired to a live feed. The upvotes work arithmetically. First ten votes push the rubber dick in an inch, the next twenty pumps up the dildo’s girth an inch, the next thirty makes the piston go a little faster, forty, another inch deeper, fifty, another inch wider, so on and so forth. Downvotes work the same way but in reverse. Given the option we’ll see how much goes in that direction and we’ll see if the public has any sympathy for you and your hole.” “Guys, fuck, don’t do this,” Reynolds was able to spit out, testing the reality that this was really happening. He still tasted Zack, still had a pleasurably hum of eroticism running through him, didn’t know if the idea of being fucked was such a bad idea, but didn’t like he couldn’t move his arms or legs, not even a fraction. “Can’t we just play?” “Later maybe, Steve,” Zack said. “Yeah, Steve. Later,” Nick said snidely. “We’ll see how much the internet thinks you should take if anything is left of you. You’ve got the potential of a two foot horse cock aimed at your shithole, more if the interweb deems it. You’re at their mercy, whoever ‘they’ are. My guess is you’re going to be a complete bloody trainwreck when we check back later.” “I think,” added Zack to reassure Reynolds, “people are going to be more empathetic than my brother thinks.” “That would only be true,” posited Nick, “if they could see his face, but he’s only a body on YouTube. No audio, all they’ll see is thrashing. Potentially.” Reynolds felt the initial sensation of the dildo pushing in an inch. “Looks like you’ve been spotted by a few gawkers. By the IP address looks like their from this campus, but the hits are starting to grow wider. I have a running banner of stats under the video but I’m sure all eyes will be glued to your ass and how it’s taking the punishment.” A hiss of air came from the mechanical box and Reynolds felt the cock expand inside his ass and also started moving faster in and out. “Think you’ve already got a fan club forming. New York and New Jersey just lit up.” At the moment it teased his ass. He’d taken much more locked up last spring under coach’s guidance. A fist, double penetration, a small eggplant, a large eggplant—no holding back what a locked up hormonal eighteen-year-old would do to satisfy his pent up urges—but this was an ominous test like he could never imagine. Nick and Zack walked off the platform. Reynolds, fearing his plight, began yelling for help in the muffled room. “Save your breath, Steve,” Zack said. “This stage is virtually soundproof and, besides, hardly anyone come down here anymore.” Another inch went in deeper while another inch stretched him wider as the oscillation increased. The twins were gathering up their belongings when they heard a cry from the platform and heard the undulation of the fuck machine increase more rapidly than before. Nick checked the laptop. “They’re starting to share it across different social media, it’s spreading to Europe, too. Look, someone created a hashtag. That’s gonna leave a mark.” “Maybe we should stay and monitor so it doesn’t get out of hand.” Zack sounded genuinely concerned. “Nah, besides, Reynolds is a fuckin’ perve. Who else locks his junk up in a cage? He can take it and if he can’t, whose fault is that?” The twins exited and the Blackbox door clanked shut behind them like a tomb. Within minutes the video feed went viral. It was retweeted, additional hashtags were shared, Russian bots flooded the stream, hackers programmed algorithms to deluge the upvote counter just to see what would happen. What started arithmetically—one plus two plus three—became exponential increases—four times five times six—something Nick hadn’t thought of but Reynolds felt the growth expanding inside his colon, a digital virus, an epidemic spreading inside his analog hole. Two dicks, three, four, a fist, double fists, triple. The sensation outstripped his body's real-time experiences. Steve Reynolds’ phone sat mounted on a tripod next to him, only a few feet away, impartial, capturing his ever-increasing torment, dispassionate, observing his growing misery objectively, both judge and jury emotionless. Upvotes flooded the counter ticking up faster and faster. Who knew how high it would go before it stopped? Or if it even would stop. Regardless, his hole opened wider, he was penetrated deeper. His anguish became endless agony, the excruciation bottomless, the suffering relentless; all the while the machine rattled on and on and on and on, as the counter ticked higher, ever higher.